But these miscreants were bad judges of slow matches! Their match turned out to be very slow. So slow that they began to fear it had gone out -- so slow that the daylight had time to disappear and the moon to commence her softly solemn journey across the dark sky -- so slow that Stalker began seriously to think of sending a man to stir up the spark, though he thought there might be difficulty in finding a volunteer for the dangerous job -- so slow that a certain reckless little boy came galloping towards the fortress on a tall horse with a led pony plunging by his side -- all before the spark of the match reached its destination and did its work.

Then, at last, there came a flush that made the soft moon look suddenly paler, and lighted up the world as if the sun had shot a ray right through it from the antipodes. This was followed by a crash and a roar that caused the solid globe itself to vibrate and sent Paul Bevan's fortress into the sky a mass of blackened ruins. One result was that a fiendish cheer arose from the robbers' camp, filling the night air with discord. Another result was that the happy-go-lucky little boy and his horses came to an almost miraculous halt and remained so for some time, gazing straight before them in a state of abject amazement!



Chapter Ten.

How long Tolly Trevor remained in a state of horrified surprise no one can tell, for he was incapable of observation at the time, besides being alone. On returning to consciousness he found himself galloping towards the exploded fortress at full speed, and did not draw rein till he approached the bank of the rivulet. Reflecting that a thoroughbred hunter could not clear the stream, even in daylight, he tried to pull up, but his horse refused. It had run away with him.

Although constitutionally brave, the boy felt an unpleasant sensation of some sort as he contemplated the inevitable crash that awaited him; for, even if the horse should perceive his folly and try to stop on reaching the bank, the tremendous pace attained would render the attempt futile.

"Stop! won't you? Wo-o-o!" cried Tolly, straining at the reins till the veins of his neck and forehead seemed about to burst.

But the horse would neither "stop" nor "wo-o-o!" It was otherwise, however, with the pony. That amiable creature had been trained well, and had learned obedience. Blessed quality! Would that the human race -- especially its juvenile section -- understood better the value of that inestimable virtue! The pony began to pull back at the sound of "wo!" Its portion in childhood had probably been woe when it refused to recognise the order. The result was that poor Tolly's right arm, over which was thrown the pony's rein, had to bear the strain of conflicting opinions.

A bright idea struck his mind at this moment. Bright ideas always do strike the mind of genius at critical moments! He grasped both the reins of his steed in his right hand, and took a sudden turn of them round his wrist. Then he turned about -- not an instant too soon -- looked the pony straight in the face, and said "Wo!" in a voice of command that was irresistible. The pony stopped at once, stuck out its fore legs, and was absolutely dragged a short way over the ground. The strain on Tolly's arm was awful, but the arm was a stout one, though small. It stood the strain, and the obstinate runaway was arrested on the brink of destruction with an almost broken jaw.

The boy slipped to the ground and hastily fastened the steeds to a tree. Even in that hour of supreme anxiety he could not help felicitating himself on the successful application of pony docility to horsey self-will.

But these and all other feelings of humour and satisfaction were speedily put to flight when, after crossing the remains of the plank bridge with some difficulty, he stood before the hideous wreck of his friend's late home, where he had spent so many glad hours listening to marvellous adventures from Paul Bevan, or learning how to read and cipher, as well as drinking in wisdom generally, from the Rose of Oregon.

It was an awful collapse. A yawning gulf had been driven into the earth, and the hut -- originally a solid structure -- having been hurled bodily skyward, shattered to atoms, and inextricably mixed in its parts, had come down again into the gulf as into a ready-made grave.

It would be vain to search for any sort of letter, sign, or communication from his friends among the debris. Tolly felt that at once, yet he could not think of leaving without a search. After one deep and prolonged sigh he threw off his lethargy, and began a close inspection of the surroundings.

"You see," he muttered to himself, as he moved quickly yet stealthily about, "they'd never have gone off without leavin' some scrap of information for me, to tell me which way they'd gone, even though they'd gone off in a lightnin' hurry. But p'raps they didn't. The reptiles may have comed on 'em unawares, an' left 'em no time to do anything. Of course they can't have killed 'em. Nobody ever could catch Paul Bevan asleep -- no, not the sharpest redskin in the land. That's quite out o' the question."

Though out of the question, however, the bare thought of such a catastrophe caused little Trevor's under lip to tremble, a mist to obscure his vision, and a something-or-other to fill his throat, which he had to swallow with a gulp. Moreover, he went back to the ruined hut and began to pull about the wreck with a fluttering heart, lest he should come on some evidence that his friends had been murdered. Then he went to the highest part of the rock to rest a little, and consider what had best be done next.

While seated there, gazing on the scene of silent desolation, which the pale moonlight rendered more ghastly, the poor boy's spirit failed him a little. He buried his face in his hands and burst into tears.

Soon this weakness, as he deemed it, passed away. He dried his eyes, roughly, and rose to resume his search, and it is more than probable that he would ere long have bethought him of the cave where Betty had left her note, if his attention had not been suddenly arrested by a faint glimmer of ruddy light in a distant part of the forest. The robbers were stirring up their fires, and sending a tell-tale glow into the sky.

"O-ho!" exclaimed Tolly Trevor.

He said nothing more, but there was a depth of meaning in the tone and look accompanying that "O-ho!" which baffles description.

Tightening his belt, he at once glided down the slope, flitted across the rivulet, skimmed over the open space, and melted into the forest after the most approved method of Red Indian tactics.

The expedition from which he had just returned having been peaceful, little Trevor carried no warlike weapons -- for the long bowie-knife at his side, and the little hatchet stuck in his girdle, were, so to speak, merely domestic implements, without which he never moved abroad. But as war was not his object, the want of rifle and revolver mattered little. He soon reached the neighbourhood of the robbers' fire, and, when close enough to render extreme caution necessary, threw himself flat on the ground and advanced a la "snake-in-the-grass."

Presently he came within earshot, and listened attentively, though without much interest, to a deal of boastful small talk with which the marauders beguiled the time, while they fumigated their mouths and noses preparatory to turning in for the night.

At last the name of Paul Bevan smote his ear, causing it, metaphorically, to go on full cock.

"I'm sartin sure," said one of the speakers, "that the old screw has gone right away to Simpson's Gully."

"If I thought that, I'd follow him up, and make a dash at the Gully itself," said Stalker, plucking a burning stick from the fire to rekindle his pipe.

"If you did you'd get wopped," remarked Goff, with a touch of sarcasm, for the lieutenant of the band was not so respectful to his commander as a well-disciplined man should be.

"What makes you think so?" demanded the chief.

"The fact that the diggers are a sight too many for us," returned Goff. "Why, we'd find 'em three to one, if not four."

"Well, that, coupled with the uncertainty of his having gone to Simpson's Gully," said the chief, "decides me to make tracks down south to the big woods on the slopes of the Sawback Hills. There are plenty of parties travelling thereabouts with lots of gold, boys, and difficulties enough in the way of hunting us out o' the stronghold. I'll leave you there for a short time and make a private excursion to Simpson's Gully, to see if my enemy an' the beautiful Betty are there."

"An' get yourself shot or stuck for your pains," said Goff. "Do you suppose that such a hulking, long-legged fellow as you are, can creep into a camp like an or'nary man without drawin' attention?"

"Perhaps not," returned Stalker; "but are there not such things as disguises? Have you not seen me with my shootin'-coat and botanical box an' blue spectacles, an' my naturally sandy hair."

"No, no, captain!" cried Goff, with a laugh, "not sandy; say yellow, or golden."

"Well, golden, then, if you will. You've seen it dyed black, haven't you?"

"Oh yes! I've seen you in these humblin' circumstances before now," returned the lieutenant, "and I must say your own mother wouldn't know you. But what's the use o' runnin' the risk, captain?"

"Because I owe Bevan a grudge!" said the chief, sternly, "and mean to be revenged on him. Besides, I want the sweet Betty for a wife, and intend to have her, whether she will or no. She'll make a capital bandit's wife -- after a little while, when she gets used to the life. So now you know some of my plans, and you shall see whether the hulking botanist won't carry all before him."

"O-ho!" muttered the snake-in-the-grass, very softly; and there was something so compound and significant in the tone of that second "O-ho!" soft though it was, that it not only baffles description, but -- really, you know, it would be an insult to your understanding, good reader, to say more in the way of explanation! There was also a heaving of the snake's shoulders, which, although unaccompanied by sound, was eminently suggestive.

Feeling that he had by that time heard quite enough, Tolly Trevor effected a masterly retreat, and returned to the place where he had left the horses. On the way he recalled with satisfaction the fact that Paul Bevan had once pointed out to him the exact direction of Simpson's Gully at a time when he meant to send him on an errand thither. "You've on'y to go over there, lad," Paul had said, pointing towards the forest in rear of his hut, "and hold on for two days straight as the crow flies till you come to it. You can't well miss it."

Tolly knew that there was also an easier though longer route by the plains, but as he was not sure of it he made up his mind to take to the forest.

The boy was sufficiently trained in woodcraft to feel pretty confident of finding his way, for he knew the north side of trees by their bark, and could find out the north star when the sky was clear, besides possessing a sort of natural aptitude for holding on in a straight line. He mounted the obstinate horse, therefore, took the rein of the obedient pony on his right arm, and, casting a last look of profound regret on Bevan's desolated homestead, rode swiftly away. So eager was he that he took no thought for the morrow. He knew that the wallet slung at his saddle-bow contained a small supply of food -- as much, probably, as would last three days with care. That was enough to render Tolly Trevor the most independent and careless youth in Oregon.

While these events were occurring in the neighbourhood of Bevan's Gully, three red men, in all the glory of vermilion, charcoal, and feathers, were stalking through the forest in the vicinity of the spot where poor Tom Brixton had laid him down to die. These children of the wilderness stalked in single file -- from habit we presume, for there was ample space for them to have walked abreast if so inclined. They seemed to be unsociable beings, for they also stalked in solemn silence.

Suddenly the first savage came to an abrupt pause, and said, "Ho!" the second savage said, "He!" and the third said, "Hi!" After which, for full a minute, they stared at the ground in silent wonder and said nothing. They had seen a footprint! It did not by any means resemble that deep, well developed, and very solitary footprint at which Robinson Crusoe is wont to stare in nursery picture-books. No; it was a print which was totally invisible to ordinary eyes, and revealed itself to these children of the woods in the form of a turned leaf and a cracked twig. Such as it was, it revealed a track which the three children followed up until they found Tom Brixton -- or his body -- lying on the ground near to the little spring.

Again these children said, "Ho!" "He!" and "Hi!" respectively, in varying tones according to their varied character. Then they commenced a jabber, which we are quite unable to translate, and turned Tom over on his back. The motion awoke him, for he sat up and stared.

Even that effort proved too much for him in his weak state, for he fell back and fainted.

The Indians proved to be men of promptitude. They lifted the white man up; one got Tom's shoulders on his back, another put his legs over his shoulders, and thus they stalked away with him. When the first child of the wood grew tired, the unburdened one stepped in to his relief; when the second child grew tired, the first one went to his aid; when all the children grew tired, they laid their burden on the ground and sat down beside it. Thus, by easy stages, was Tom Brixton conveyed away from the spot where he had given himself up as hopelessly lost.

Now, it could not have been more than six hours after Tom had thus been borne away that poor Tolly Trevor came upon the same scene. We say "poor" advisedly, for he had not only suffered the loss of much fragmentary clothing in his passage through that tangled wood, but also most of the food with which he had started, and a good deal of skin from his shins, elbows, knuckles, and knees, as well as the greater part of his patience. Truly, he was in a pitiable plight, for the forest had turned out to be almost impassable for horses, and in his journey he had not only fallen off, and been swept out of the saddle by overhanging branches frequently, but had to swim swamps, cross torrents, climb precipitous banks, and had stuck in quagmires innumerable.

As for the horses -- their previous owner could not have recognised them. It is true they were what is styled "all there," but there was an inexpressible droop of their heads and tails, a weary languor in their eyes, and an abject waggle about their knees which told of hope deferred and spirit utterly gone. The pony was the better of the two. Its sprightly glance of amiability had changed into a gaze of humble resignation, whereas the aspect of the obstinate horse was one of impotent ill-nature. It would have bitten, perhaps, if strength had permitted, but as to its running away -- ha!

Well, Tolly Trevor approached -- it could hardly be said he rode up to --  the spring before mentioned, where he passed the footprints in stupid blindness.

He dismounted, however, to drink and rest a while.

"Come on -- you brute!" he cried, almost savagely, dragging the horse to the water.

The creature lowered its head and gazed as though to say, "What liquid is that?"

As the pony, however, at once took a long and hearty draught it also condescended to drink, while Tolly followed suit. Afterwards he left the animals to graze, and sat down under a neighbouring tree to rest and swallow his last morsel of food.

It was sad to see the way in which the poor boy carefully shook out and gathered up the few crumbs in his wallet so that not one of them should be lost; and how slowly he ate them, as if to prolong the sensation of being gratified! During the two days which he had spent in the forest his face had grown perceptibly thinner, and his strength had certainly diminished. Even the reckless look of defiant joviality, which was one of the boy's chief characteristics, had given place to a restless anxiety that prevented his seeing humour in anything, and induced a feeling of impatience when a joke chanced irresistibly to bubble up in his mind. He was once again reduced almost to the weeping point, but his sensations were somewhat different for, when he had stood gazing at the wreck of Bevan's home, the nether lip had trembled because of the sorrows of friends, whereas now he was sorrowing because of an exhausted nature, a weakened heart, and a sinking spirit. But the spirit had not yet utterly given way!

"Come!" he cried, starting up. "This won't do, Tolly. Be a man! Why, only think -- you have got over two days and two nights. That was the time allowed you by Paul, so your journey's all but done -- must be. Of course those brutes -- forgive me, pony, that brute, I mean -- has made me go much slower than if I had come on my own legs, but notwithstanding, it cannot be -- hallo! what's that!"

The exclamation had reference to a small dark object which lay a few yards from the spot on which he sat. He ran and picked it up. It was Tom Brixton's cap -- with his name rudely written on the lining. Beside it lay a piece of bark on which was pencil-writing.

With eager, anxious haste the boy began to peruse it, but he was unaccustomed to read handwriting, and when poor Tom had pencilled the lines his hand was weak and his brain confused, so that the characters were doubly difficult to decipher. After much and prolonged effort the boy made out the beginning. It ran thus:

"This is probably the last letter that I, Tom Brixton, shall ever write. (I put down my name now, in case I never finish it.) O dearest mother! -- "

Emotion had no doubt rendered the hand less steady at this point, for here the words were quite illegible -- at least to little Trevor -- who finally gave up the attempt in despair. The effect of this discovery, however, was to send the young blood coursing wildly through the veins, so that a great measure of strength returned, as if by magic.

The boy's first care was naturally to look for traces of the lost man, and he set about this with a dull fear at his heart, lest at any moment he should come upon the dead body of his friend. In a few minutes he discovered the track made by the Indians, which led him to the spot near to the spring where Tom had fallen. To his now fully-awakened senses Trevor easily read the story, as far as signs could tell it.

Brixton had been all but starved to death. He had lain down under a tree to die -- the very tree under which he himself had so recently given way to despair. While lying there he -- Brixton -- had scrawled his last words on the bit of birch-bark. Then he had tried to reach the spring, but had fainted either before reaching it or after leaving. This he knew, because the mark of Tom's coat, part of his waist-belt and the handle of his bowie-knife were all impressed on the softish ground with sufficient distinctness to be discerned by a sharp eye. The moccasined footprints told of Indians having found Brixton -- still alive, for they would not have taken the trouble to carry him off if he had been dead. The various sizes of the moccasined feet told that the party of Indians numbered three; and the trail of the red men, with its occasional halting-places, pointed out clearly the direction in which they had gone. Happily this was also the direction in which little Trevor was going.

Of course the boy did not read this off as readily as we have written it all down. It cost him upwards of an hour's patient research; but when at last he did arrive at the result of his studies he wasted no time in idle speculation. His first duty was to reach Simpson's Gully, discover his friend Paul Bevan, and deliver to him the piece of birch-bark he had found, and the information he had gleaned.

By the time Tolly had come to this conclusion his horse and pony had obtained both rest and nourishment enough to enable them to raise their drooping heads and tails an inch or two, so that when the boy mounted the former with some of his old dash and energy, it shook its head, gave a short snort, and went off at a fair trot.

Fortunately the ground improved just beyond this point, opening out into park-like scenery, which, in another mile or two, ran into level prairie land. This Trevor knew from description was close to the mountain range, in which lay the gully he was in quest of. The hope which had begun to rise increased, and communicating itself, probably by sympathetic electricity, to the horse, produced a shuffling gallop, which ere long brought them to a clump of wood. On rounding this they came in sight of the longed-for hills.

Before nightfall Simpson's Gully was reached, and little Trevor was directed to the tent of Paul Bevan, who had arrived there only the day before.

"It's a strange story, lad," said Paul, after the boy had run rapidly over the chief points of the news he had to give, to which Betty, Fred, and Flinders sat listening with eager interest.

"We must be off to search for him without delay," said Fred Westly, rising.

"It's right ye are, sor," cried Flinders, springing up. "Off to-night an' not a moment to lose."

"We'll talk it over first, boys," said Paul. "Come with me. I've a friend in the camp as'll help us."

"Did you not bring the piece of bark?" asked Betty of the boy, as the men went out.

"Oh! I forgot. Of course I did," cried Trevor, drawing it from his breast-pocket. "The truth is I'm so knocked up that I scarce know what I'm about."

"Lie down here on this deer-skin, poor boy, and rest while I read it."

Tolly Trevor flung himself on the rude but welcome couch, and almost instantly fell asleep, while Betty Bevan, spreading the piece of birch-bark on her knee, began to spell out the words and try to make sense of Tom Brixton's last epistle.



Chapter Eleven.

With considerable difficulty Betty Bevan succeeded in deciphering the tremulous scrawl which Tom Brixton had written on the piece of birch-bark. It ran somewhat as follows: -- 

"This is probably the last letter that I, Tom Brixton, shall ever write. (I put down my name now, in case I never finish it.) O dearest mother! what would I not now give to unsay all the hard things I have ever said to you, and to undo all the evil I have done. But this cannot be. 'Twice bought!' It is strange how these words run in my mind. I was condemned to death at the gold-fields -- my comrades bought me off. Fred -- dear Fred -- who has been true and faithful to the last -- reminded me that I had previously been bought with the blood of Jesus -- that I have been twice bought! I think he put it in this way to fix my obstinate spirit on the idea, and he has succeeded. The thought has been burned in upon my soul as with fire. I am very, very weak -- dying, I fear, in the forest, and alone! How my mind seems to wander! I have slept since writing the last sentence, and dreamed of food! Curious mixing of ideas! I also dreamed of Betty Bevan. Ah, sweet girl! if this ever meets your eye, believe that I loved you sincerely. It is well that I should die, perhaps, for I have been a thief, and would not ask your hand now even if I might. I would not sully it with a touch of mine, and I could not expect you to believe in me after I tell you that I not only robbed Gashford, but also Fred -- my chum Fred -- and gambled it all away, and drank away my reason almost at the same time... I have slept again, and dreamed of water this time -- bright, pure, crystal water --  sparkling and gushing in the sunshine. O God! how I despised it once, and how I long for it now! I am too weak and wandering, mother, to think about religion now. But why should I? Your teaching has not been altogether thrown away; it comes back like a great flood while I lie here dreaming and trying to write. The thoughts are confused, but the sense comes home. All is easily summed up in the words you once taught me, 'I am a poor sinner, and nothing at all, but Jesus Christ is all in all.' Not sure that I quote rightly. No matter, the sense is there also. And yet it seems -- it is -- such a mean thing to sin away one's life and ask for pardon only at the end -- the very end! But the thief on the cross did it; why not I? Sleep -- is it sleep? may it not be slowly-approaching death? -- has overpowered me again. I have been attempting to read this. I seem to have mixed things somehow. It is sadly confused -- or my mind is. A burning thirst consumes me -- and -- I think I hear water running! I will -- "

Here the letter ended abruptly.

"No doubt," murmured Betty, as she let the piece of bark fall on the table and clasped her hands over her eyes, "he rose and tried to reach the water. Praise God that there is hope!"

She sat for a few seconds in profound silence, which was broken by Paul and his friends re-entering the tent.

"It's all arranged, Betty," he said, taking down an old rifle which hung above the door; "old Larkins has agreed to look arter my claim and take care of you, lass, while we're away."

"I shall need no one to take care of me."

"Ah! so you think, for you're as brave as you're good; but -- I think otherwise. So he'll look arter you."

"Indeed he won't, father!" returned Betty, smiling, "because I intend that you shall look after me."

"Impossible, girl! I'm going to sarch for Tom Brixton, you see, along with Mister Fred an' Flinders, so I can't stop here with you."

"But I am going too, father!"

"But -- but we can't wait for you, my good girl," returned Paul, with a perplexed look; "we're all ready to start, an' there ain't a hoss for you except the poor critters that Tolly Trevor brought wi' him, an', you know, they need rest very badly."

"Well, well, go off, father; I won't delay you," said Betty; "and don't disturb Tolly, let him sleep, he needs it, poor boy. I will take care of him and his horses."

That Tolly required rest was very obvious, for he lay sprawling on the deer-skin couch just as he had flung himself down, buried in the profoundest sleep he perhaps ever experienced since his career in the wilderness began.

After the men had gone off, Betty Bevan -- who was by that time better known, at least among those young diggers whose souls were poetical, as the Rose of Oregon, and among the matter-of-fact ones as the Beautiful Nugget -- conducted herself in a manner that would have increased the admiration of her admirers, if they had seen her, and awakened their curiosity also. First of all she went out to the half-ruined log-hut that served her father for a stable, and watered, fed, and rubbed down the horse and pony which Tolly had brought, in a manner that would have done credit to a regular groom. Then, returning to the tent, she arranged and packed a couple of saddle-bags with certain articles of clothing, as well as biscuits, dried meat, and other provisions. Next she cleaned and put in order a couple of revolvers, a bowie-knife, and a small hatchet; and ultimately, having made sundry other mysterious preparations, she lifted the curtain which divided the tent into two parts, and entered her own private apartment. There, after reading her nightly portion of God's Word and committing herself, and those who were out searching in the wilderness for the lost man, to His care, she lay down with her clothes on, and almost instantly fell into a slumber as profound as that which had already overwhelmed Tolly. As for that exhausted little fellow, he did not move during the whole night, save once, when an adventurous insect of the earwig type walked across his ruddy cheek and upper lip and looked up his nose. There are sensitive portions of the human frame which may not be touched with impunity. The sleeper sneezed, blew the earwig out of existence, rolled over on his back, flung his arms wide open, and, with his mouth in the same condition, spent the remainder of the night in motionless repose.

The sun was well up next morning, and the miners of Simpson's Gully were all busy, up to their knees in mud and gold, when Betty Bevan awoke, sprang up, ran into the outer apartment of her tent, and gazed admiringly at Tolly's face. A band of audacious and early flies were tickling it, and causing the features to twitch, but they could not waken the sleeper. Betty gazed only for a moment with an amused expression, and then shook the boy somewhat vigorously.

"Come, Tolly, rise!"

"Oh! d-on't b-borrer."

"But I must bother. Wake up, I say. Fire!"

At the last word the boy sat up and gazed idiotically.

"Hallo! Betty -- my dear Nugget -- is that you? Why, where am I?"

"Your body is here," said Betty, laughing. "When your mind comes to the same place I'll talk to you."

"I'm all here now, Betty; so go ahead," said the boy, with a hearty yawn as he arose and stretched himself. "Oh! I remember now all about it. Where is your father?"

"I will tell you presently, but first let me know what you mean by calling me Nugget."

"Why, don't you know? It's the name the men give you everywhere -- one of the names at least -- the Beautiful Nugget."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Nugget with a laugh and blush; "very impudent of the men; and, pray, if this is one of the names, what may the others be?"

"There's only one other that I know of -- the Rose of Oregon. But come, it's not fair of you to screw my secrets out o' me when I'm only half awake; and you haven't yet told me where Paul Bevan is."

"I'll tell you that when I see you busy with this pork pie," returned the Rose. "I made it myself, so you ought to find it good. Be quick, for I have work for you to do, and there is no time to lose. Content yourself with a cold breakfast for once."

"Humph! as if I hadn't contented myself with a cold breakfast at any time. Well, it is a good pie. Now -- about Paul?"

"He has gone away with Mr Westly and Flinders to search for Mr Brixton."

"What! without me?" exclaimed Tolly, overturning his chair as he started up and pushed his plate from him.

"Yes, without you, Tolly; I advised him not to awake you."

"It's the unkindest thing you've ever done to me," returned the boy, scarcely able to restrain his tears at the disappointment. "How can they know where to search for him without me to guide them? Why didn't you let them waken me!"

"You forget, Tolly, that my father knows every inch of these woods and plains for at least fifty miles round the old house they have blown up; and, as to waking you, it would have been next to impossible to have done so, you were so tired, and you would have been quite unable to keep your eyes open. Besides, I had a little plan of my own which I want you to help me to carry out. Go on with your breakfast and I'll explain."

The boy sat down to his meal again without speaking, but with a look of much curiosity on his expressive face.

"You know, without my telling you," continued Betty, "that I, like my father, have a considerable knowledge of this part of the country, and of the ways of Indians and miners, and from what you have told me, coupled with what father has said, I think it likely that the Indians have carried poor T -- -Mr Brixton, I mean -- through the Long Gap rather than by the plains -- "

"So I would have said, had they consulted me," interrupted the boy, with an offended air.

"Well, but," continued Betty, "they would neither have consulted you nor me, for father has a very decided will, you know, and a belief in his own judgment -- which is quite right of course, only I cannot help differing from him on this occasion -- "

"No more can I," growled Tolly, thrusting his fork into the pie at a tempting piece of pork.

"So, you see, I'm going to take the big horse you brought here and ride round by the Long Gap to see if I'm right, and I want you to go with me on the pony and take care of me."

Tolly Trevor felt his heart swell with gratification at the idea of his being the chosen protector of the Rose of Oregon -- the Beautiful Nugget; selected by herself, too. Nevertheless his good sense partially subdued his vanity on the point.

"But, I say," he remarked, looking up with a half-serious expression, "d'you think that you and I are a sufficient party to make a good fight if we are attacked by Redskins? You know your father will hold me responsible, for carrying you off into the midst of danger in this fashion."

"I don't mean to fight at all," returned Betty, with a pleasant laugh, "and I will free you from all responsibility; so, have done, now, and come along."

"It's so good," said Tolly, looking as though he were loath to quit the pork pie; "but, come, I'm your man! Only don't you think it would be as well to get up a good fighting party among the young miners to go with us? They'd only be too happy to take service under the Beautiful Nugget, you know."

"Tolly," exclaimed the Nugget, with more than her wonted firmness, "if you are to take service under me you must learn to obey without question. Now, go and saddle the horses. The big one for me, the pony for yourself. Put the saddle-bags on the horse, and be quick."

There was a tone and manner about the usually quiet and gentle girl which surprised and quite overawed little Trevor, so that he was reduced at once to an obedient and willing slave. Indeed he was rather glad than otherwise that Betty had declined to listen to his suggestion about the army of young diggers -- which an honest doubt as to his own capacity to fight and conquer all who might chance to come in his way had induced him to make -- while he was by no means unwilling to undertake, singlehanded, any duties his fair conductor should require of him.

In a few minutes, therefore, the steeds were brought round to the door of the tent, where Betty already stood equipped for the journey.

Our fair readers will not, we trust, be prejudiced against the Rose of Oregon when we inform them that she had adopted man's attitude in riding. Her costume was arranged very much after the pattern of the Indian women's dress -- namely, a close-fitting body, a short woollen skirt reaching a little below the knees, and blue cloth leggings in continuation. These latter were elegantly wrought with coloured silk thread, and the pair of moccasins which covered her small feet were similarly ornamented. A little cloth cap, in shape resembling that of a cavalry foraging cap, but without ornaments, graced her head, from beneath which her wavy hair tumbled in luxuriant curls on her shoulders, and, as Tolly was wont to remark, looked after itself anyhow. Such a costume was well adapted to the masculine position on horseback, as well as to the conditions of a land in which no roads, but much underwood, existed.

Bevan's tent having been pitched near the outskirts of Simpson's Camp, the maiden and her gallant protector had no difficulty in quitting it unobserved. Riding slowly at first, to avoid attracting attention as well as to pick their steps more easily over the somewhat rugged ground near the camp, they soon reached the edge of an extensive plain, at the extremity of which a thin purple line indicated a range of hills. Here Tolly Trevor, unable to restrain his joy at the prospect of adventure before him, uttered a war-whoop, brought his switch down smartly on the pony's flank, and shot away over the plain like a wild creature. The air was bracing, the prospect was fair, the sunshine was bright. No wonder that the obedient pony, forgetting for the moment the fatigues of the past, and strong in the enjoyment of the previous night's rest and supper, went over the ground at a pace that harmonised with its young rider's excitement; and no wonder that the obstinate horse was inclined to emulate the pony, and stretched its long legs into a wild gallop, encouraged thereto by the Rose on its back.

The gallop was ere long pressed to racing speed, and there is no saying when the young pair would have pulled up -- had they not met with a sudden check by the pony putting his foot into a badger-hole. The result was frightful to witness, though trifling in result. The pony went heels over head upon the plain like a rolling wheel, and its rider shot into the air like a stone from a catapult. Describing a magnificent curve, and coming down head foremost, Tolly would then and there have ended his career if he had not fortunately dropped into a thick bush, which broke his fall instead of his neck, and saved him. Indeed, excepting several ugly scratches, he was none the worse for the misadventure.

Poor horrified Betty attempted to pull up, but the obstinate horse had got the bit in his teeth and declined, so that when Tolly had scrambled out of the bush she was barely visible in the far distance, heading towards the blue hills.

"Hallo!" was her protector's anxious remark as he gazed at the flying fair one. Then, without another word, he leaped on the pony and went after her at full speed, quite regardless of recent experience.

The blue hills had become green hills, and the Long Gap was almost reached, before the obstinate horse suffered itself to be reined in --  probably because it was getting tired. Soon afterwards the pony came panting up.

"You're not hurt, I hope?" said Betty, anxiously, as Tolly came alongside.

"Oh no. All right," replied the boy; "but I say what a run you have given me! Why didn't you wait for me?"

"Ask that of the horse, Tolly."

"What! Did he bolt with you?"

"Truly he did. I never before rode such a stubborn brute. My efforts to check it were useless, as it had the bit in its teeth, and I did my best, for I was terribly anxious about you, and cannot imagine how you escaped a broken neck after such a flight."

"It was the bush that saved me, Betty. But, I say, we seem to be nearing a wildish sort of place."

"Yes; this is the Long Gap," returned the girl, flinging back her curls and looking round. "It cuts right through the range here, and becomes much wilder and more difficult to traverse on horseback farther on."

"And what d'ye mean to do, Betty?" inquired the boy as they rode at a foot-pace towards the opening, which seemed like a dark portal to the hills. "Suppose you discover that the Redskins have carried Tom Brixton off in this direction, what then? You and I won't be able to rescue him, you know."

"True, Tolly. If I find that they have taken him this way I will ride straight to father's encampment -- he told me before starting where he intends to sleep to-night, so I shall easily find him -- tell him what we have discovered and lead him back here."

"And suppose you don't find that the Redskins have come this way," rejoined Tolly, after a doubtful shake of his head, "what then?"

"Why, then, I shall return to our tent and leave father and Mr Westly to hunt them down."

"And suppose," continued Tolly -- but Tolly never finished the supposition, for at that moment two painted Indians sprang from the bushes on either side of the narrow track, and, almost before the riders could realise what had happened, the boy found himself on his back with a savage hand at his throat and the girl found herself on the ground with the hand of a grinning savage on her shoulder.

Tolly Trevor struggled manfully, but alas! also boyishly, for though his spirit was strong his bodily strength was small -- at least, as compared with that of the savage who held him. Yes, Tolly struggled like a hero. He beheld the Rose of Oregon taken captive, and his blood boiled! He bit, he kicked, he scratched, and he hissed with indignation -- but it would not do.

"Oh, if you'd only let me up and give me one chance!" he gasped.

But the red man did not consent -- indeed, he did not understand. Nevertheless, it was obvious that the savage was not vindictive, for although Tolly's teeth and fists and toes and nails had wrought him some damage, he neither stabbed nor scalped the boy. He only choked him into a state of semi-unconsciousness, and then, turning him on his face, tied his hands behind his back with a deerskin thong.

Meanwhile the other savage busied himself in examining the saddle-bags of the obstinate horse. He did not appear to think it worth while to tie the hands of Betty! During the short scuffle between his comrade and the boy he had held her fast, because she manifested an intention to run to the rescue. When that was ended he relieved her of the weapons she carried and let her go, satisfied, no doubt that, if she attempted to run away, he could easily overtake her, and if she were to attempt anything else he could restrain her.

When, however, Betty saw that Tolly's antagonist meant no harm, she wisely attempted nothing, but sat down on a fallen tree to await the issue. The savages did not keep her long in suspense. Tolly's foe, having bound him, lifted him on the back of the pony, and then, taking the bridle, quietly led it away. At the same time the other savage assisted Betty to remount the horse, and, grasping the bridle of that obstinate creature, followed his comrade. The whole thing was so sudden, so violent, and the result so decisive, that the boy looked back at Betty and burst into a half-hysterical fit of laughter, but the girl did not respond.

"It's a serious business, Tolly!" she said.

"So it is, Betty," he replied.

Then, pursing his little mouth, and gathering his eyebrows into a frown, he gave himself up to meditation, while the Indians conducted them into the dark recesses of the Long Gap.



Chapter Twelve.

Now, the Indians, into whose hands the Rose of Oregon and our little hero had fallen, happened to be part of the tribe to which the three who had discovered Tom Brixton belonged, and although his friends little knew it, Tom himself was not more than a mile or so distant from them at the time, having been carried in the same direction, towards the main camp or headquarters of the tribe in the Sawback Hills.

They had not met on the journey, because the two bands of the tribe were acting independently of each other.

We will leave them at this point and ask the reader to return to another part of the plain over which Tolly and Betty had galloped so furiously.

It is a small hollow, at the bottom of which a piece of marshy ground has encouraged the growth of a few willows. Paul Bevan had selected it as a suitable camping-ground for the night, and while Paddy Flinders busied himself with the kettle and frying-pan, he and Fred Westly went among the bushes to procure firewood.

Fred soon returned with small twigs sufficient to kindle the fire; his companion went on further in search of larger boughs and logs.

While Fred was busily engaged on hands and knees, blowing the fire into a flame, a sharp "hallo!" from his companion caused him to look up.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Goliath of Gath -- or his brother!" said Paddy, pointing to a little eminence behind which the sun had but recently set.

The horseman, who had come to a halt on the eminence and was quietly regarding them, did indeed look as if he might have claimed kinship with the giant of the Philistines, for he and his steed looked stupendous. No doubt the peculiarity of their position, with the bright sky as a glowing background, had something to do with the gigantic appearance of horse and man, for, as they slowly descended the slope towards the fire, both of them assumed a more natural size.

The rider was a strange-looking as well as a large man, for he wore a loose shooting-coat, a tall wideawake with a broad brim, blue spectacles with side-pieces to them, and a pair of trousers which appeared to have been made for a smaller man, as, besides being too tight, they were much too short. Over his shoulder was slung a green tin botanical box. He carried no visible weapons save a small hatchet and a bowie-knife, though his capacious pockets might easily have concealed half a dozen revolvers.

"Goot night, my frunds," said the stranger, in broken English, as he approached.

"The same to yersilf, sor," returned Flinders.

Anyone who had been closely watching the countenance of the stranger might have observed a sudden gleam of surprise on it when the Irishman spoke, but it passed instantly, and was replaced by a pleasant air of good fellowship as he dismounted and led his horse nearer the fire.

"Good night, and welcome to our camp. You are a foreigner, I perceive," said Fred Westly in French, but the stranger shook his head.

"I not un'erstan'."

"Ah! a German, probably," returned Fred, trying him with the language of the Fatherland; but again the stranger shook his head.

"You mus' spok English. I is a Swedish man; knows noting but a leetil English."

"I'm sorry that I cannot speak Swedish," replied Fred, in English; "so we must converse in my native tongue. You are welcome to share our camp. Have you travelled far?"

Fred cast a keen glance of suspicion at the stranger as he spoke, and, in spite of himself, there was a decided diminution in the heartiness of his tones, but the stranger did not appear to observe either the change of tone or the glance, for he replied, with increased urbanity and openness of manner, "Yis; I has roden far -- very far -- an' moche wants meat an' sleep."

As he spoke Paul Bevan came staggering into camp under a heavy load of wood, and again it may be said that a close observer might have noticed on the stranger's face a gleam of surprise much more intense than the previous one when he saw Paul Bevan. But the gleam had utterly vanished when that worthy, having thrown down his load, looked up and bade him good evening.

The urbanity of manner and blandness of expression increased as he returned the salutation.

"T'anks, t'anks. I vill go for hubble -- vat you call -- hobble me horse," he said, taking the animal's bridle and leading it a short distance from the fire.

"I don't like the look of him," whispered Fred to Paul when he was out of earshot.

"Sure, an' I howld the same opinion," said Flinders.

"Pooh! Never judge men by their looks," returned Bevan -- "specially in the diggin's. They're all blackguards or fools, more or less. This one seems to be one o' the fools. I've seed sitch critters before. They keep fillin' their little boxes wi' grass an' stuff; an' never makes any use of it that I could see. But every man to his taste. I'll be bound he's a good enough feller when ye come to know him, an' git over yer contempt for his idle ways. Very likely he draws, too -- an' plays the flute; most o' these furriners do. Come now, Flinders, look alive wi' the grub."

When the stranger returned to the fire he spread his huge hands over it and rubbed them with apparent satisfaction.

"Fat a goot t'ing is supper!" he remarked, with a benignant look all round; "the very smell of him be deliciowse!"

"An' no mistake!" added Flinders. "Sure, the half the good o' victuals would be lost av they had no smell."

"Where have you come from, stranger?" asked Bevan, as they were about to begin supper.

"From de Sawbuk Hills," answered the botanist, filling his mouth with an enormous mass of dried meat.

"Ay, indeed! That's just where we are goin' to," returned Bevan.

"An' vere may you be come from?" asked the stranger.

"From Simpson's Gully," said Fred.

"Ha! how cooriouse! Dat be joost vere I be go to."

The conversation flagged a little at this point as they warmed to the work of feeding; but after a little it was resumed, and then their visitor gradually ingratiated himself with his new friends to such an extent that the suspicions of Fred and Flinders were somewhat, though not altogether, allayed. At last they became sufficiently confidential to inform the stranger of their object in going to the Sawback Hills.

"Ha! Vat is dat you say?" he exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise; "von yoong man carried avay by Ridskins. I saw'd dem! Did pass dem not longe ago. T'ree mans carry von man. I t'ink him a sick comrade, but now I reklect hims face vas vhitish."

"Could ye guide us to the place where ye met them?" asked Bevan, quickly.

The botanist did not reply at once, but seemed to consider.

"Vell, I has not moche time to spare; but come, I has pity for you, an' don't mind if I goes out of de vay to help you. I vill go back to the Sawbuk Hills so far as need be."

"Thank 'ee kindly," returned Bevan, who possessed a grateful spirit; "I'll think better of yer grass-gatherin' after this, though it does puzzle me awful to make out what's the use ye put it to. If you kep' tame rabbits, now, I could understand it, but to carry it about in a green box an' go squeezin' it between the leaves o' books, as I've seed some of 'ee do, seems to me the most outrageous -- "

"Ha, ha!" interrupted the botanist, with a loud laugh; "you is not the first what t'ink hims nonsense. But you mus' know dere be moche sense in it," -- (he looked very grave and wise here) -- "very moche. First, ye finds him; den ye squeezes an' dries him; den ye sticks him in von book, an' names him; den ye talks about him; oh! dere is moche use in him, very moche!"

"Well, but arter you've found, an' squeezed, an' dried, an' stuck, an' named, an' talked about him," repeated Paul, with a slight look of contempt, "what the better are ye for it all?"

"Vy, ve is moche de better," returned the botanist, "for den ve tries to find out all about him. Ve magnifies him, an' writes vat ve zee about him, an' compares him vid oders of de same family, an' boils, an' stews, an' fries, an' melts, an' dissolves, an' mixes him, till ve gits somet'ing out of him."

"It's little I'd expect to git out of him after tratin' him so badly," remarked Flinders, whose hunger was gradually giving way before the influence of venison steaks.

"True, me frund," returned the stranger, "it is ver' leetil ve gits; but den dat leetil is ver' goot -- valooable you calls it."

"Humph!" ejaculated Bevan, with an air that betokened doubt. Flinders and Fred said nothing, but the latter felt more than ever inclined to believe that their guest was a deceiver, and resolved to watch him narrowly. On his part, the stranger seemed to perceive that Fred suspected him, but he was not rendered less hearty or free-and-easy on that account.

In the course of conversation Paul chanced to refer to Betty.

"Ah! me frund," said the stranger, "has you brought you's vife to dis vile contry!"

"No, I haven't," replied Paul, bluntly.

"Oh, pardon. I did t'ink you spoke of Bettie; an surely dat is vooman's name?"

"Ay, but Betty's my darter, not my wife," returned Paul, who resented this inquisition with regard to his private affairs.

"Is you not 'fraid," said the botanist, quietly helping himself to a marrow-bone, "to leave you's darter at Simpson's Gully?"

"Who told you I left her there?" asked Bevan, with increasing asperity.

"Oh! I only t'ink so, as you's come from dere."

"An' why should I be afraid?"

"Because, me frund, de contry be full ob scoundrils."

"Yes, an' you are one of the biggest of them," thought Fred Westly, but he kept his thoughts to himself, while Paul muttered something about being well protected, and having no occasion to be afraid.

Perceiving the subject to be distasteful, the stranger quickly changed it. Soon afterwards each man, rolling himself in his blanket, went to sleep -- or appeared to do so. In regard to Paddy Flinders, at least, there could be no doubt, for the trombone-tones of his nose were eloquent. Paul, too, lay on his back with eyes tight shut and mouth wide open, while the regular heaving of his broad chest told that his slumbers were deep. But more than once Fred Westly raised his head gently and looked suspiciously round. At last, in his case also, tired Nature asserted herself, and his deep regular breathing proved that the "sweet restorer" was at work, though an occasional movement showed that his sleep was not so profound as that of his comrades.

The big botanist remained perfectly motionless from the time he lay down, as if the sleep of infancy had passed with him into the period of manhood. It was not till the fire had died completely down, and the moon had set, leaving only the stars to make darkness visible, that he moved. He did so, not as a sleeper awaking, but with the slow stealthy action of one who is already wide awake and has a purpose in view.

Gradually his huge shoulders rose till he rested on his left elbow.

A sense of danger, which had never left him even while he slept, aroused Fred, but he did not lose his self-possession. He carefully watched, from the other side of the extinct fire, the motions of the stranger, and lay perfectly still -- only tightening his grasp on the knife-handle that he had been instinctively holding when he dropped asleep.

The night was too dark for Fred to distinguish the man's features. He could only perceive the outline of his black figure, and that for some time he rested on his elbow without moving, as if he were contemplating the stars. Despite his efforts to keep awake, Fred felt that drowsiness was again slowly, but surely, overcoming him. Maintaining the struggle, however, he kept his dreamy eyes riveted on their guest until he seemed to swell into gigantic proportions.

Presently Fred was again thoroughly aroused by observing that the right arm of the man moved slowly upwards, and something like a knife appeared in the hand; he even fancied he saw it gleam, though there was not light enough to render that possible.

Feeling restrained, as if under the horrible influence of nightmare, Fred lay there spell-bound and quite unable to move, until he perceived the stranger's form bend over in the direction of Paul Bevan, who lay on the other side of him.

Then, indeed, Fred's powers returned. Shouting, "look out, Paul!" he sprang up, drew his bowie-knife, and leaped over the blackened logs, but, to his surprise and confusion, found that the stranger lay extended on the ground as if sound asleep. He roused himself, however, and sat up, as did the others, on hearing Fred's shout.

"Fat is wrong, yoong man?" he inquired, with a look of sleepy surprise.

"Ye may well ax that, sor," said Flinders, staggering to his feet and seizing his axe, which always lay handy at his side. Paul had glanced round sharply, like a man inured to danger, but seeing nothing to alarm him, had remained in a sitting position.

"Why, Westly, you've been dreaming," he said with a broad grin.

"So I must have been," returned the youth, looking very much ashamed, "but you've no notion what a horrible dream I had. It seemed so real, too, that I could not help jumping up and shouting. Pardon me, comrades, and, as bad boys say when caught in mischief, 'I won't do it again!'"

"Ve pardon you, by all means," said the botanist stretching himself and yawning, "and ve do so vid de more pleasure for you has rouse us in time for start on de joorney."

"You're about right. It's time we was off," said Paul, rising slowly to his feet and looking round the horizon and up at the sky, while he proceeded to fill a beloved little black pipe, which invariably constituted his preliminary little breakfast.

Pat Flinders busied himself in blowing up the embers of the fire.

A slight and rapidly eaten meal sufficed to prepare these hardy backwoodsmen for their journey, and, long before daybreak illumined the plains, they were far on their way towards the Sawback mountain range.

During the journey of two days, which this trip involved, the botanist seemed to change his character to some extent. He became silent -- almost morose; did not encourage the various efforts made by his companions to draw him into conversation, and frequently rode alone in advance of the party, or occasionally fell behind them.

The day after the stranger had joined them, as they were trotting slowly over the plains that lay between the Rangers Hill and the Sawbacks, Fred rode close up to Bevan, and said in a low voice, glancing at the botanist, who was in advance -- 

"I am convinced, Paul, that he is a scoundrel."

"That may be so, Mr Fred, but what then?"

"Why, then I conclude that he is deceiving us for some purpose of his own."

"Nonsense," replied Bevan, who was apt to express himself bluntly, "what purpose can he serve in deceiving strangers like us! We carry no gold-dust and have nothing worth robbing us of, even if he were fool enough to think of attemptin' such a thing. Then, he can scarcely be deceivin' us in sayin' that he met three Redskins carryin' off a white man -- an' what good could it do him if he is? Besides, he is goin' out of his way to sarve us."

"It is impossible for me to answer your question, Paul, but I understand enough of both French and German to know that his broken English is a mere sham -- a mixture, and a bad one too, of what no German or Frenchman would use -- so it's not likely to be the sort of bad English that a Swede would speak. Moreover, I have caught him once or twice using English words correctly at one time and wrongly at another. No, you may depend on it that, whatever his object may be, he is deceiving us."

"It's mesilf as agrees wid ye, sor," said Flinders, who had been listening attentively to the conversation. "The man's no more a Swede than an Irishman, but what can we do wid oursilves! True or false, he's ladin' us in the diriction we want to go, an' it would do no good to say to him, 'Ye spalpeen, yer decavin' of us,' for he'd only say he wasn't; or may be he'd cut up rough an' lave us -- but after all, it might be the best way to push him up to that."

"I think not" said Bevan. "Doesn't English law say that a man should be held innocent till he's proved guilty?"

"It's little I know or care about English law," answered Flinders, "but I'm sure enough that Irish law howlds a bad man to be guilty till he's proved innocent -- at laste av it dosn't it should."

"You'd better go an' pump him a bit, Mr Fred," said Bevan; "we're close up to the Sawback range; another hour an' we'll be among the mountains."

They were turning round the spur of a little hillock as he spoke. Before Fred could reply a small deer sprang from its lair, cast on the intruders one startled gaze, and then bounded gracefully into the bush, too late, however, to escape from Bevan's deadly rifle. It had barely gone ten yards when a sharp crack was heard; the animal sprang high into the air, and fell dead upon the ground.

"Bad luck to ye, Bevan!" exclaimed Flinders, who had also taken aim at it, but not with sufficient speed, "isn't that always the way ye do? --  plucks the baste out o' me very hand. Sure I had me sights lined on it as straight as could be; wan second more an' I'd have sent a bullet right into its brain, when crack! ye go before me. Och! it's onkind, to say the laste of it. Why cudn't ye gi' me a chance?"

"I'm sorry, Flinders, but I couldn't well help it. The critter rose right in front o' me."

"Vat a goot shote you is!" exclaimed the botanist riding back to them and surveying the prostrate deer through his blue spectacles.

"Ay, and it's a lucky shot too," said Fred, "for our provisions are running low. But perchance we shan't want much more food before reaching the Indian camp. You said, I think, that you have a good guess where the camp lies, Mister -- what shall we call you?"

"Call me vat you please," returned the stranger, with a peculiar smile; "I is not partickler. Some of me frunds calls me Mr Botaniste."

"Well, Mr Botanist, the camp cannot be far off now, an' it seems to me that we should have overtaken men travelling on foot by this time."

"Ye vill surely come on de tracks dis naight or de morrow," replied the botanist, riding forward, after Bevan had secured the carcass of the deer to his saddle-bow, "bot ye must have patience, yoong blood be always too hote. All in goot time."

With this reply Fred was fain to content himself, for no amount of pressure availed to draw anything more satisfactory out of their strange guide.

Before sunset they had penetrated some distance into the Sawback range, and then proceeded to make their encampment for the night under the spreading branches of a lordly pine!



Chapter Thirteen.

Tables are frequently turned in this world in more senses than one. As was said in the last chapter, the romantic pair who were in search of the Indians did not find those for whom they sought but as fickle fortune willed it, those for whom they sought found them. It happened thus.

Soon after the Rose of Oregon and her young champion, with their captors, had passed through the Long Gap, crossed the plain, and entered the Sawback Hills, they fell in with a band of twenty Indians, who from their appearance and costume evidently belonged to the same tribe as their captors. From the manner in which they met also, it seemed that they had been in search of each other, and had something interesting to communicate, for they gesticulated much, pointed frequently to the sky, and to various directions of the compass, chattered excitedly, showed their brilliant teeth in fitful gleams, and glittered quite awfully about the eyes.

They paid little attention at first to their prisoners, who remained sitting on their steeds looking on with interest and some anxiety.

"O Betty, what would I not give to have my arms free just now! What a chance it would be for a bold dash and a glorious run!"

"You'd make little of it on such rough ground, Tolly."

"Pooh! I'd try it on any ground. Just fancy, I'd begin with a clear leap over that chief's head -- the one there wi' the feathers an' the long nose that's makin' such hideous faces -- then away up the glen, over the stones, down the hollows, shoutin' like mad, an' clearin' the brooks and precipices with a band o' yellin' Redskins at my tail! Isn't it enough to drive a fellow wild to be on the brink of such a chance an' miss it? I say, haven't you got a penknife in your pocket -- no? Not even a pair o' scissors? Why, I thought you women never travelled without scissors!"

"Alas! Tolly, I have not even scissors; besides, if I had, it would take me at least two minutes with all the strength of my fingers to cut the thongs that bind you with scissors, and I don't think the Redskins would stand quietly by and look on while I did it. But what say you to me trying it by myself?"

"Quite useless," returned Tolly. "You'd be caught at once -- or break your neck. And you'd never get on, you know, without me. No, no, we've got fairly into a fix, an' I don't see my way out of it. If my hands were free we might attempt anything, but what can a fellow do when tied up in this fashion?"

"He can submit, Tolly, and wait patiently."

Tolly did not feel inclined to submit, and was not possessed of much patience, but he was too fond of Betty to answer flippantly. He therefore let his feelings escape through the safety-valve of a great sigh, and relapsed into pensive silence.

Meanwhile the attention of the band of savages was attracted to another small band of natives which approached them from the eastward. That these were also friends was evident from the fact that the larger band made no hostile demonstration, but quietly awaited the coming up of the others. The newcomers were three in number, and two of them bore on their shoulders what appeared to be the body of a man wrapped up in a blanket.

"They've got a wounded comrade with them, I think," said little Trevor.

"So it would seem," replied Betty, with a dash of pity in her tone, for she was powerfully sympathetic.

The savages laid the form in the blanket on the ground, and began to talk earnestly with their comrades.

"It's not dead yet anyhow," remarked Tolly, "for I see it move. I wonder whether it is a man or a woman. Mayhap it's their old grandmother they're giving a little exercise to. I've heard that some o' the Redskins are affectionate sort o' fellows, though most of 'em are hard enough on the old folk."

As he spoke he looked up in Betty's face. Just as he did so a startling change came over that face. It suddenly became ashy pale, the large eyes dilated to their utmost extent, and the mouth opened with a short gasp.

In great alarm the boy turned his eyes in the direction in which the girl gazed so fixedly, and then his own visage assumed a somewhat similar appearance as he beheld the pale, thin, cadaverous countenance of his friend Tom Brixton, from off which a corner of the blanket had just slipped. But for the slight motion above referred to Tom might have been mistaken for a dead man, for his eyes were closed and his lips bloodless.

Uttering a sudden shout Tolly Trevor flung himself headlong off the pony and tried to get on his feet but failed, owing to his hands being tied behind him. Betty also leaped to the ground, and, running to where Tom lay, went down on her knees and raised his head in her hands.

The poor youth, being roused, opened his eyes. They were terribly sunken and large, but when they met those of Betty they enlarged to an extent that seemed positively awful, and a faint tinge of colour came to his hollow cheeks.

"Betty!" he whispered; "can -- can it be possible?"

"Yes, it is I! Surely God must have sent me to save your life!"

"I fear not, dear -- "

He stopped abruptly and shut his eyes. For a few moments it seemed as if he were dead, but presently he opened them again, and said, faintly, "It is too late, I fear. You are very kind, but I -- I feel so terribly weak that I think I am dying."

By this time Tolly, having managed to get on his feet stood beside his friend, on whom he gazed with intense anxiety. Even the Indians were solemnised by what appeared to be a death-scene.

"Have you been wounded!" asked the girl, quickly.

"No; only starved!" returned Tom, a slight smile of humour flickering for a second on his pale face even in that hour of his extremity.

"Have the Indians given you anything to eat since they found you?"

"They have tried to, but what they offered me was dry and tough; I could not get it down."

The girl rose promptly. "Tolly, fetch me some water and make a fire. Quick!" she said, and going up to an Indian, coolly drew from its sheath his scalping-knife, with which she cut Tolly's bonds. The savage evidently believed that such a creature could not possibly do evil, for he made no motion whatever to check her. Then, without a word more, she went to the saddle-bags on the obstinate horse, and, opening one of them, took out some soft sugar. The savage who held the horse made no objection. Indeed, from that moment the whole band stood silently by, observing the pretty maiden and the active boy as they moved about, regardless of everything but the work in hand.

The Rose of Oregon constituted herself a sick-nurse on that occasion with marvellous facility. True, she knew nothing whatever about the duties of a sick-nurse or a doctor, for her father was one of those fortunate men who are never ill, but her native tact and energy sufficed. It was not her nature to stand by inactive when anything urgent had to be done. If she knew not what to do, and no one else did, she was sure to attempt something. Whether sugar-and-water was the best food for a starving man she knew not, but she did know -- at least she thought -- that the starvation ought to be checked without delay.

"Here, Mr Brixton, sip a little of this," she said, going down on her knees, and putting a tin mug to the patient's mouth.

Poor Tom would have sipped prussic acid cheerfully from her hand! He obeyed, and seemed to like it.

"Now, a little more."

"God bless you, dear girl!" murmured Tom, as he sipped a little more.

"There, that will do you good till I can prepare something better."

She rose and ran to the fire which Tolly had already blown up almost to furnace heat.

"I filled the kettle, for I knew you'd want it," said the boy, turning up his fiery-red visage for a moment, "It can't be long o' boiling with such a blaze below it."

He stooped again and continued to blow while Betty cut some dried meat into small pieces. Soon these were boiled, and the resulting soup was devoured by the starving man with a zest that he had never before experienced.

"Nectar!" he exclaimed faintly, smiling as he raised his eyes to Betty's face.

"But you must not take too much at a time," she said, gently drawing away the mug.

Tom submitted patiently. He would have submitted to anything patiently just then!

During these proceedings the Indians, who seemed to be amiably disposed, looked on with solemn interest and then, coming apparently to the conclusion that they might as well accommodate themselves to circumstances, they quietly made use of Tolly's fire to cook a meal for themselves.

This done, one of them -- a noble-looking savage, who, to judge from his bearing and behaviour, was evidently their chief -- went up to Betty, and, with a stately bend of the head, said, in broken English, "White woman git on horse!"

"And what are you going to do with this man?" asked Betty, pointing to the prostrate form of Tom.

"Unaco will him take care," briefly replied the chief (meaning himself), while with a wave of his hand he turned away, and went to Tolly, whom he ordered to mount the pony, which he styled the "littil horse."

The boy was not slow to obey, for he was by that time quite convinced that his only chance of being allowed to have his hands left free lay in prompt submission. Any lurking thought that might have remained of making a grand dash for liberty was effectually quelled by a big savage, who quietly took hold of the pony's rein and led it away. Another Indian led Betty's horse. Then the original three who had found Tom took him up quite gently and carried him off, while the remainder of the band followed in single file. Unaco led the way, striding over the ground at a rate which almost forced the pony to trot, and glancing from side to side with a keen look of inquiry that seemed to intimate an expectation of attack from an enemy in ambush.

But if any such enemy existed he was careful not to show himself, and the Indian band passed through the defiles and fastnesses of the Sawback Hills unmolested until the shades of evening began to descend.

Then, on turning round a jutting rock that obstructed the view up a mountain gorge, Unaco stopped abruptly and held up his hand. This brought the band to a sudden halt and the chief, apparently sinking on his knees, seemed to melt into the bushes. In a few minutes he returned with a look of stern resolve on his well-formed countenance.

"He has discovered something o' some sort, I -- "

Tolly's remark to his fair companion was cut short by the point of a keen knife touching his side, which caused him to end with "hallo!"

The savage who held his bridle gave him a significant look that said, "Silence!"

After holding a brief whispered conversation with several of his braves, the chief advanced to Betty and said -- 

"White man's in the bush. Does white woman know why?"

Betty at once thought of her father and his companions, and said -- 

"I have not seen the white men. How can I tell why they are here? Let me ride forward and look at them -- then I shall be able to speak."

A very slight smile of contempt curled the chiefs lip for an instant as he replied -- 

"No. The white woman see them when they be trapped. Unaco knows one. He is black -- a devil with two face -- many face, but Unaco's eyes be sharp. They see far."

So saying, he turned and gave some directions to his warriors, who at once scattered themselves among the underwood and disappeared. Ordering the Indians who carried Tom Brixton to follow him, and the riders to bring up the rear, he continued to advance up the gorge.

"A devil with two faces!" muttered Tolly; "that must be a queer sort o' beast! I have heard of a critter called a Tasmanian devil, but never before heard of an Oregon one with two faces."

An expressive glance from the Indian who guarded him induced the lad to continue his speculations in silence.

On passing round the jutting rock, where Unaco had been checked in his advance, the party at once beheld the cause of anxiety. Close to the track they were following were seen four men busily engaged in making arrangements to encamp for the night.

It need scarcely be said that these were our friends Paul Bevan, Fred Westly, Flinders, and the botanist.

The moment that these caught sight of the approaching party they sprang to their arms, which of course lay handy, for in those regions, at the time we write of, the law of might was in the ascendant. The appearance and conduct of Unaco, however, deceived them, for that wily savage advanced towards them with an air of confidence and candour which went far to remove suspicion, and when, on drawing nearer, he threw down his knife and tomahawk, and held up his empty hands, their suspicions were entirely dispelled.

"They're not likely to be onfriendly," observed Flinders, "for there's only five o' them altogither, an' wan o' them's only a bit of a boy an' another looks uncommon like a wo -- "

He had got thus far when he was checked by Paul Bevan's exclaiming, with a look of intense surprise, "Why, that's Betty! -- or her ghost!"

Flinders's astonishment was too profound to escape in many words. He only gave vent to, "Musha! there's Tolly!" and let his lower jaw drop.

"Yes, it's me an' the Beautiful Nugget" cried Tolly, jumping off the pony and running to assist the Nugget to dismount, while the bearers of Tom Brixton laid him on the ground, removed the blanket, and revealed his face.

The exclamations of surprise would no doubt have been redoubled at this sight if the power of exclamation had not been for the time destroyed. The sham botanist in particular was considerably puzzled, for he at once recognised Tom and also Betty, whom he had previously known. Of course he did not know Tolly Trevor; still less did he know that Tolly knew him.

Unaco himself was somewhat surprised at the mutual recognitions, though his habitual self-restraint enabled him to conceal every trace of emotion. Moreover, he was well aware that he could not afford to lose time in the development of his little plot. Taking advantage, therefore, of the surprise which had rendered every one for the moment more or less confused, he gave a sharp signal which was well understood by his friends in the bush.

Instantly, and before Tolly or Betty could warn their friends of what was coming, the surrounding foliage parted, as if by magic, and a circle of yelling and painted Redskins sprang upon the white men. Resistance was utterly out of the question. They were overwhelmed as if by a cataract and, almost before they could realise what had happened, the arms of all the men were pinioned behind them.

At that trying hour little Tolly Trevor proved himself to be more of a man than most of his friends had hitherto given him credit for.

The savages, regarding him as a weak little boy, had paid no attention to him, but confined their efforts to the overcoming of the powerful and by no means submissive men with whom they had to deal.

Tolly's first impulse was to rush to the rescue of Paul Bevan; but he was remarkably quick-witted, and, when on the point of springing, observed that no tomahawk was wielded or knife drawn. Suddenly grasping the wrist of Betty, who had also naturally felt the impulse to succour her father, he exclaimed -- 

"Stop! Betty. They don't mean murder. You an' I can do nothing against so many. Keep quiet; p'r'aps they'll leave us alone."

As he spoke a still deeper idea flashed into his little brain. To the surprise of Betty, he suddenly threw his arms round her waist and clung to her as if for protection with a look of fear in his face, and when the work of binding the captives was completed the Indians found him still labouring to all appearance under great alarm. Unaco cast on him one look of supreme scorn, and then, leaving him, like Betty, unbound, turned towards Paul Bevan.

"The white man is one of wicked band?" he said, in his broken English.

"I don't know what ye mean, Redskin," replied Paul; "but speak your own tongue, I understand it well enough to talk with ye."

The Indian repeated the question in his native language, and Paul, replying in the same, said -- 

"No, Redskin, I belong to no band, either wicked or good."

"How come you, then, to be in company with this man?" demanded the Indian.

In reply Paul gave a correct account of the cause and object of his being there, explained that the starving man before them was the friend for whom he sought, that Betty was his daughter, though how she came to be there beat his comprehension entirely, and that the botanist was a stranger, whose name even he did not yet know.

"It is false," returned the chief. "The white man speaks with a forked tongue. He is one of the murderers who have slain my wife and my child."

A dark fierce frown passed over the chief's countenance as he spoke, but it was quickly replaced by the habitual look of calm gravity.

"What can stop me," he said, reverting again to English as he turned and addressed Betty, "from killing you as my wife was killed by white man?"

"My God can stop you," answered the girl, in a steady voice, though her heart beat fast and her face was very pale.

"Your God!" exclaimed the savage. "Will your God defend the wicked?"

"No, but He will pardon the wicked who come to Him in the name of Jesus, and He will defend the innocent."

"Innocent!" repeated Unaco, vehemently, as he turned and pointed to the botanist. "Does you call this man innocent?"

"I know nothing about that man," returned the girl, earnestly; "but I do know that my father and I, and all the rest of us, are innocent of any crime against you."

For a few seconds the savage chief gazed steadily at Betty, then turning towards the botanist he took a step towards the spot where he sat and looked keenly into his face.

The botanist returned the gaze with equal steadiness through his blue spectacles.



Chapter Fourteen.

"The big man with the blue glass eyes is a villain," said the Indian chief, after a long scrutiny of the botanist's countenance.

"So some of my mistaken friends have thought," returned the man, speaking for the first time in his natural voice, which caused a thrill to pass through Paul Bevan's frame.

"He is a thief," continued the chief, still gazing steadily at the blue glasses, "and a murderer!"

"He's all that, and liar and deceiver into the bargain," thought Tolly Trevor, but Tolly did not speak; he only vented his feelings in a low chuckle, for he saw, or thought he saw, that the robber's career was about to receive a check. As the thought passed through his brain, however, he observed from the position in which he stood that Stalker --  for, as the reader has doubtless perceived, it was he -- was working his hands about in a very soft slow, mysterious, and scarcely observable manner.

"Oho!" thought Tolly, "is that your little game? Ha! I'll spoil it for you!"

He quietly took up a piece of firewood and began, as it were, to amuse himself therewith.

"You has many faces, many colours," continued Unaco, "and too many eyes."

At the last word he plucked the blue glasses off the botanist's nose and flung them into the fire.

"My enemy!" gasped Paul Bevan, turning first very pale and then very red, as he glared like a chained tiger at his foe.

"You knows him now?" said Unaco, turning abruptly to Paul.

"Yes; I knows him!"

"The white man with the forked tongue say jus' now he not knows him."

"Ay, Redskin, an' I said the truth, for he's a rare deceiver -- always has been -- an' can pass himself off for a'most anything. I knows him as my mortal foe. Cast my hands loose an' give me a knife an' you shall see."

"O father! your promise -- remember!" exclaimed Betty.

"True, dear lass, true; I forgot," returned Paul, with a humbled look; "yet it is hard for a man to see him there, grinning like a big baboon, an' keep his hands off him."

During this dialogue the Indians looked from one speaker to another with keen interest, although none but their chief understood a word of what was said; and Stalker took advantage of their attention being turned for the moment from himself to carry out what Tolly had styled his "little game," all unaware that the boy was watching him like a lynx.

Among other shifts and devices with which the robber chief had become familiar, he had learned the conjuror's method of so arranging his limbs while being bound, that he could untie his bonds in a marvellous manner. On the present occasion, however, he had been tied by men who were expert in the use of deerskin thongs, and he found some difficulty in loosening them without attracting attention, but he succeeded at last. He had been secured only by the wrists and forearms, and remained sitting still a few seconds after he was absolutely free; then, seizing what he believed to be his opportunity, he leapt up, dashed the Indian nearest him to the earth, and sprang like a deer towards the bushes.

But Tolly Trevor was ready for him. That daring youth plunged right in front of the big botanist and stooped. Stalker tripped over him and came violently to the ground on his forehead and nose. Before he could rise Tolly had jumped up, and swinging his billet of wood once in the air, brought it down with all his little might on the robber's crown. It sufficed to stupefy him, and when he recovered he found himself in the close embrace of three muscular Redskins.

"Well done, Tolly Trevor!" shouted Paul Bevan, enthusiastically.

Even Tom Brixton, who had been looking on in a state of inexpressible surprise, managed to utter a feeble cheer.

But the resources of the robber were not yet exhausted. Finding himself in the grasp of overwhelming numbers, he put forth all his strength, as if to make a final effort, and then, suddenly collapsing, dropped limp and helpless to the ground, as a man does when he is stabbed to the heart.

The savages knew the symptoms well -- too well! They rose, breathless, and each looked inquiringly at the other, as though to say, "Who did the deed?" Before they discovered that the deed had not been done at all, Stalker sprang up, knocked down two of them, overturned the third, and, bounding into the bushes, was out of sight in a few seconds.

The whole band, of course, went yelling after him, except their chief, who stood with an angry scowl upon his visage, and awaited the return of his braves.

One by one they came back panting and discomfited, for the white robber had outrun them all and got clear away.

"Well, now, it was cliverly done," remarked Paddy Flinders, finding his tongue at last; "an' I raly can't but feel that he desarves to git off this time. All the same I hope he'll be nabbed at last an' recaive his due -- bad luck to him!"

"Now, Redskin -- " began Bevan.

"My name is Unaco," interrupted the chief, with a look of dignity.

"Well, then, Unaco," continued Bevan, "since ye must see that we have nothing whatever to do wi' the blackguard that's just given ye the slip, I hope you'll see your way to untie our hands an' let us go."

"You may not belong to that man's band," answered the chief, in his own tongue, "but you are a white man, and by white men I have been robbed of my wife and child. Your lives are forfeited. You shall be slaves to those whom you call Redskins, and this girl with the sunny hair shall replace the lost one in my wigwam."

Without deigning to listen to a reply, Unaco turned and gave orders to his men, who at once brought up the horse and pony, set Betty and Tolly thereon, lifted Tom Brixton on their shoulders as before, and resumed their march deeper into the fastnesses of the Sawback Hills.

It was growing rapidly dark as they advanced, but the chief who led the party was intimately acquainted with every foot of the way, and as the moon rose before daylight had quite disappeared, they were enabled to continue their journey by night.

"No doubt" remarked Fred Westly to Paul, who was permitted to walk beside him, though Flinders was obliged to walk behind -- "no doubt the chief fears that Stalker will pursue him when he is rejoined by his robber band, and wants to get well out of his way."

"Very likely," returned Bevan; "an' it's my opinion that he'll find some more of his tribe hereabouts, in which case Master Stalker and his blackguards will have pretty stiff work cut out for them."

"What think you of the threat of the chief to take Betty to be one of his wives?" asked Fred.

"Well, I don't think he'll do it."

"Why not?"

"Because I've got a hold over him that he's not aware of just yet."

"What is that, and why did you not make use of it just now to prevent our being needlessly led farther into these mountains?" asked Fred, in surprise.

"What the hold is," returned Bevan, "you shall know at supper-time. The reason why I didn't make use of it sooner is that on the whole, I think it better to stick by the Redskins yet awhile -- first, because if Stalker should look for us, as he's sartin sure to do, we would not be strong enough to fight him in the open; and, secondly, because poor Tom Brixton needs rest, and he has more chance o' that in the circumstances, wi' the Redskins than he could have with us while being hunted by robbers; and, lastly, because Betty would come to grief if she fell into that villain Stalker's hands just now."

While Paul and Fred were thus conversing, the Rose of Oregon and her little protector rode silently beside each other, buried, apparently, in profound thought.

At last Tolly raised his head and voice.

"Betty," said he, "what a lucky thing it was that we fell in wi' Tom Brixton, and that you were able to give him somethin' to eat."

"Yes, thank God," replied the girl, fervently.

"He'd have died but for you," said the boy.

"And you, Tolly," added Betty.

"Well, yes, I did have a finger in the pie," returned the boy, with a self-satisfied air; "but I say, Betty," he added, becoming suddenly serious, "what d'ye think o' what that rascally chief said about takin' you to his wigwam? You know that means he intends to make you his wife."

"Yes, I know; but God will deliver me," answered the girl.

"How d'ye know that?"

"Because I put my trust in Him."

"Oh! but," returned the boy, with a slight look of surprise, "unless God works a miracle I don't see how He can deliver us from the Redskins, and you know He doesn't work miracles nowadays."

"I'm not so sure of that," replied the girl. "More than once I have seen a man who had been nearly all his life given to drinking, fighting, thieving, and swearing, and every sort of wickedness, surrender himself body and soul to Jesus Christ, so that he afterwards gave up all his evil ways, and led a pure and peaceable life, trying not only to serve God himself, but doing his best to bring his old companions to the same state of mind. What would you call that, Tolly?"

"I'm bound to say it's as near a miracle as can be, if not one altogether. But in what way do you think God will deliver you just now?"

"That I cannot tell; but I know this, it is written in His Word that those who put their trust in Him shall never be confounded, and I have put my trust in Him. He will never forsake me."

"I wish I had as strong faith as you, Betty," said the boy, with a grave look.

"You may have it -- and stronger than I have, for faith is the gift of God, and we shall get it not in proportion to our trying to get it or to our trying to rouse it, or to our working for it, but according as we ask for it. The Holy Spirit can work anything in us and by us, and He is promised to those who merely ask in the name of Jesus. Ah! Tolly, have I not often told you this, that in God's Word it is written, 'Ye have not because ye ask not?'"

While these two were yet speaking, the chief called a halt, and, after a brief consultation with some of his braves, ordered the band to encamp for the night.

Soon the camp fires were lighted under the spreading trees, and their bright blaze and myriad sparks converted the gloomy forest into a brilliant banqueting hall, in which, unlike civilised halls, the decorations were fresh and natural, and the atmosphere was pure.

There were at least six camp-fires, each with its circle of grave red warriors, its roasting steaks and its bubbling kettle, in which latter was boiled a rich mixture of dried meat and flour. Some of the Indians stood conversing in low tones, their faces ruddy with the brilliant blaze and their backs as black as the surrounding background. Others lay at length on the ground or squatted thereon, placidly smoking their calumets, or the little iron pipes which formed part of the heads of their tomahawks, or tending the steaks and kettles. To an observer outside the circle of light the whole scene was intensely vivid and picturesque, for the groups, being at different distances, were varied in size, and the intense light that shone on those nearest the fires shed a softer glow on those who were more distant, while on the few Indians who moved about in search of firewood it cast a pale light which barely sufficed to distinguish them from surrounding darkness.

Paul Bevan and his friends occupied a fire by themselves, the only native who stood beside them being Unaco. It is probable that the savage chief constituted himself their guard in order to make quite sure of them, for the escape of Stalker weighed heavily on his mind. To secure this end more effectively, and at the same time enable the captives to feed themselves, the right arm of each was freed, while the left was tied firmly to his body. Of course, Betty and Tom Brixton were left altogether unbound.

"I feel uncommon lopsided goin' about in this one-armed fashion," remarked Paul, as he turned the stick on which his supper was roasting. "Couldn't ye make up yer mind to trust us, Unaco? I'd promise for myself an' friends that we wouldn't attempt to cut away like that big thief Stalker."

The chief, who sat a little apart near the farther end of the blazing pile of logs, smoking his pipe in motionless gravity, took not the slightest notice.

"Arrah! howld yer tongue, Paul," said Flinders, who made so much use of his one arm, in stirring the kettle, turning a roasting venison rib, and arranging the fire, that it seemed as if he were in full possession of two; "why d'ye disturb his majesty? Don't ye see that he's meditatin', or suthin' o' that sort -- maybe about his forefathers?"

"Well, well, I hope his after mothers won't have many sulky ones like him," returned Paul, rather crossly. "It's quite impossible to cut up a steak wi' one hand, so here goes i' the next best fashion."

He took up the steak in his fingers, and was about to tear off a mouthful with his teeth, when Betty came to the rescue.

"Stay, father; I'll cut it into little bits for you if Unaco will kindly lend me his scalping-knife."

Without a word or look the chief quietly drew the glittering weapon from its sheath and handed it to Betty, who at once, using a piece of sharpened stick as a fork, cut her father's portion into manageable lumps.

"That's not a bad notion," said Fred. "Perhaps you'll do the same for me, Betty."

"With pleasure, Mr Westly."

"Ah, now, av it wouldn't be axin' too much, might I make so bowld -- "

Flinders did not finish the sentence, but laid his pewter plate before the Rose of Oregon with a significant smile.

"I'm glad to be so unexpectedly useful," said Betty, with a laugh.

When she had thus aided her half-helpless companions, Betty returned the knife to its owner, who received it with a dignified inclination of the head. She then filled a mug with soup, and went to Tom, who lay on a deerskin robe, gazing at her in rapt admiration, and wondering when he was going to awake out of this most singular dream, for, in his weak condition, he had taken to disbelieving all that he saw.

"And yet it can't well be a dream," he murmured, with a faint smile, as the girl knelt by his side, "for I never dreamed anything half so real. What is this -- soup?"

"Yes; try to take a little. It will do you good, with God's blessing."

"Ah, yes, with God's blessing," repeated the poor youth, earnestly. "You know what that means, Betty, and -- and -- I think I am beginning to understand it."

Betty made no reply, but a feeling of profound gladness crept into her heart.

When she returned to the side of her father she found that he had finished supper, and was just beginning to use his pipe.

"When are you going to tell me, Paul, about the -- the -- subject we were talking of on our way here?" asked Fred, who was still devoting much of his attention to a deer's rib.

"I'll tell ye now," answered Paul, with a short glance at the Indian chief, who still sat, profoundly grave, in the dreamland of smoke. "There's no time like after supper for a good pipe an' a good story -- not that what I'm goin' to tell ye is much of a story either, but it's true, if that adds vally to it, an' it'll be short. It's about a brave young Indian I once had the luck to meet with. His name was Oswego."

At the sound of the name Unaco cast a sharp glance at Bevan. It was so swift that no one present observed it save Bevan himself, who had expected it. But Paul pretended not to notice it, and turning himself rather more towards Fred, addressed himself pointedly to him.

"This young Indian," said Paul, "was a fine specimen of his race, tall and well made, with a handsome countenance, in which truth was as plain as the sun in the summer sky. I was out after grizzly b'ars at the time, but hadn't had much luck, an' was comin' back to camp one evenin' in somethin' of a sulky humour, when I fell upon a trail which I knowed was the trail of a Redskin. The Redskins was friendly at that time wi' the whites, and as I was out alone, an' am somethin' of a sociable critter, I thought I'd follow him up an' take him to my camp wi' me, if he was willin', an' give him some grub an' baccy. Well, I hadn't gone far when I came to a precipiece. The trail followed the edge of it for some distance, an' I went along all right till I come to a bit where the trail seemed to go right over it. My heart gave a jump, for I seed at a glance that a bit o' the cliff had given way there, an' as there was no sign o' the trail farther on, of course I knowed that the Injin, whoever he was, must have gone down with it.

"I tried to look over, but it was too steep an' dangerous, so I sought for a place where I could clamber down. Sure enough, when I reached the bottom, there lay the poor Redskin. I thought he was dead, for he'd tumbled from a most awful height, but a tree had broke his fall to some extent, and when I went up to him I saw by his eyes that he was alive, though he could neither speak nor move.

"I soon found that the poor lad was damaged past recovery; so, after tryin' in vain to get him to speak to me, I took him in my arms as tenderly as I could and carried him to my camp. It was five miles off, and the road was rough, and although neither groan nor complaint escaped him, I knew that poor Oswego suffered much by the great drops o' perspiration that rolled from his brow; so, you see, I had to carry him carefully. When I'd gone about four miles I met a small Injin boy who said he was Oswego's brother, had seen him fall, an', not bein' able to lift him, had gone to seek for help, but had failed to find it.

"That night I nursed the lad as I best could, gave him some warm tea, and did my best to arrange him comfortably. The poor fellow tried to speak his gratitude, but couldn't; yet I could see it in his looks. He died next day, and I buried him under a pine-tree. The poor heart-broken little brother said he knew the way back to the wigwams of his tribe, so I gave him the most of the provisions I had, told him my name, and sent him away."

At this point in the story Unaco rose abruptly, and said to Bevan -- 

"The white man will follow me."

Paul rose, and the chief led him into the forest a short way, when he turned abruptly, and, with signs of emotion unusual in an Indian, said -- 

"Your name is Paul Bevan?"

"It is."

"I am the father of Oswego," said the chief, grasping Paul by the hand and shaking it vigorously in the white man's fashion.

"I know it, Unaco, and I know you by report, though we've never met before, and I told that story in your ear to convince ye that my tongue is not 'forked.'"

When Paul Bevan returned to the camp fire, soon afterwards, he came alone, and both his arms were free. In a few seconds he had the satisfaction of undoing the bonds of his companions, and relating to them the brief but interesting conversation which had just passed between him and the Indian chief.



Chapter Fifteen.

At the edge of a small plain, or bit of prairie land, that shone like a jewel in a setting of bush-clad hills, dwelt the tribe of natives who owned Unaco as their chief.

It was a lovely spot, in one of the most secluded portions of the Sawback range, far removed at that time from the evil presence of the gold-diggers, though now and then an adventurous "prospector" would make his way to these remote solitudes in quest of the precious metal. Up to that time those prospectors had met with nothing to reward them for their pains, save the gratification to be derived from fresh mountain air and beautiful scenery.

It required three days of steady travelling to enable the chief and his party to reach the wigwams of the tribe. The sun was just setting, on the evening of the third day, when they passed out of a narrow defile and came in sight of the Indian village.

"It seems to me, Paul," remarked Fred Westly, as they halted to take a brief survey of the scene, "that these Indians have found an admirable spot on which to lead a peaceful life, for the region is too high and difficult of access to tempt many gold-hunters, and the approaches to it could be easily defended by a handful of resolute men."

"That is true," replied Bevan, as they continued on their way. "Nevertheless, it would not be very difficult for a few resolute men to surprise and capture the place."

"Perchance Stalker and his villains may attempt to prove the truth of what you say," suggested Fred.

"They will certainly attempt it" returned Paul, "but they are not what I call resolute men. Scoundrels are seldom blessed wi' much resolution, an' they're never heartily united."

"What makes you feel so sure that they will follow us up, Paul?"

"The fact that my enemy has followed me like a bloodhound for six years," answered Bevan, with a frown.

"Is it touching too much on private matters to ask why he is your enemy, and why so vindictive?"

"The reason Is simple enough. Buxley hates me, and would kill me if he could. Indeed I'm half afraid that he will manage it at last, for I've promised my little gal that I won't kill him 'cept in self-defence, an' of course if I don't kill him he's pretty sure to kill me."

"Does Betty know why this man persecutes you so?"

"No -- she don't."

As it was evident, both from his replies and manner, that Bevan did not mean to be communicative on the subject, Fred forbore to ask more questions about it.

"So you think Unaco may be depended on?" he asked, by way of changing the subject.

"Ay, surely. You may depend on it that the Almighty made all men pretty much alike as regards their feelin's. The civilised people an' the Redskins ain't so different as some folk seem to think. They can both of 'em love an' hate pretty stiffly, an' they are both able to feel an' show gratitude as well as the reverse -- also, they're pretty equal in the matter of revenge."

"But don't we find," said Fred, "that among Christians revenge is pretty much held in check?"

"Among Christians -- ay," replied Bevan; "but white men ain't always Christians, any more than red men are always devils. Seems to me it's six o' one an' half a dozen o' the other. Moreover, when the missionaries git among the Redskins, some of 'em turns Christians an' some hypocrites -- just the same as white men. What Unaco is, in the matter o' Christianity, is not for me to say, for I don't know; but from what I do know, from hearsay, of his character, I'm sartin sure that he's a good man and true, an' for that little bit of sarvice I did to his poor boy, he'd give me his life if need be."

"Nevertheless, I can't help thinking that we might have returned to Simpson's Gully, and taken the risk of meeting with Stalker," said Fred.

"Ha! that's because you don't know him," returned Bevan. "If he had met with his blackguards soon after leaving us, he'd have overtook us by this time. Anyway, he's sure to send scouts all round, and follow up the trail as soon as he can."

"But think what a trial this rough journey has been to poor Tom Brixton," said Fred.

"No doubt," returned Paul; "but haven't we got him on Tolly's pony to-day? and isn't that a sign he's better? An' would you have me risk Betty fallin' Into the hands o' Buxley?"

Paul looked at his companion as if this were an unanswerable argument and Fred admitted that it was.

"Besides," he went on, "it will be a pleasant little visit this, to a friendly tribe o' Injins, an' we may chance to fall in wi' gold, who knows? An' when the ugly thieves do succeed in findin' us, we shall have the help o' the Redskins, who are not bad fighters when their cause is a good 'un an' their wigwams are in danger."

"It may be so, Paul. However, right or wrong, here we are, and a most charming spot it is, the nearer we draw towards it."

As Fred spoke, Betty Bevan, who rode in advance, reined in her horse, --  which, by the way, had become much more docile in her hands, -- and waited till her father overtook her.

"Is it not like paradise, father?"

"Not havin' been to paradise, dear, I can't exactly say," returned her matter-of-fact sire.

"Oh, I say, ain't it splendatious!" said Tolly Trevor, coming up at the moment, and expressing Betty's idea in somewhat different phraseology; "just look at the lake -- like a lookin'-glass, with every wigwam pictur'd upside down, so clear that a feller can't well say which is which. An' the canoes in the same way, bottom to bottom, Redskins above and Redskins below. Hallo! I say, what's that?"

The excited lad pointed, as he spoke, to the bushes, where a violent motion and crashing sound told of some animal disturbed in its lair. Next moment a beautiful little antelope bounded into an open space, and stopped to cast a bewildered gaze for one moment on the intruders. That pause proved fatal. A concealed hunter seized his opportunity; a sharp crack was heard, and the animal fell dead where it stood, shot through the head.

"Poor, poor creature!" exclaimed the tender-hearted Betty.

"Not a bad supper for somebody," remarked her practical father.

As he spoke the bushes parted at the other side of the open space, and the man who had fired the shot appeared.

He was a tall and spare, but evidently powerful fellow. As he advanced towards our travellers they could see that he was not a son of the soil, but a white man -- at least as regards blood, though his face, hands, neck, and bared bosom had been tanned by exposure to as red a brown as that of any Indian.

"He's a trapper," exclaimed Tolly, as the man drew nearer, enabling them to perceive that he was middle-aged and of rather slow and deliberate temperament with a sedate expression on his rugged countenance.

"Ay, he looks like one o' these wanderin' chaps," said Bevan, "that seem to be fond of a life o' solitude in the wilderness. I've knowed a few of 'em. Queer customers some, that stick at nothin' when their blood's up; though I have met wi' one or two that desarved an easier life, an' more o' this world's goods. But most of 'em prefer to hunt for their daily victuals, an' on'y come down to the settlements when they run out o' powder an' lead, or want to sell their furs. Hallo! Why, Tolly, boy, it is -- yes! I do believe it's Mahoghany Drake himself!"

Tolly did not reply, for he had run eagerly forward to meet the trapper, having already recognised him.

"His name is a strange one," remarked Fred Westly, gazing steadily at the man as he approached.

"Drake is his right name," explained Bevan, "an' Mahoghany is a handle some fellers gave him 'cause he's so much tanned wi' the sun. He's one o' the right sort, let me tell ye. None o' your boastin', bustin' critters, like Gashford, but a quiet, thinkin' man, as is ready to tackle any subject a'most in the univarse, but can let his tongue lie till it's time to speak. He can hold his own, too wi' man or beast. Ain't he friendly wi' little Tolly Trevor? He'll shake his arm out o' the socket if he don't take care. I'll have to go to the rescue."

In a few seconds Paul Bevan was having his own arm almost dislocated by the friendly shake of the trapper's hand, for, although fond of solitude, Mahoghany Drake was also fond of human beings, and especially of old friends.

"Glad to see you, gentlemen," he said, in a low, soft voice, when introduced by Paul to the travellers. At the same time he gave a friendly little nod to Unaco, thus indicating that with the Indian chief he was already acquainted.

"Well, Drake," said Bevan, after the first greetings were over, "all right at the camp down there?"

"All well," he replied, "and the Leaping Buck quite recovered."

He cast a quiet glance at the Indian chief as he spoke, for the Leaping Buck was Unaco's little son, who had been ailing when his father left his village a few weeks before.

"No sign o' gold-seekers yet?" asked Paul.

"None -- 'cept one lot that ranged about the hills for a few days, but they seemed to know nothin'. Sartinly they found nothin', an' went away disgusted."

The trapper indulged in a quiet chuckle as he said this.

"What are ye larfin' at?" asked Paul.

"At the gold-seekers," replied Drake.

"What was the matter wi' 'em," asked Tolly.

"Not much, lad, only they was blind, and also ill of a strong appetite."

"Ye was always fond o' speakin' in riddles," said Paul. "What d'ye mean, Mahoghany!"

"I mean that though there ain't much gold in these hills, maybe, what little there is the seekers couldn't see, though they was walkin' over it, an' they was so blind they couldn't hit what they fired at, so their appetites was stronger than was comfortable. I do believe they'd have starved if I hadn't killed a buck for them."

During this conversation Paddy Flinders had been listening attentively and in silence. He now sidled up to Tom Brixton, who, although bestriding Tolly's pony, seemed ill able to travel.

"D'ye hear what the trapper says, Muster Brixton?"

"Yes, Paddy, what then?"

"Och! I only thought to cheer you up a bit by p'intin' out that he says there's goold hereabouts."

"I'm glad for your sake and Fred's," returned Tom, with a faint smile, "but it matters little to me; I feel that my days are numbered."

"Ah then, sor, don't spake like that," returned Flinders, with a woebegone expression on his countenance. "Sure, it's in the dumps ye are, an' no occasion for that same. Isn't Miss -- "

The Irishman paused. He had it in his heart to say, "Isn't Miss Betty smilin' on ye like one o'clock?" but, never yet having ventured even a hint on that subject to Tom, an innate feeling of delicacy restrained him. As the chief who led the party gave the signal to move on at that moment it was unnecessary for him to finish the sentence.

The Indian village, which was merely a cluster of tents made of deerskins stretched on poles, was now plainly visible from the commanding ridge along which the party travelled. It occupied a piece of green level land on the margin of the lake before referred to, and, with its background of crag and woodland and its distance of jagged purple hills, formed as lovely a prospect as the eye of man could dwell upon.

The distance of the party from it rendered every sound that floated towards them soft and musical. Even the barking of the dogs and the shouting of the little Redskins at play came up to them in a mellow, almost peaceful, tone. To the right of the village lay a swamp, from out of which arose the sweet and plaintive cries of innumerable gulls, plovers, and other wild-fowl, mingled with the trumpeting of geese and the quacking of ducks, many of which were flying to and fro over the glassy lake, while others were indulging in aquatic gambols among the reeds and sedges.

After they had descended the hill-side by a zigzag path, and reached the plain below, they obtained a nearer view of the eminently joyful scene, the sound of the wild-fowl became more shrill, and the laughter of the children more boisterous. A number of the latter who had observed the approaching party were seen hurrying towards them with eager haste, led by a little lad, who bounded and leaped as if wild with excitement. This was Unaco's little son, Leaping Buck, who had recognised the well-known figure of his sire a long way off, and ran to meet him.

On reaching him the boy sprang like an antelope into his father's arms and seized him round the neck, while others crowded round the gaunt trapper and grasped his hands and legs affectionately. A few of the older boys and girls stood still somewhat shyly, and gazed in silence at the strangers, especially at Betty, whom they evidently regarded as a superior order of being -- perhaps an angel -- in which opinion they were undoubtedly backed by Tom Buxton.

After embracing his father, Leaping Buck recognised Paul Bevan as the man who had been so kind to him and his brother Oswego at the time when the latter got his death-fall over the precipice. With a shout of joyful surprise he ran to him, and, we need scarcely add, was warmly received by the kindly backwoodsman.

"I cannot help thinking," remarked Betty to Tom, as they gazed on the pleasant meeting, "that God must have some way of revealing the Spirit of Jesus to these Indians that we Christians know not of."

"It is strange," replied Tom, "that the same thought has occurred to me more than once of late, when observing the character and listening to the sentiments of Unaco. And I have also been puzzled with this thought -- if God has some method of revealing Christ to the heathen that we know not of, why are Christians so anxious to send the Gospel to the heathen?"

"That thought has never occurred to me," replied Betty, "because our reason for going forth to preach the Gospel to the heathen is the simple one that God commands us to do so. Yet it seems to me quite consistent with that command that God may have other ways and methods of making His truth known to men, but this being a mere speculation does not free us from our simple duty."

"You are right. Perhaps I am too fond of reasoning and speculating," answered Tom.

"Nay, that you are not" rejoined the girl, quickly; "it seems to me that to reason and speculate is an important part of the duty of man, and cannot but be right, so long as it does not lead to disobedience. 'Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind,' is our title from God to think fully and freely; but 'Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature,' is a command so plain and peremptory that it does not admit of speculative objection."

"Why, Betty, I had no idea you were such a reasoner!" said Tom, with a look of surprise. "Surely it is not your father who has taught you to think thus?"

"I have had no teacher, at least of late years, but the Bible," replied the girl, blushing deeply at having been led to speak so freely on a subject about which she was usually reticent. "But see," she added hastily, giving a shake to the reins of her horse, "we have been left behind. The chief has already reached his village. Let us push on."

The obstinate horse went off at an accommodating amble under the sweet sway of gentleness, while the obedient pony followed at a brisk trot which nearly shook all the little strength that Tom Brixton possessed out of his wasted frame.

The manner in which Unaco was received by the people of his tribe, young and old, showed clearly that he was well beloved by them; and the hospitality with which the visitors were welcomed was intensified when it was made known that Paul Bevan was the man who had shown kindness to their chief's son Oswego in his last hours. Indeed, the influence which an Indian chief can have on the manners and habits of his people was well exemplified by this small and isolated tribe, for there was among them a pervading tone of contentment and goodwill, which was one of Unaco's most obvious characteristics. Truthfulness, also, and justice were more or less manifested by them. Even the children seemed to be free from disputation; for, although there were of course differences of opinion during games, these differences were usually settled without quarrelling, and the noise, of which there was abundance, was the result of gleeful shouts or merry laughter. They seemed, in short, to be a happy community, the various members of which had leaned -- to a large extent from their chief -- "how good a thing it is for brethren to dwell together in unity."

A tent was provided for Bevan, Flinders, and Tolly Trevor near to the wigwam of Unaco, with a separate little one for the special use of the Rose of Oregon. Not far from these another tent was erected for Fred and his invalid friend Tom Brixton. As for Mahoghany Drake, that lanky, lantern-jawed individual encamped under a neighbouring pine-tree in quiet contempt of any more luxurious covering.

But, although the solitary wanderer of the western wilderness thus elected to encamp by himself, he was by no means permitted to enjoy privacy, for during the whole evening and greater part of that night his campfire was surrounded by an admiring crowd of boys, and not a few girls, who listened in open-eyed-and-mouthed attention to his thrilling tales of adventure, giving vent now and then to a "waugh!" or a "ho!" of surprise at some telling point in the narrative, or letting fly sudden volleys of laughter at some humorous incident, to the amazement, no doubt of the neighbouring bucks and bears and wild-fowl.

"Tom," said Fred that night, as he sat by the couch of his friend, "we shall have to stay here some weeks, I suspect until you get strong enough to travel, and, to say truth, the prospect is a pleasant as well as an unexpected one, for we have fallen amongst amiable natives."

"True, Fred. Nevertheless I shall leave the moment my strength permits -- that is, if health be restored to me -- and I shall go off by myself."

"Why, Tom, what do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I say. Dear Fred," answered the sick man, feebly grasping his friend's hand, "I feel that it is my duty to get away from all who have ever known me, and begin a new career of honesty, God permitting. I will not remain with the character of a thief stamped upon me, to be a drag round your neck, and I have made up my mind no longer to persecute dear Betty Bevan with the offer of a dishonest and dishonoured hand. In my insolent folly I had once thought her somewhat below me in station. I now know that she is far, far above me in every way, and also beyond me."

"Tom, my dear boy," returned Fred, earnestly, "you are getting weak. It is evident that they have delayed supper too long. Try to sleep now, and I'll go and see why Tolly has not brought it."

So saying, Fred Westly left the tent and went off in quest of his little friend.



Chapter Sixteen.

Little Tolly Trevor and Leaping Buck -- being about the same age, and having similar tastes and propensities, though very unlike each other in temperament -- soon became fast friends, and they both regarded Mahoghany Drake, the trapper, with almost idolatrous affection.

"Would you care to come wi' me to-day, Tolly? I'm goin' to look for some meat on the heights."

It was thus that Drake announced his intention to go a-hunting one fine morning after he had disposed of a breakfast that might have sustained an ordinary man for several days.

"Care to go with ye!" echoed Tolly, "I just think I should. But, look here, Mahoghany," continued the boy, with a troubled expression, "I've promised to go out on the lake to-day wi' Leaping Buck, an' I must keep my promise. You know you told us only last night in that story about the Chinaman and the grizzly that no true man ever breaks his promise."

"Right, lad, right" returned the trapper, "but you can go an' ask the little Buck to jine us, an' if he's inclined you can both come -- only you must agree to leave yer tongues behind ye if ye do, for it behoves hunters to be silent, and from my experience of you I raither think yer too fond o' chatterin'."

Before Drake had quite concluded his remark Tolly was off in search of his red-skinned bosom friend.

The manner in which the friendship between the red boy and the white was instituted and kept up was somewhat peculiar and almost incomprehensible, for neither spoke the language of the other except to a very slight extent. Leaping Buck's father had, indeed, picked up a pretty fair smattering of English during his frequent expeditions into the gold-fields, which, at the period we write of, were being rapidly developed. Paul Bevan, too, during occasional hunting expeditions among the red men, had acquired a considerable knowledge of the dialect spoken in that part of the country, but Leaping Buck had not visited the diggings with his father, so that his knowledge of English was confined to the smattering which he had picked up from Paul and his father. In like manner Tolly Trevor's acquaintance with the native tongue consisted of the little that had been imparted to him by his friend Paul Bevan. Mahoghany Drake, on the contrary, spoke Indian fluently, and it must be understood that in the discourses which he delivered to the two boys he mixed up English and Indian in an amazing compound which served to render him intelligible to both, but which, for the reader's sake, we feel constrained to give in the trapper's ordinary English.

"It was in a place just like this," said Drake, stopping with his two little friends on reaching a height, and turning round to survey the scene behind him, "that a queer splinter of a man who was fond o' callin' himself an ornithologist shot a grizzly b'ar wi' a mere popgun that was only fit for a squawkin' babby's plaything."

"Oh! do sit down, Mahoghany," cried little Trevor, in a voice of entreaty; "I'm so fond of hearin' about grizzlies, an' I'd give all the world to meet one myself, so would Buckie here, wouldn't you?"

The Indian boy, whose name Tolly had thus modified, tried to assent to this proposal by bending his little head in a stately manner, in imitation of his dignified father.

"Well, I don't mind if I do," replied the trapper, with a twinkle of his eyes.

Mahoghany Drake was blessed with that rare gift, the power to invest with interest almost any subject, no matter how trivial or commonplace, on which he chose to speak. Whether it was the charm of a musical voice, or the serious tone and manner of an earnest man, we cannot tell, but certain it is, that whenever or wherever he began to talk, men stopped to listen, and were held enchained until he had finished.

On the present occasion the trapper seated himself on a green bank that lay close to the edge of a steep precipice, and laid his rifle across his knees, while the boys sat down one on each side of him.

The view from the elevated spot on which they sat was most exquisite, embracing the entire length of the valley at the other end of which the Indian village lay, its inhabitants reduced to mere specks and its wigwams to little cones, by distance. Owing also to the height of the spot, the view of surrounding mountains was extended, so that range upon range was seen in softened perspective, while a variety of lakelets, with their connecting watercourses, which were hidden by foliage in the lower grounds, were now opened up to view. Glowing sunshine glittered on the waters and bathed the hills and valleys, deepening the near shadows and intensifying the purple and blue of those more distant.

"It often makes me wonder," said the trapper, in a reflective tone, as if speaking rather to himself than to his companions, "why the Almighty has made the world so beautiful an' parfect an' allowed mankind to grow so awful bad."

The boys did not venture to reply, but as Drake sat gazing in dreamy silence at the far-off hills, little Trevor, who recalled some of his conversations with the Rose of Oregon, ventured to say, "P'r'aps we'll find out some day, though we don't understand it just now."

"True, lad, true," returned Drake. "It would be well for us if we always looked at it in that light, instead o' findin' fault wi' things as they are, for it stands to reason that the Maker of all can fall into no mistakes."

"But what about the ornithologist?" said Tolly, who had no desire that the conversation should drift into abstruse subjects.

"Ay, ay, lad, I'm comin' to him," replied the trapper, with the humorous twinkle that seemed to hover always about the corners of his eyes, ready for instant development. "Well, you must know, this was the way of it --  and it do make me larf yet when I think o' the face o' that spider-legged critter goin' at the rate of twenty miles an hour or thereabouts wi' that most awful-lookin' grizzly b'ar peltin' after him. -- Hist! Look there, Tolly. A chance for your popgun."

The trapper pointed as he spoke to a flock of wild duck that was coming straight towards the spot on which they sat. The "popgun" to which he referred was one of the smooth-bore flint-lock single-barrelled fowling-pieces which traders were in the habit of supplying to the natives at that time, and which Unaco had lent to the boy for the day, with his powder-horn and ornamented shot-pouch.

For the three hunters to drop behind the bank on which they had been sitting was the work of a moment.

Young though he was, Tolly had already become a fair and ready shot. He selected the largest bird in the flock, covered it with a deadly aim, and pulled the trigger. But the click of the lock was not followed by an explosion as the birds whirred swiftly on.

"Ah! my boy," observed the trapper, taking the gun quietly from the boy's hand and proceeding to chip the edge of the flint, "you should never go a-huntin' without seein' that your flint is properly fixed."

"But I did see to it," replied Tolly, in a disappointed tone, "and it struck fire splendidly when I tried it before startin'."

"True, boy, but the thing is worn too short, an' though its edge is pretty well, you didn't screw it firm enough, so it got drove back a bit and the hammer-head, as well as the flint, strikes the steel, d'ye see? There now, prime it again, an' be sure ye wipe the pan before puttin' in the powder. It's not worth while to be disap'inted about so small a matter. You'll git plenty more chances. See, there's another flock comin'. Don't hurry, lad. If ye want to be a good hunter always keep cool, an' take time. Better lose a chance than hurry. A chance lost you see, is only a chance lost, but blazin' in a hurry is a bad lesson that ye've got to unlarn."

The trapper's advice was cut short by the report of Tolly's gun, and next moment a fat duck, striking the ground in front of them, rolled fluttering to their feet.

"Not badly done, Tolly," said the trapper, with a nod, as he reseated himself on the bank, while Leaping Buck picked up the bird, which was by that time dead, and the young sportsman recharged his gun; "just a leetle too hurried. If you had taken only half a second more time to put the gun to your shoulder, you'd have brought the bird to the ground dead; and you boys can't larn too soon that you should never give needless pain to critters that you've got to kill. You must shoot, of course, or you'd starve; but always make sure of killin' at once, an' the only way to do that is to keep cool an' take time. You see, it ain't the aim you take that matters so much, as the coolness an' steadiness with which ye put the gun to your shoulder. If you only do that steadily an' without hurry, the gun is sure to p'int straight for'ard an' the aim'll look arter itself. Nevertheless, it was smartly done, lad, for it's a difficult shot when a wild duck comes straight for your head like a cannon-ball."

"But what about the ornithologist;" said Tolly, who, albeit well pleased at the trapper's complimentary remarks, did not quite relish his criticism.

"Yes, yes; I'm comin' to that. Well, as I was sayin', it makes me larf yet, when I thinks on it. How he did run, to be sure! Greased lightnin' could scarce have kep' up wi' him."

"But where was he a-runnin' to, an' why?" asked little Trevor, impatiently.

"Now, you leetle boy," said Drake, with a look of grave remonstrance, "don't you go an' git impatient. Patience is one o' the backwoods vartues, without which you'll never git on at all. If you don't cultivate patience you may as well go an' live in the settlements or the big cities -- where it don't much matter what a man is -- but it'll be no use to stop in the wilderness. There's Leapin' Buck, now, a-sittin' as quiet as a Redskin warrior on guard! Take a lesson from him, lad, an' restrain yourself. Well, as I was goin' to say, I was out settin' my traps somewheres about the head-waters o' the Yellowstone river at the time when I fell in wi' the critter. I couldn't rightly make out what he was, for, though I've seed mostly all sorts o' men in my day, I'd never met in wi' one o' this sort before. It wasn't his bodily shape that puzzled me, though that was queer enough, but his occupation that staggered me. He was a long, thin, spider-shaped article that seemed to have run to seed -- all stalk with a frowsy top, for his hair was long an' dry an' fly-about. I'm six-futt one myself, but my step was a mere joke to his stride! He seemed split up to the neck, like a pair o' human compasses, an' his clo's fitted so tight that he might have passed for a livin' skeleton!

"Well, it was close upon sundown, an' I was joggin' along to my tent in the bush when I came to an openin' where I saw the critter down on one knee an' his gun up takin' aim at somethin'. I stopped to let him have his shot, for I count it a mortal sin to spoil a man's sport, an' I looked hard to see what it was he was goin' to let drive at, but never a thing could I see, far or near, except a small bit of a bird about the size of a big bee, sittin' on a branch not far from his nose an' cockin' its eye at him as much as to say, 'Well, you air a queer 'un!' 'Surely,' thought I, 'he ain't a-goin' to blaze at that!' But I'd scarce thought it when he did blaze at it an' down it came flop on its back, as dead as mutton!

"'Well, stranger,' says I, goin' for'ard, 'you do seem to be hard up for victuals when you'd shoot a small thing like that!' 'Not at all, my good man,' says he -- an' the critter had a kindly smile an' a sensible face enough -- 'you must know that I am shootin' birds for scientific purposes. I am an ornithologist.'

"'Oh!' say I, for I didn't rightly know what else to say to that.

"'Yes,' says he; 'an' see here.'

"Wi' that he opens a bag he had on his back an' showed me a lot o' birds, big an' small, that he'd been shootin'; an' then he pulls out a small book, in which he'd been makin' picturs of 'em -- an' r'ally I was raither took wi' that for the critter had got 'em down there almost as good as natur'. They actooally looked as if they was alive!

"'Shut the book, sir,' says I, 'or they'll all escape!'

"It was only a small joke I meant, but the critter took it for a big 'un an' larfed at it till he made me half ashamed.

"'D'ye know any of these birds?' he axed, arter we'd looked at a lot of 'em.

"'Know 'em?' says I; 'I should think I does! Why, I've lived among 'em ever since I was a babby!'

"'Indeed!' says he, an' he got quite excited, 'how interestin'! An' do you know anythin' about their habits?'

"'If you mean by that their ways o' goin' on,' says I, 'there's hardly a thing about 'em that I don't know, except what they think, an' sometimes I've a sort o' notion I could make a pretty fair guess at that too.'

"'Will you come to my camp and spend the night with me?' he asked, gettin' more an' more excited.

"'No, stranger, I won't,' says I; 'but if you'll come to mine I'll feed you an' make you heartily welcome,' for somehow I'd took quite a fancy to the critter.

"'I'll go,' says he, an' he went an' we had such a night of it! He didn't let me have a wink o' sleep till pretty nigh daylight the next mornin', an' axed me more questions about birds an' beasts an' fishes than I was iver axed before in the whole course o' my life -- an' it warn't yesterday I was born. I began to feel quite like a settlement boy at school. An' he set it all down, too, as fast as I could speak, in the queerest hand-writin' you ever did see. At last I couldn't stand it no longer.

"'Mister Ornithologist' says I.

"'Well,' says he.

"'There's a pecooliar beast in them parts,' says I, ''as has got some pretty stiff an' settled habits.'

"'Is there?' says he, wakin' up again quite fresh, though he had been growin' sleepy.

"'Yes,' says I, 'an' it's a obstinate sort o' brute that won't change its habits for nobody. One o' these habits is that it turns in of a night quite reg'lar an' has a good snooze before goin' to work next day. Its name is Mahoghany Drake, an' that's me, so I'll bid you good-night, stranger.'

"Wi' that I knocked the ashes out o' my pipe, stretched myself out wi' my feet to the fire, an' rolled my blanket round me. The critter larfed again at this as if it was a great joke, but he shut up his book, put it and the bag o' leetle birds under his head for a pillow, spread himself out over the camp like a great spider that was awk'ard in the use o' its limbs, an' went off to sleep even before I did -- an' that was sharp practice, let me tell you.

"Well," continued the trapper, clasping his great bony hands over one of his knees, and allowing the lines of humour to play on his visage, while the boys drew nearer in open-eyed expectancy, "we slep' about three hours, an' then had a bit o' breakfast, after which we parted, for he said he knew his way back to the camp, where he left his friends; but the poor critter didn't know nothin' -- 'cept ornithology. He lost himself an took to wanderin' in a circle arter I left him. I came to know it 'cause I struck his trail the same arternoon, an' there could be no mistakin' it, the length o' stride bein' somethin' awful! So I followed it up.

"I hadn't gone far when I came to a place pretty much like this, as I said before, and when I was lookin' at the view -- for I'm fond of a fine view, it takes a man's mind off trappin' an' victuals somehow -- I heerd a most awful screech, an' then another. A moment later an' the ornithologist busted out o' the bushes with his long legs goin' like the legs of a big water-wagtail. He was too fur off to see the look of his face, but his hair was tremendous to behold. When he saw the precipice before him he gave a most horrible yell, for he knew that he couldn't escape that way from whatever was chasin' him. I couldn't well help him, for there was a wide gully between him an' me, an' it was too fur off for a fair shot. Howsever, I stood ready. Suddenly I seed the critter face right about an' down on one knee like a pair o' broken compasses; up went the shot-gun, an' at the same moment out busted a great old grizzly b'ar from the bushes. Crack! went my rifle at once, but I could see that the ball didn't hurt him much, although it hit him fair on the head. Loadin' in hot haste, I obsarved that the ornithologist sat like a post till that b'ar was within six foot of him, when he let drive both barrels of his popgun straight into its face. Then he jumped a one side with a spurt like a grasshopper, an' the b'ar tumbled heels over head and got up with an angry growl to rub its face, then it made a savage rush for'ard and fell over a low bank, jumped up again, an' went slap agin a face of rock. I seed at once that it was blind. The small shot used by the critter for his leetle birds had put out both its eyes, an' it went blunderin' about while the ornithologist kep' well out of its way. I knew he was safe, so waited to see what he'd do, an' what d'ye think he did?"

"Shoved his knife into him," suggested Tolly Trevor, in eager anxiety.

"What! shove his knife into a healthy old b'ar with nothin' gone but his sight? No, lad, he did do nothing so mad as that, but he ran coolly up to it an' screeched in its face. Of course the b'ar went straight at the sound, helter-skelter, and the ornithologist turned an' ran to the edge o' the precipice, screechin' as he went. When he got there he pulled up an' darted a one side, but the b'ar went slap over, an' I believe I'm well within the mark when I say that that b'ar turned five complete somersaults before it got to the bottom, where it came to the ground with a whack that would have busted an elephant. I don't think we found a whole bone in its carcass when the ornithologist helped me to cut it up that night in camp."

"Well done!" exclaimed little Trevor, with enthusiasm, "an' what came o' the orny-what-d'ye-callum?"

"That's more than I can tell, lad. He went off wi' the b'ar's claws to show to his friends, an' I never saw him again. But look there, boys," continued the trapper in a suddenly lowered tone of voice, while he threw forward and cocked his rifle, "d'ye see our supper?"

"What? Where?" exclaimed Tolly, in a soft whisper, straining his eyes in the direction indicated.

The sharp crack of the trapper's rifle immediately followed, and a fine buck lay prone upon the ground.

"'Twas an easy shot," said Drake, recharging his weapon, "only a man needs a leetle experience before he can fire down a precipice correctly. Come along, boys."



Chapter Seventeen.

Nothing further worth mentioning occurred to the hunters that day, save that little Tolly Trevor was amazed -- we might almost say petrified -- by the splendour and precision of the trapper's shooting, besides which he was deeply impressed with the undercurrent of what we may style grave fun, coupled with calm enthusiasm, which characterised the man, and the utter absence of self-assertion or boastfulness.

But if the remainder of the day was uneventful, the stories round the camp-fire more than compensated him and his friend Leaping Buck. The latter was intimately acquainted with the trapper, and seemed to derive more pleasure from watching the effect of his anecdotes on his new friend than in listening to them himself. Probably this was in part owing to the fact that he had heard them all before more than once.

The spot they had selected for their encampment was the summit of a projecting crag, which was crowned with a little thicket, and surrounded on three sides by sheer precipices. The neck of rock by which it was reached was free from shrubs, besides being split across by a deep chasm of several feet in width, so that it formed a natural fortress, and the marks of old encampments seemed to indicate that it had been used as a camping-place by the red man long before his white brother -- too often his white foe -- had appeared in that western wilderness to disturb him. The Indians had no special name for the spot, but the roving trappers who first came to it had named it the Outlook, because from its summit a magnificent view of nearly the whole region could be obtained. The great chasm or fissure already mentioned descended sheer down, like the neighbouring precipices, to an immense depth, so that the Outlook, being a species of aerial island, was usually reached by a narrow plank which bridged the chasm. It had stood many a siege in times past, and when used as a fortress, whether by white hunters or savages, the plank bridge was withdrawn, and the place rendered -- at least esteemed --  impregnable.

When Mahoghany Drake and his young friends came up to the chasm a little before sunset Leaping Buck took a short run and bounded clear over it.

"Ha! I knowed he couldn't resist the temptation," said Mahoghany, with a quiet chuckle, "an' it's not many boys -- no, nor yet men -- who could jump that. I wouldn't try it myself for a noo rifle -- no, though ye was to throw in a silver-mounted powder-horn to the bargain."

"But you have jumped it?" cried the Indian boy, turning round with a gleeful face.

"Ay, lad, long ago, and then I was forced to, when runnin' for my life. A man'll do many a deed when so sitooate that he couldn't do in cold blood. Come, come, young feller," he added, suddenly laying his heavy hand on little Trevor's collar and arresting him, "you wasn't thinkin' o' tryin' it was ye?"

"Indeed I was, and I think I could manage it," said the foolishly ambitious Tolly.

"Thinkin' is not enough, boy," returned the trapper, with a grave shake of the head. "You should always make sure. Suppose you was wrong in your thinkin', now, who d'ee think would go down there to pick up the bits of 'ee an' carry them home to your mother."

"But I haven't got a mother," said Tolly.

"Well, your father, then."

"But I haven't got a father."

"So much the more reason," returned the trapper, in a softened tone, "that you should take care o' yourself, lest you should turn out to be the last o' your race. Come, help me to carry this plank. After we're over I'll see you jump on safe ground, and if you can clear enough, mayhap I'll let 'ee try the gap. Have you a steady head?"

"Ay, like a rock," returned Tolly, with a grin.

"See that you're sure, lad, for if you ain't I'll carry you over."

In reply to this Tolly ran nimbly over the plank bridge like a tight-rope dancer. Drake followed, and they were all soon busily engaged clearing a space on which to encamp, and collecting firewood.

"Tell me about your adventure at the time you jumped the gap, Mahoghany," begged little Trevor, when the first volume of smoke arose from their fire and went straight up like a pillar into the calm air.

"Not now, lad. Work first, talk afterwards. That's my motto."

"But work is over now -- the fire lighted and the kettle on," objected Tolly.

"Nay, lad, when you come to be an old hunter you'll look on supper as about the most serious work o' the day. When that's over, an' the pipe a-goin', an' maybe a little stick-whittlin' for variety, a man may let his tongue wag to some extent."

Our small hero was fain to content himself with this reply, and for the next half-hour or more the trio gave their undivided attention to steaks from the loin of the fat buck and slices from the breast of the wild duck which had fallen to Tolly's gun. When the pipe-and-stick-whittling period arrived, however, the trapper disposed his bulky length in front of the fire, while his young admirers lay down beside him.

The stick-whittling, it may be remarked, devolved upon the boys, while the smoking was confined to the man.

"I can't see why it is," observed Tolly, when the first whiffs curled from Mahoghany Drake's lips, "that you men are so strong in discouragin' us boys from smokin'. You keep it all selfishly to yourselves, though Buckie an' I would give anythin' to be allowed to try a whiff now an' then. Paul Bevan's just like you -- won't hear o' me touchin' a pipe, though he smokes himself like a wigwam wi' a greenwood fire!"

Drake pondered a little before replying.

"It would never do, you know," he said, at length, "for you boys to do 'zackly as we men does."

"Why not?" demanded Tolly, developing an early bud of independent thought.

"Why, 'cause it wouldn't" replied Drake. Then, feeling that his answer was not a very convincing argument he added, "You see, boys ain't men, no more than men are boys, an' what's good for the one ain't good for the tother."

"I don't see that" returned the radical-hearted Tolly. "Isn't eatin', an' drinkin', an' sleepin', an' walkin', an' runnin', an' talkin', an' thinkin', an' huntin', equally good for boys and men? If all these things is good for us both, why not smokin'?"

"That's more than I can tell 'ee, lad," answered the honest trapper, with a somewhat puzzled look.

If Mahoghany Drake had thought the matter out a little more closely he might perhaps have seen that smoking is as good for boys as for men --  or, what comes to much the same thing, is equally bad for both of them! But the sturdy trapper liked smoking; hence, like many wiser men, he did not care to think the matter out. On the contrary, he changed the subject, and, as the change was very much for the better in the estimation of his companions, Tolly did not object.

"Well now, about that jump," he began, emitting a prolonged and delicate whiff.

"Ah, yes! How did you manage to do it?" asked little Trevor, eagerly.

"Oh, for the matter o' that it's easy to explain; but it wasn't my jump I was goin' to tell about; it was the jump o' a poor critter -- a sort o' ne'er-do-well who jined a band o' us trappers the day before we arrived at this place, on our way through the mountains on a huntin' expedition. He was a miserable specimen o' human natur' -- all the worse that he had a pretty stout body o' his own, an' might have made a fairish man if he'd had the spirit even of a cross-grained rabbit. His name was Miffy, an' it sounded nat'ral to him, for there was no go in him whatever. I often wonder what sitch men was made for. They're o' no use to anybody, an' a nuisance to themselves."

"P'r'aps they wasn't made for any use at all," suggested Tolly, who, having whittled a small piece of stick down to nothing, commenced another piece with renewed interest.

"No, lad," returned the trapper, with a look of deeper gravity. "Even poor, foolish man does not construct anything without some sort o' purpose in view. It's an outrage on common sense to think the Almighty could do so. Mayhap sitch critters was meant to act as warnin's to other men. He told us that he'd runned away from home when he was a boy 'cause he didn't like school. Then he engaged as a cabin-boy aboard a ship tradin' to some place in South America, an' runned away from his ship the first port they touched at 'cause he didn't like the sea. Then he came well-nigh to the starvin' p'int an' took work on a farm as a labourer, but left that 'cause it was too hard, after which he got a berth as watchman at a warehouse, or some place o' the sort but left that, for it was too easy. Then he tried gold-diggin', but could make nothin' of it; engaged in a fur company, but soon left it; an' then tried his hand at trappin' on his own account but gave it up 'cause he could catch nothin'. When he fell in with our band he was redooced to two rabbits an' a prairie hen, wi' only three charges o' powder in his horn, an' not a drop o' lead.

"Well, we tuck pity on the miserable critter, an' let him come along wi' us. There was ten of us altogether, an' he made eleven. At first we thought he'd be of some use to us, but we soon found he was fit for nothin'. However, we couldn't cast him adrift in the wilderness, for he'd have bin sure to come to damage somehow, so we let him go on with us. When we came to this neighbourhood we made up our minds to trap in the valley, and as the Injins were wild at that time, owin' to some rascally white men who had treated them badly and killed a few, we thought it advisable to pitch our camp on the Outlook here. It was a well-known spot to most o' my comrades, tho' I hadn't seen it myself at that time.

"When we came to the gap, one of the young fellows named Bounce gave a shout, took a run, and went clear over it just as Leapin' Buck did. He was fond o' showin' off, you know! He turned about with a laugh, and asked us to follow. We declined, and felled a small tree to bridge it. Next day we cut the tree down to a plank, as bein' more handy to shove across in a hurry if need be.

"Well, we had good sport -- plenty of b'ar and moose steaks, no end of fresh eggs of all sorts, and enough o' pelts to make it pay. You see we didn't know there was gold here in those days, so we didn't look for it, an' wouldn't ha' knowed it if we'd seen it. But I never myself cared to look for gold. It's dirty work, grubbin' among mud and water like a beaver. It's hard work, too, an' I've obsarved that the men who get most gold at the diggin's are not the diggers but the storekeepers, an' a bad lot they are, many of 'em, though I'm bound to say that I've knowed a few as was real honest men, who kep' no false weights or measures, an' had some sort of respec' for their Maker.

"However," continued the trapper, filling a fresh pipe, while Tolly and his little red friend, whittling their sticks less vigorously as the story went on and at length dropping them altogether, kept their bright eyes riveted on Drake's face. "However, that's not what I've got to tell 'ee about. You must know that one evening, close upon sundown, we was all returnin' from our traps more or less loaded wi' skins an' meat, all except Miffy, who had gone, as he said, a huntin'. Bin truer if he'd said he meant to go around scarin' the animals. Well, just as we got within a mile o' this place we was set upon by a band o' Redskins. There must have bin a hundred of 'em at least. I've lived a longish time now in the wilderness, but I never, before or since, heard sitch a yellin' as the painted critters set up in the woods all around when they came at us, sendin' a shower o' arrows in advance to tickle us up; but they was bad shots, for only one took effect, an' that shaft just grazed the point o' young Bounce's nose as neat as if it was only meant to make him sneeze. It made him jump, I tell 'ee, higher than I ever seed him jump before. Of course fightin' was out o' the question.

"Ten trappers under cover might hold their own easy enough agin a hundred Redskins, but not in the open. We all knew that, an' had no need to call a council o' war. Every man let his pack fall, an' away we went for the Outlook, followed by the yellin' critters closer to our heels than we quite liked. But they couldn't shoot runnin', so we got to the gap. The plank was there all right. Over we went, faced about, and while one o' us hauled it over, the rest gave the savages a volley that sent them back faster than they came.

"'Miffy's lost!' obsarved one o' my comrades as we got in among the bushes here an' prepared to fight it out.

"'No great loss,' remarked another.

"'No fear o' Miffy,' said Bounce, feelin' his nose tenderly, 'he's a bad shillin', and bad shillin's always turn up, they say.'

"Bounce had barely finished when we heard another most awesome burst o' yellin' in the woods, followed by a deep roar.

"'That's Miffy,' says I, feelin' quite excited, for I'd got to have a sneakin' sort o' pity for the miserable critter. 'It's a twin roar to the one he gave that day when he mistook Hairy Sam for a grizzly b'ar, an' went up a spruce-fir like a squirrel.' Sure enough, in another moment Miffy burst out o' the woods an' came tearin' across the open space straight for the gap, followed by a dozen or more savages.

"'Run, Bounce -- the plank!' says I, jumpin' up. 'We'll drive the reptiles back!'

"While I was speakin' we were all runnin' full split to meet the poor critter, Bounce far in advance. Whether it was over-haste, or the pain of his nose, I never could make out, but somehow, in tryin' to shove the plank over, Bounce let it slip. Down it went an' split to splinters on the rock's a hundred feet below! Miffy was close up at the time. His cheeks was yaller an' his eyes starin' as he came on, but his face turned green and his eyes took to glarin' when he saw what had happened. I saw a kind o' hesitation in his look as he came to the unbridged gulf. The savages, thinkin' no doubt it was all up with him, gave a fiendish yell o' delight. That yell saved the poor ne'er-do-well. It was as good as a Spanish spur to a wild horse. Over he came with legs an' arms out like a flyin' squirrel, and down he fell flat on his stummick at our feet wi' the nearest thing to a fair bu'st that I ever saw, or raither heard, for I was busy sightin' a Redskin at the time an' didn't actually see it. When the savages saw what he'd done they turned tail an' scattered back into the woods, so we only gave them a loose volley, for we didn't want to kill the critters. I just took the bark off the thigh of one to prevent his forgettin' me. We held the place here for three days, an' then findin' they could make nothin' of us, or havin' other work on hand, they went away an' left us in peace."

"An' what became o' poor Miffy?" asked little Trevor, earnestly.

"We took him down with us to a new settlement that had been started in the prairie-land west o' the Blue Mountains, an' there he got a sitooation in a store, but I s'pose he didn't stick to it long. Anyhow that was the last I ever saw of him. Now, boys, it's time to turn in."

That night when the moon had gone down and the stars shed a feeble light on the camp of those who slumbered on the Outlook rock, two figures, like darker shades among the surrounding shadows, glided from the woods, and, approaching the edge of the gap, gazed down into the black abyss.

"I told you, redskin, that the plank would be sure to be drawn over," said one of the figures, in a low but gruff whisper.

"When the tomahawk is red men do not usually sleep unguarded," replied the other, in the Indian tongue.

"Speak English, Maqua, I don't know enough o' your gibberish to make out what you mean. Do you think, now, that the villain Paul Bevan is in the camp?"

"Maqua is not a god, that he should be able to tell what he does not know."

"No, but he could guess," retorted Stalker -- for it was the robber-chief. "My scouts said they thought it was his figure they saw. However, it matters not. If you are to earn the reward I have offered, you must creep into the camp, put your knife in Bevan's heart, and bring me his scalp. I would do it myself, redskin, and be indebted to nobody, but I can't creep as you and your kindred can."

"I'd be sure to make row enough to start them in time for self-defence. As to the scalp, I don't want it -- only want to make certain that you've done the deed. You may keep it to ornament your dress or to boast about to your squaw. If you should take a fancy to do a little murder on your own account do so. It matters nothin' to me. I'll be ready to back you up if they give chase."

While the robber-chief was speaking he searched about for a suitable piece of wood to span the chasm. He soon found what he wanted, for there was much felled timber lying about the work of previous visitors to the Outlook.

In a few minutes Maqua had crossed, and glided in a stealthy, stooping position towards the camp, seeming more like a moving shadow than a real man. When pretty close he went down on hands and knees and crept forward, with his scalping-knife between his teeth.

It would have been an interesting study to watch the savage, had his object been a good one -- the patience; the slow, gliding movements; the careful avoidance of growing branches, and the gentle removal of dead ones from his path, for well did Maqua know that a snapping twig would betray him if the camp contained any of the Indian warriors of the Far West.

At last he drew so near that by stretching his neck he could see over the intervening shrubs and observe the sleepers. Just then Drake chanced to waken. Perhaps it was a presentiment of danger that roused him, for the Indian had, up to that moment, made not the slightest sound. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, the trapper looked cautiously round; then he lay down and turned over on his other side to continue his slumbers.

Like the tree-stems around him, Maqua remained absolutely motionless until he thought the trapper was again sleeping. Then he retired, as he had come, to his anxiously-awaiting comrade.

"Bevan not there," he said briefly, when they had retired to a safe distance; "only Mahoghany Drake an' two boy."

"Well, why didn't ye scalp them!" asked Stalker, savagely, for he was greatly disappointed to find that his enemy was not in the camp. "You said that all white men were your enemies."

"No, not all," replied the savage. "Drake have the blood of white mans, but the heart of red mans. He have be good to Injins."

"Well, well; it makes no odds to me," returned Stalker, "Come along, an' walk before me, for I won't trust ye behind. As for slippery Paul, I'll find him yet; you shall see. When a man fails in one attempt, all he's got to do is to make another. Now then, redskin, move on!"



Chapter Eighteen.

As widely different as night is from day, summer from winter, heat from cold, are some members of the human family; yet God made them all, and has a purpose of love and mercy towards each! Common sense says this; the general opinion of mankind holds this; highest of all, the Word clearly states this: "God willeth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should turn from his wickedness and live;" and, "He maketh His sun to shine upon the just and on the unjust." Nevertheless, it seemed difficult to believe that the same God formed and spared and guarded and fed the fierce, lawless man Stalker, and the loving, gentle delicate Rose of Oregon.

About the same hour that the former was endeavouring to compass the destruction of Paul Bevan, Betty was on her knees in her little tented room, recalling the deeds, the omissions, and the shortcomings of the past day, interceding alike for friends and foes -- if we may venture to assume that a rose without a thorn could have foes! Even the robber-chief was remembered among the rest, and you may be very sure that Tom Brixton was not forgotten.

Having slept the sleep of innocence and purity, Betty rose refreshed on the following day, and, before the Indian village was astir, went out to ramble along a favourite walk in a thicket on the mountain-side. It so fell out that Tom had selected the same thicket for his morning ramble. But poor Tom did not look like one who hoped to meet with his lady-love that morning. He had, under good nursing, recovered some of his former strength and vigour of body with wonderful rapidity, but his face was still haggard and careworn in an unusual degree for one so young. When the two met Tom did not pretend to be surprised. On the contrary, he said: -- 

"I expected to meet you here, Betty, because I have perceived that you are fond of the place, and, believe me, I would not have presumed to intrude, were it not that I wish to ask one or two questions, the answers to which may affect my future movements."

He paused, and Betty's heart fluttered, for she could not help remembering former meetings when Tom had tried to win her affections, and when she had felt it her duty to discourage him. She made no reply to this rather serious beginning to the interview, but dropped her eyes on the turf, for she saw that the youth was gazing at her with a very mingled and peculiar expression.

"Tell me," he resumed, after a few moments' thought, "do you feel quite safe with these Indians?"

"Quite," replied the girl with a slight elevation of the eyebrows; "they are unusually gentle and good-natured people. Besides, their chief would lay down his life for my father -- he is so grateful. Oh yes, I feel perfectly safe here."

"But what does your father think. He is always so fearless -- I might say reckless -- that I don't feel certain as to his real opinion. Have you heard him speaking about the chance of that rascal Stalker following him up?"

"Yes; he has spoken freely about that. He fully expects that Stalker will search for us, but considers that he will not dare to attack us while we live with so strong a band of Indians, and, as Stalker's followers won't hang about here very long for the mere purpose of pleasing their chief, especially when nothing is to be gained by it, father thinks that his enemy will be forced to go away. Besides, he has made up his mind to remain here for a long time -- many months, it may be."

"That will do," returned Tom, with a sigh of relief; "then there will be no need for me to -- "

"To what?" asked Betty, seeing that the youth paused.

"Forgive me if I do not say what I meant to. I have reasons for -- " (he paused again) -- "Then you are pleased with the way the people treat you?"

"Of course I am. They could not be kinder if I were one of themselves. And some of the women are so intelligent, too! You know I have picked up a good deal of the Indian language, and understand them pretty well, though I can't speak much, and you've no idea what deep thinkers some of them are! There is Unaco's mother, who looks so old and dried up and stupid -- she is one of the dearest old things I ever knew. Why," continued the girl, with increasing animation, as she warmed with her subject, "that old creature led me, the other night, into quite an earnest conversation about religion, and asked me ever so many questions about the ways of God with man -- speculative, difficult questions too, that almost puzzled me to answer. You may be sure I took the opportunity to explain to her God's great love to man in and through Jesus, and -- "

She stopped abruptly, for Tom Brixton was at that moment regarding her with a steady and earnest gaze.

"Yes," he said, slowly, almost dreamily, "I can well believe you took your opportunity to commend Jesus to her. You did so once to me, and -- "

Tom checked himself, as if with a great effort. The girl longed to hear more, but he did not finish the sentence. "Well," he said, with a forced air of gaiety, "I have sought you here to tell you that I am going off on -- on -- a long hunting expedition. Going at once -- but I would not leave without bidding you good-bye."

"Going away, Mr Brixton!" exclaimed Betty, in genuine surprise.

"Yes. As you see, I am ready for the field, with rifle and wallet, firebag and blanket."

"But you are not yet strong enough," said Betty.

"Oh! yes, I am -- stronger than I look. Besides, that will mend every day. I don't intend to say goodbye to Westly or any one, because I hate to have people try to dissuade me from a thing when my mind is made up. I only came to say good-bye to you, because I wish you to tell Fred and your father that I am grateful for all their kindness to me, and that it will be useless to follow me. Perhaps we may meet again, Betty," he added, still in the forced tone of lightness, while he gently took the girl's hand in his and shook it; "but the dangers of the wilderness are numerous, and, as you have once or twice told me, we 'know not what a day or an hour may bring forth.'" (His tone had deepened suddenly to that of intense earnestness) -- "God bless you, Betty; farewell."

He dropped her hand, turned sharply on his heel, and walked swiftly away, never once casting a look behind.

Poor Tom! It was a severe wrench, but he had fought the battle manfully and gained the victory. In his new-born sense of personal unworthiness and strict Justice, he had come to the conclusion that he had forfeited the right to offer heart or hand to the Rose of Oregon. Whether he was right or wrong in his opinion we do not pretend to judge, but this does not alter the fact that a hard battle with self had been fought by him, and a great victory won.

But Tom neither felt nor looked very much like a conqueror. His heart seemed to be made of lead, and the strength of which he had so recently boasted seemed to have deserted him altogether after he had walked a few miles, insomuch that he was obliged to sit down on a bank to rest. Fear lest Fred or Paul should follow up his trail, however, infused new strength into his limbs, and he rose and pushed steadily on, for he was deeply impressed with the duty that lay upon him -- namely, to get quickly, and as far as possible, away from the girl whom he could no longer hope to wed.

Thus, advancing at times with great animation, sitting down occasionally for short rests, and then resuming the march with renewed vigour, he travelled over the mountains without any definite end in view, beyond that to which we have already referred.

For some time after he was gone Betty stood gazing at the place in the thicket where he had disappeared, as if she half expected to see him return; then, heaving a deep sigh, and with a mingled expression of surprise, disappointment, and anxiety on her fair face, she hurried away to search for her father.

She found him returning to their tent with a load of firewood, and at once told him what had occurred.

"He'll soon come back, Betty," said Paul, with a significant smile. "When a young feller is fond of a lass, he's as sure to return to her as water is sure to find its way as fast as it can to the bottom of a hill."

Fred Westly thought the same, when Paul afterwards told him about the meeting, though he did not feel quite so sure about the return being immediate; but Mahoghany Drake differed from them entirely.

"Depend on't," he said to his friend Paul, when, in the privacy of a retired spot on the mountain-side, they discussed the matter -- "depend on't, that young feller ain't made o' butter. What he says he will do he'll stick to, if I'm any judge o' human natur. Of course it ain't for me to guess why he should fling off in this fashion. Are ye sure he's fond o' your lass?"

"Sure? Ay, as sure as I am that yon is the sun an' not the moon a-shinin' in the sky."

"H'm! that's strange. An' they've had no quarrel?"

"None that I knows on. Moreover, they ain't bin used to quarrel. Betty's not one o' that sort -- dear lass. She's always fair an' above board; honest an' straight for'ard. Says 'zactly what she means, an' means what she says. Mister Tom ain't given to shilly-shallyin', neither. No, I'm sure they've had no quarrel."

"Well, it's the old story," said Drake, while a puzzled look flitted across his weather-beaten countenance, and the smoke issued more slowly from his unflagging pipe, "the conduct o' lovers is not to be accounted for. Howsever, there's one thing I'm quite sure of -- that he must be looked after."

"D'ye think so?" said Paul. "I'd have thought he was quite able to look arter himself."

"Not just now," returned the trapper; "he's not yet got the better of his touch o' starvation, an' there's a chance o' your friend Stalker, or Buxley, which d'ye call him?"

"Whichever you like; he answers to either, or neither, as the case may be. He's best known as Stalker in these parts, though Buxley is his real name."

"Well, then," resumed Drake, "there's strong likelihood o' him prowlin' about here, and comin' across the tracks o' young Brixton; so, as I said before, he must be looked after, and I'll take upon myself to do it."

"Well, I'll jine ye," said Paul, "for of course ye'll have to make up a party."

"Not at all," returned the trapper, with decision. "I'll do it best alone; leastwise I'll take only little Tolly Trevor an' Leapin' Buck with me, for they're both smart an' safe lads, and are burnin' keen to learn somethin' o' woodcraft."

In accordance with this determination, Mahoghany Drake, Leaping Buck, and little Trevor set off next day and followed Tom Brixton's trail into the mountains. It was a broad trail and very perceptible, at least to an Indian or a trapper, for Tom had a natural swagger, which he could not shake off, even in the hour of his humiliation, and, besides, he had never been an adept at treading the western wilderness with the care which the red man finds needful in order to escape from, or baffle, his foes.

"'Tis as well marked, a'most" said Drake, pausing to survey the trail, "as if he'd bin draggin' a toboggan behind him."

"Yet a settlement man wouldn't see much of it," remarked little Trevor; "eh! Buckie?"

The Indian boy nodded gravely. He emulated his father in this respect, and would have been ashamed to have given way to childish levity on what he was pleased to consider the war-path, but he had enough of the humorous in his nature to render the struggle to keep grave in Tolly's presence a pretty severe one. Not that Tolly aimed at being either witty or funny, but he had a peculiarly droll expression of face, which added much point to whatever he said.

"Ho!" exclaimed the trapper, after they had gone a little farther; "here's a trail that even a settlement man could hardly fail to see. There's bin fifty men or more. D'ye see it Tolly?"

"See it? I should think so. D'you suppose I carry my eyes in my pocket?"

"Come now, lad," said Drake, turning to Leaping Buck, "you want to walk in your father's tracks, no doubt. Read me this trail if ye can."

The boy stepped forward with an air of dignity that Drake regarded as sublime and Tolly thought ludicrous, but the latter was too fond of his red friend to allow his feelings to betray themselves.

"As the white trapper has truly said," he began, "fifty men or more have passed this way. They are most of them white men, but three or four are Indians."

"Good!" said Drake, with an approving nod; "I thought ye'd notice that. Well, go on."

"They were making straight for my father's camp," continued the lad, bending a stern look on the trail, "but they turned sharp round, like the swallow, on coming to the trail of the white man Brixton, and followed it."

"How d'ye know that, lad?" asked the trapper.

"Because I see it" returned the boy, promptly, pointing at the same time to a spot on the hill-side considerably above them, where the conformation of the land at a certain spot revealed enough of the trail of the "fifty men or more," to show the change of direction.

"Good again, lad. A worthy son of your father. I didn't give 'e credit for sharpness enough to perceive that. Can you read anything more?"

"One man was a horseman, but he left his horse behind on getting to the rough places of the hills and walked with the rest. He is Paul Bevan's enemy."

"And how d'ye know all that?" said Drake, regarding the little fellow with a look of pride.

"By the footprints," returned Leaping Buck. "He wears boots and spurs."

"Just so," returned the trapper, "and we've bin told by Paul that Stalker was the only man of his band who wouldn't fall in wi' the ways o' the country, but sticks to the clumsy Jack-boots and spurs of old England. Yes, the scoundrel has followed you up, Tolly, as Paul Bevan said he would, and, havin' come across Brixton's track, has gone after him, from all which I now come to the conclusion that your friend Mister Tom is a prisoner, an' stands in need of our sarvices. What say you, Tolly?"

"Go at 'em at once," replied the warlike Trevor, "an' set him free."

"What! us three attack fifty men?"

"Why not?" responded Tolly, "We're more than a match for 'em. Paul Bevan has told me oftentimes that honest men are, as a rule, ten times more plucky than dishonest ones. Well, you are one honest man, that's equal to ten; an' Buckie and I are two honest boys, equal, say, to five each, that's ten more, making twenty among three of us. Three times twenty's sixty, isn't it? so, surely that's more than enough to fight fifty."

"Ah, boy," answered the trapper, with a slightly puzzled expression, "I never could make nothin' o' 'rithmetic, though my mother put me to school one winter with a sort o' half-mad parson that came to the head waters o' the Yellowstone river, an' took to teachin' -- dear me, how long ago was it now? Well, I forget, but somehow you seem to add up the figgurs raither faster than I was made to do. Howsever, we'll go an' see what's to be done for Tom Brixton."

The trapper, who had been leaning on his gun, looking down at his bold little comrades during the foregoing conversation, once more took the lead, and, closely following the trail of the robber-band, continued the ascent of the mountains.

The Indian village was by that time far out of sight behind them, and the scenery in the midst of which they were travelling was marked by more than the average grandeur and ruggedness of the surrounding region.

On their right arose frowning precipices which were fringed and crowned with forests of pine, intermingled with poplar, birch, maple, and other trees. On their left a series of smaller precipices, or terraces, descended to successive levels, like giant steps, till they reached the bottom of the valley up which our adventurers were moving, where a brawling river appeared in the distance like a silver thread. The view both behind and in advance was extremely wild, embracing almost every variety of hill scenery, and in each case was shut in by snow-capped mountains. These, however, were so distant and so soft in texture as to give the impression of clouds rather than solid earth.

Standing on one of the many jutting crags from which could be had a wide view of the vale lying a thousand feet below, Tolly Trevor threw up his arms and waved them to and fro as if in an ecstasy, exclaiming -- "Oh, if I had only wings, what a swoop I'd make -- down there!"

"Ah, boy, you ain't the first that's wished for wings in the like circumstances. But we've bin denied these advantages. P'r'aps we'd have made a bad use of 'em. Sartinly we've made a bad use o' sich powers as we do possess. Just think, now, if men could go about through the air as easy as the crows, what a row they'd kick up all over the 'arth! As it is, when we want to fight we've got to crawl slowly from place to place, an' make roads for our wagins, an' big guns, an' supplies, to go along with us; but if we'd got wings -- why, the first fire eatin' great man that could lead his fellows by the nose would only have to give the word, when up would start a whole army o' men, like some thousand Jack-in-the-boxes, an' away they'd go to some place they'd took a fancy to, an' down they'd come, all of a heap, quite onexpected --  take their enemy by surprise, sweep him off the face o' the 'arth, and enter into possession."

"Well, it would be a blue lookout," remarked Tolly, "if that was to be the way of it. There wouldn't be many men left in the world before long."

"That's true, lad, an' sitch as was left would be the worst o' the race. No, on the whole I think we're better without wings."

While he was talking to little Trevor, the trapper had been watching the countenance of the Indian boy with unusual interest. At last he turned to him and asked -- 

"Has Leaping Buck nothin' to say?"

"When the white trapper speaks, the Indian's tongue should be silent," replied the youth.

"A good sentiment and does you credit, lad. But I am silent now. Has Leaping Buck no remark to make on what he sees?"

"He sees the smoke of the robber's camp far up the heights," replied the boy, pointing as he spoke.

"Clever lad!" exclaimed the trapper, "I know'd he was his father's son."

"Where? I can see nothing," cried Tolly, who understood the Indian tongue sufficiently to make out the drift of the conversation.

"Of course ye can't; the smoke is too far off an' too thin for eyes not well practised in the signs o' the wilderness. But come; we shall go and pay the robbers a visit; mayhap disturb their rest a little -- who knows!"

With a quiet laugh, Mahoghany Drake withdrew from the rocky ledge, and, followed by his eager satellites, continued to wend his way up the rugged mountain-sides, taking care, however, that he did not again expose himself to view, for well did he know that sharp eyes and ears would be on the qui vive that night.



Chapter Nineteen.

When Tom Brixton sternly set his face like a flint to what he believed to be his duty, he wandered, as we have said, into the mountains, with a heavy heart and without any definite intentions as to what he intended to do.

If his thoughts had taken the form of words they would probably have run somewhat as follows: -- 

"Farewell for ever, sweet Rose of Oregon! Dear Betty! You have been the means, in God's hand, of saving at least one soul from death, and it would be requiting you ill indeed were I to persuade you to unite yourself to a man whose name is disgraced even among rough men, whose estimate of character is not very high. No! henceforth our lives diverge wider and wider apart. May God bless you and give you a good hus -- give you happiness in His own way! And now I have the world before me where to choose. It is a wide world, and there is much work to be done. Surely I shall be led in the right way to fill the niche which has been set apart for me. I wonder what it is to be! Am I to hunt for gold, or to become a fur-trader, or go down to the plains and turn cattle-dealer, or to the coast and become a sailor, or try farming? One thing is certain, I must not be an idler; must not join the ranks of those who merely hunt that they may eat and sleep, and who eat and sleep that they may hunt. I have a work to do for Him who bought me with His precious blood, and my first step must be to commit my way to Him."

Tom Brixton took that step at once. He knelt down on a mossy bank, and there, with the glorious prospect of the beautiful wilderness before him, and the setting sun irradiating his still haggard countenance, held communion with God.

That night he made his lonely bivouac under a spreading pine, and that night while he was enjoying a profound and health-giving slumber, the robber-chief stepped into his encampment and laid his hand roughly on his shoulder.

In his days of high health Tom would certainly have leaped up and given Stalker a considerable amount of trouble, but starvation and weakness, coupled with self-condemnation and sorrow, had subdued his nerves and abated his energies, so that, when he opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by as disagreeable a set of cut-throats as could well be brought together, he at once resigned himself to his fate, and said, without rising, and with one of his half-humorous smiles -- 

"Well, Mister Botanist, sorry I can't say it gives me pleasure to see you. I wonder you're not ashamed to return to the country of the great chief Unaco after running away from him as you did."

"I'm in no humour for joking," answered Stalker, gruffly. "What has become of your friend Paul Bevan?"

"I'm not aware that anything particular has become of him," replied Tom, sitting up with a look of affected surprise.

"Come, you know what I mean. Where is he?"

"When I last saw him he was in Oregon. Whether he has now gone to Europe or the moon or the sun I cannot tell, but I should think it unlikely."

"If you don't give me a direct and civil answer I'll roast you alive, you young puppy!" growled Stalker.

"If you roast me dead instead of alive you'll get no answer from me but such as I choose to give, you middle-aged villain!" retorted Tom, with a glare of his eyes which quite equalled that of the robber-chief in ferocity, for Tom's nature was what we may style volcanic, and he found it hard to restrain himself when roused to a certain point, so that he was prone to speak unadvisedly with his lips.

A half-smothered laugh from some of the band who did not care much for their chief, rendered Stalker furious.

He sprang forward with a savage oath, drew the small hatchet which he carried in his belt, and would certainly then and there have brained the rash youth with it, if his hand had not been unexpectedly arrested. The gleaming weapon was yet in the air when the loud report of a rifle close at hand burst from the bushes with a sheet of flame and smoke, and the robber's right arm fell powerless at his side, hit between the elbow and shoulder.

It was the rifle of Mahoghany Drake that had spoken so opportunely.

That stalwart backwoodsman had, as we have seen, followed up the trail of the robbers, and, with Tolly Trevor and his friend Leaping Buck, had lain for a considerable time safely ensconced in a moss-covered crevice of the cliff that overlooked the camping-place. There, quietly observing the robbers, and almost enjoying the little scene between Tom and the chief, they remained inactive until Stalker's hatchet gleamed in the air. The boys were almost petrified by the suddenness of the act.

Not so the trapper, who with rapid aim saved Tom's life, as we have seen.

Dropping his rifle, he seized the boys by the neck and thrust their faces down on the moss: not a moment too soon, for a withering volley was instantly sent by the bandits in the direction whence the shots had come. It passed harmlessly over their heads.

"Now, home like two arrows, and rouse your father, Leaping Buck," whispered the trapper, "and keep well out o' sight."

Next moment, picking up his empty rifle, he stalked from the fringe of bushes that partially screened the cliff, and gave himself up.

"Ha! I know you -- Mahoghany Drake! Is it not so?" cried Stalker, savagely. "Seize him, men. You shall swing for this, you rascal."

Two or three of the robbers advanced, but Drake quietly held up his hand, and they stopped.

"I'm in your power, you see," he said, laying his rifle on the ground. "Yes," he continued, drawing his tall figure up to its full height and crossing his arms on his breast, "my name is Drake. As to Mahoghany, I've no objection to it though it ain't complimentary. If, as you say, Mister Stalker, I'm to swing for this, of course I must swing. Yet it do seem raither hard that a man should swing for savin' his friend's life an' his enemy's at the same time."

"How -- what do you mean?"

"I mean that Mister Brixton is my friend," answered the trapper, "and I've saved his life just now, for which I thank the Lord. At the same time, Stalker is my enemy -- leastwise I fear he's no friend -- an' didn't I save his life too when I put a ball in his arm, that I could have as easily put into his head or his heart?"

"Well," responded Stalker, with a fiendish grin, that the increasing pain of his wound did not improve, "at all events you have not saved your own life, Drake. As I said, you shall swing for it. But I'll give you one chance. If you choose to help me I will spare your life. Can you tell me where Paul Bevan and his daughter are?"

"They are with Unaco and his tribe."

"I could have guessed as much as that. I ask you where they are!"

"On the other side of yonder mountain range, where the chief's village lies."

Somewhat surprised at the trapper's readiness to give the information required, and rendered a little suspicious, Stalker asked if he was ready and willing to guide him to the Indian village.

"Surely. If that's the price I'm to pay for my life, it can be easily paid," replied the trapper.

"Ay, but you shall march with your arms bound until we are there, and the fight wi' the redskins is over," said the robber-chief, "and if I find treachery in your acts or looks I'll blow your brains out on the spot. My left hand, you shall find, can work as well as the right wi' the revolver."

"A beggar, they say, must not be a chooser," returned the trapper. "I accept your terms."

"Good. Here, Goff," said Stalker, turning to his lieutenant, "bind his hands behind him after he's had some supper, and then come an' fix up this arm o' mine. I think the bone has escaped."

"Hadn't we better start off at once," suggested Drake, "an' catch the redskins when they're asleep?"

"Is it far off?" asked Stalker.

"A goodish bit. But the night is young. We might git pretty near by midnight, and then encamp so as to git an hour's sleep before makin' the attack. You see, redskins sleep soundest just before daybreak."

While he was speaking the trapper coughed a good deal, and sneezed once or twice, as if he had a bad cold.

"Can't you keep your throat and nose quieter?" said the chief, sternly.

"Well, p'r'aps I might," replied Drake, emitting a highly suppressed cough at the moment, "but I've got a queer throat just now. The least thing affects it."

After consultation with the principal men of his band, Stalker determined to act on Drake's advice, and in a few minutes the trapper was guiding them over the hills in a state of supreme satisfaction, despite his bonds, for had he not obtained the power to make the robbers encamp on a spot which the Indians could not avoid passing on their way to the rescue, and had he not established a sort of right to emit sounds which would make his friends aware of his exact position, and thus bring both parties into collision before daybreak, which could not have been the case if the robbers had remained in the encampment where he found them?

Turn we now to Leaping Buck and Tolly Trevor. Need it be said that these intelligent lads did not, as the saying is, allow grass to grow under their feet? The former went over the hills at a pace and in a manner that fully justified his title; and the latter followed with as much vigour and resolution, if not as much agility, as his friend.

In a wonderfully short space of time, considering the distance, they burst upon the Indian village, and aroused it with the startling news.

Warfare in those regions was not the cumbrous and slow affair that it is in civilised places. There was no commissariat, no ammunition wagons, no baggage, no camp-followers to hamper the line of march. In five or ten minutes after the alarm was given about two hundred Indian braves marched out from the camp in a column which may be described as one-deep -- i.e. one following the other -- and took their rapid way up the mountain sides, led by Unaco in person. Next to him marched Paul Bevan, who was followed in succession by Fred Westly, Paddy Flinders, Leaping Buck, and Tolly.

For some time the long line could be seen by the Rose of Oregon passing swiftly up the mountain-side. Then, as distance united the individuals, as it were, to each other, it assumed the form of a mighty snake crawling slowly along. By degrees it crawled over the nearest ridge and disappeared, after which Betty went to discuss the situation with Unaco's old mother.

It was near midnight when the robber-band encamped in a wooded hollow which was backed on two sides by precipices and on the third by a deep ravine.

"A good spot to set a host at defiance," remarked Stalker, glancing round with a look that would have expressed satisfaction if the wounded arm had allowed.

"Yes," added the trapper, "and -- " A violent fit of coughing prevented the completion of the sentence, which, however, when thought out in Drake's mind ran -- "a good spot for hemming you and your scoundrels in, and starving you into submission!"

A short time sufficed for a bite of cold supper and a little whiff, soon after which the robber camp, with the exception of the sentinels, was buried in repose.

Tom Brixton was not allowed to have any intercourse whatever with his friend Drake. Both were bound and made to sleep in different parts of the camp. Nevertheless, during one brief moment, when they chanced to be near each other, Drake whispered, "Be ready!" and Tom heard him.

Ere long no sound was heard in the camp save an occasional snore or sigh, and Drake's constant and hacking, but highly suppressed, cough. Poor fellow! He was obviously consumptive, and it was quite touching to note the careful way in which he tried to restrain himself, giving vent to as little sound as was consistent with his purpose.

Turning a corner of jutting rock in the valley which led to the spot, Unaco's sharp and practised ear caught the sound. He stopped and stood like a bronze statue by Michael Angelo in the attitude of suddenly arrested motion. Upwards of two hundred bronze arrested statues instantly tailed away from him.

Presently a smile, such as Michael Angelo probably never thought of reproducing, rippled on the usually grave visage of the chief.

"M'ogany Drake!" he whispered, softly, in Paul Bevan's ear.

"I didn't know Drake had sitch a horrid cold," whispered Bevan, in reply.

Tolly Trevor clenched his teeth and screwed himself up internally to keep down the laughter that all but burst him, for he saw through the device at once. As for Leaping Buck, he did more than credit to his sire, because he kept as grave as Michael Angelo himself could have desired while chiselling his features.

"Musha! but that is a quare sound," whispered Flinders to Westly.

"Hush!" returned Westly.

At a signal from their chief the whole band of Indians sank, as it seemed, into the ground, melted off the face of the earth, and only the white men and the chief remained.

"I must go forward alone," whispered Unaco, turning to Paul. "White man knows not how to go on his belly like the serpent."

"Mahoghany Drake would be inclined to dispute that p'int with 'ee," returned Bevan. "However, you know best, so we'll wait till you give us the signal to advance."

Having directed his white friends to lie down, Unaco divested himself of all superfluous clothing, and glided swiftly but noiselessly towards the robber camp, with nothing but a tomahawk in his hand and a scalping-knife in his girdle. He soon reached the open side of the wooded hollow, guided thereto by Drake's persistent and evidently distressing cough. Here it became necessary to advance with the utmost caution. Fortunately for the success of his enterprise, all the sentinels that night had been chosen from among the white men. The consequence was that although they were wide awake and on the qui vive, their unpractised senses failed to detect the very slight sounds that Unaco made while gliding slowly -- inch by inch, and with many an anxious pause -- into the very midst of his foes. It was a trying situation, for instant death would have been the result of discovery.

As if to make matters more difficult for him just then, Drake's hacking cough ceased, and the Indian could not make out where he lay. Either his malady was departing or he had fallen into a temporary slumber! That the latter was the case became apparent from his suddenly recommencing the cough. This, however, had the effect of exasperating one of the sentinels.

"Can't you stop that noise?" he muttered, sternly.

"I'm doin' my best to smother it," said Drake in a conciliatory tone.

Apparently he had succeeded, for he coughed no more after that. But the fact was that a hand had been gently laid upon his arm.

"So soon!" he thought. "Well done, boys!" But he said never a word, while a pair of lips touched his ear and said, in the Indian tongue -- 

"Where lies your friend?"

Drake sighed sleepily, and gave a short and intensely subdued cough, as he turned his lips to a brown ear which seemed to rise out of the grass for the purpose, and spoke something that was inaudible to all save that ear. Instantly hand, lips, and ear withdrew, leaving the trapper in apparently deep repose. A sharp knife, however, had touched his bonds, and he knew that he was free.

A few minutes later, and the same hand touched Tom Brixton's arm. He would probably have betrayed himself by an exclamation, but remembering Drake's "Be ready," he lay perfectly still while the hands, knife, and lips did their work. The latter merely said, in broken English, "Rise when me rise, an' run!"

Next instant Unaco leaped to his feet and, with a terrific yell of defiance, bounded into the bushes. Tom Brixton followed him like an arrow, and so prompt was Mahoghany Drake to act that he and Tom came into violent collision as they cleared the circle of light thrown by the few sinking embers of the camp-fires. No damage, however, was done. At the same moment the band of Indians in ambush sprang up with their terrible war whoop, and rushed towards the camp. This effectually checked the pursuit which had been instantly begun by the surprised bandits, who at once retired to the shelter of the mingled rocks and shrubs in the centre of the hollow, from out of which position they fired several tremendous volleys.

"That's right -- waste yer ammunition," said Paul Bevan, with a short laugh, as he and the rest lay quickly down to let the leaden shower pass over.

"It's always the way wi' men taken by surprise," said Drake, who, with Brixton and the chief, had stopped in their flight and turned with their friends. "They blaze away wildly for a bit, just to relieve their feelin's, I s'pose. But they'll soon stop."

"An' what'll we do now?" inquired Flinders, "for it seems to me we've got all we want out o' them, an' it's no use fightin' them for mere fun -- though it's mesilf that used to like fightin' for that same; but I think the air of Oregon has made me more peaceful inclined."

"But the country has been kept for a long time in constant alarm and turmoil by these men," said Fred Westly, "and, although I like fighting as little as any man, I cannot help thinking that we owe it as a duty to society to capture as many of them as we can, especially now that we seem to have caught them in a sort of trap."

"What says Mahoghany Drake on the subject!" asked Unaco.

"I vote for fightin', 'cause there'll be no peace in the country till the band is broken up."

"Might it not be better to hold them prisoners here?" suggested Paul Bevan. "They can't escape, you tell me, except by this side, and there's nothin' so good for tamin' men as hunger."

"Ah!" said Tom Brixton, "you speak the truth, Bevan; I have tried it."

"But what does Unaco himself think?" asked Westly.

"We must fight 'em at once, an' root them out neck and crop!"

These words were spoken, not by the Indian, but by a deep bass voice which sent a thrill of surprise, not unmingled with alarm, to more hearts than one; and no wonder, for it was the voice of Gashford, the big bully of Pine Tree Diggings!



Chapter Twenty.

To account for the sudden appearance of Gashford, as told in our last chapter, it is necessary to explain that two marauding Indians chanced to pay Pine Tree Diggings a visit one night, almost immediately after the unsuccessful attack made by Stalker and his men. The savages were more successful than the white robbers had been. They managed to carry off a considerable quantity of gold without being discovered, and Gashford, erroneously attributing their depredations to a second visit from Stalker, was so enraged that he resolved to pursue and utterly root out the robber-band. Volunteers were not wanting. Fifty stout young fellows offered their services, and, at the head of these, Gashford set out for the Sawback Mountains, which were known to be the retreat of the bandits. An Indian, who knew the region well, and had once been ill-treated by Stalker, became a willing guide.

He led the gold-diggers to the robbers' retreat, and there, learning from a brother savage that the robber-chief and his men had gone off to hunt up Paul Bevan in the region that belonged to Unaco, he led his party by a short cut over the mountains, and chanced to come on the scene of action at the critical moment, when Unaco and his party were about to attack the robbers. Ignorant of who the parties were that contended, yet feeling pretty sure that the men he sought for probably formed one of them, he formed the somewhat hazardous determination, personally and alone, to join the rush of the assailants, under cover of the darkness; telling his lieutenant, Crossby, to await his return, or to bring on his men at the run if they should hear his well-known signal.

On joining the attacking party without having been observed -- or, rather, having been taken for one of the band in the uncertain light -- he recognised Westly's and Flinders's voices at once, and thus it was that he suddenly gave his unasked advice on the subject then under discussion.

But Stalker's bold spirit settled the question for them in an unexpected manner. Perceiving at once that he had been led into a trap, he felt that his only chance lay in decisive and rapid action.

"Men," he said to those who crowded round him in the centre of the thicket which formed their encampment, "we've bin caught. Our only chance lies in a bold rush and then scatter. Are you ready?"

"Ready!" responded nearly every man. Those who might have been unwilling were silent, for they knew that objection would be useless. "Come on, then, an' give them a screech when ye burst out!"

Like an avalanche of demons the robber band rushed down the slope and crashed into their foes, and a yell that might well have been born of the regions below rang from cliff to cliff, but the Indians were not daunted. Taken by surprise, however, many of them were overturned in the rush, when high above the din arose the bass roar of Gashford.

Crossby heard the signal and led his men down to the scene of battle at a rapid run. But the robbers were too quick for them; most of them were already scattering far and wide through the wilderness. Only one group had been checked, and, strange to say, that was the party that happened to cluster round and rush with their chief.

But the reason was clear enough, for that section of the foe had been met by Mahoghany Drake, Bevan, Westly, Brixton, Flinders, and the rest, while Gashford at last met his match, in the person of the gigantic Stalker. But they did not meet on equal terms, for the robber's wounded arm was almost useless. Still, with the other arm he fired a shot at the huge digger, missed, and, flinging the weapon at his head, grappled with him. There was a low precipice or rocky ledge, about fifteen feet high, close to them. Over this the two giants went after a brief but furious struggle, and here, after the short fight was over, they were found, grasping each other by their throats, and in a state of insensibility.

Only two other prisoners were taken besides Stalker -- one by Bevan, the other by Flinders. But these were known by Drake to be poor wretches who had only joined the band a few weeks before, and as they protested that they had been captured and forced to join, they were set free.

"You see, it's of no manner o' use hangin' the wretched critters," observed Drake to Bevan, confidentially, when they were returning to the Indian village the following morning. "It would do them no good. All that we wanted was to break up the band and captur' the chief, which bein' done, it would be a shame to shed blood uselessly."

"But we must hang Stalker," said little Tolly, who had taken part in the attack, and whose sense of justice, it seems, would have been violated if the leader of the band had been spared.

"I'm inclined to think he won't want hangin', Tolly," replied Drake, gravely. "That tumble didn't improve his wounded arm, for Gashford fell atop of him."

The trapper's fear was justified. When Stalker was carried into the Indian village and examined by Fred Westly, it was found that, besides other injuries, two of his ribs had been broken, and he was already in high fever.

Betty Bevan, whose sympathy with all sufferers was strong, volunteered to nurse him, and, as she was unquestionably the best nurse in the place, her services were accepted. Thus it came about that the robber-chief and the Rose of Oregon were for a time brought into close companionship.

On the morning after their return to the Indian village, Paul Bevan and Betty sauntered away towards the lake. The Rose had been with Stalker the latter part of the night, and after breakfast had said she would take a stroll to let the fresh air blow sleepiness away. Paul had offered to go with her.

"Well, Betty, lass, what think ye of this robber-chief, now you've seen somethin' of him at close quarters?" asked Paul, as they reached the margin of the lake.

"I have scarcely seen him in his right mind, father, for he has been wandering a little at times during the night; and, oh! you cannot think what terrible things he has been talking about."

"Has he?" said Paul, glancing at Betty with sudden earnestness. "What did he speak about?"

"I can scarcely tell you, for at times he mixed up his ideas so that I could not understand him, but I fear he has led a very bad life and done many wicked things. He brought in your name, too, pretty often, and seemed to confuse you with himself, putting on you the blame of deeds which just a minute before he had confessed he had himself done."

"Ay, did he?" said Paul, with a peculiar expression and tone. "Well, he warn't far wrong, for I have helped him sometimes."

"Father!" exclaimed Betty, with a shocked look -- "but you misunderstand. He spoke of such things as burglary and highway robbery, and you could never have helped him in deeds of that kind."

"Oh! he spoke of such things as these, did he?" returned Paul. "Well, yes, he's bin up to a deal of mischief in his day. And what did you say to him, lass? Did you try to quiet him?"

"What could I say, father, except tell him the old, old story of Jesus and His love; that He came to seek and to save the lost, even the chief of sinners?"

"An' how did he take it?" inquired Paul, with a grave, almost an anxious look.

"At first he would not listen, but when I began to read the Word to him, and then tried to explain what seemed suitable to him, he got up on his unhurt elbow and looked at me with such a peculiar and intense look that I felt almost alarmed, and was forced to stop. Then he seemed to wander again in his mind, for he said such a strange thing."

"What was that, Betty?"

"He said I was like his mother."

"Well, lass, he wasn't far wrong, for you are uncommon like her."

"Did you know his mother, then?"

"Ay, Betty, I knowed her well, an' a fine, good-lookin' woman she was, wi' a kindly, religious soul, just like yours. She was a'most heartbroken about her son, who was always wild, but she had a strong power over him, for he was very fond of her, and I've no doubt that your readin' the Bible an' telling him about Christ brought back old times to his mind."

"But if his mother was so good and taught him so carefully, and, as I doubt not, prayed often and earnestly for him, how was it that he fell into such awful ways?" asked Betty.

"It was the old, old story, lass, on the other side o' the question --  drink and bad companions -- and -- and I was one of them."

"You, father, the companion of a burglar and highway robber?"

"Well, he wasn't just that at the time, though both him and me was bad enough. It was my refusin' to jine him in some of his jobs that made a coolness between us, an' when his mother died I gave him some trouble about money matters, which turned him into my bitterest foe. He vowed he would take my life, and as he was one o' those chaps that, when they say they'll do a thing, are sure to do it, I thought it best to bid adieu to old England, especially as I was wanted at the time by the police."

Poor Rose of Oregon! The shock to her feelings was terrible, for, although she had always suspected from some traits in his character that her father had led a wild life, it had never entered her imagination that he was an outlaw. For some time she remained silent with her face in her hands, quite unable to collect her thoughts or decide what to say, for whatever her father might have been in the past he had been invariably kind to her, and, moreover, had given very earnest heed to the loving words which she often spoke when urging him to come to the Saviour. At last she looked up quickly.

"Father," she said, "I will nurse this man with more anxious care and interest, for his mother's sake."

"You may do it, dear lass, for his own sake," returned Paul, impressively, "for he is your own brother."

"My brother?" gasped Betty. "Why, what do you mean, father? Surely you are jesting!"

"Very far from jesting, lass. Stalker is your brother Edwin, whom you haven't seen since you was a small girl, and you thought was dead. But, come, as the cat's out o' the bag at last, I may as well make a clean breast of it. Sit down here on the bank, Betty, and listen."

The poor girl obeyed almost mechanically, for she was well-nigh stunned by the unexpected news, which Paul had given her, and of which, from her knowledge of her father's character, she could not doubt the truth.

"Then Stalker -- Edwin -- must be your own son!" she said, looking at Paul earnestly.

"Nay, he's not my son, no more than you are my daughter. Forgive me, Betty. I've deceived you throughout, but I did it with a good intention. You see, if I hadn't passed myself off as your father, I'd never have bin able to git ye out o' the boardin'-school where ye was putt. But I did it for the best, Betty, I did it for the best; an' all to benefit your poor mother an' you. That is how it was."

He paused, as if endeavouring to recall the past, and Betty sat with her hands clasped, gazing in Paul's face like a fascinated creature, unable to speak or move.

"You see, Betty," he resumed, "your real father was a doctor in the army, an' I'm sorry to have to add, he was a bad man -- so bad that he went and deserted your mother soon after you was born. I raither think that your brother Edwin must have got his wickedness from him, just as you got your goodness from your mother; but I've bin told that your father became a better man before he died, an' I can well believe it, wi' such a woman as your mother prayin' for him every day, as long as he lived. Well, when you was about six, your brother Edwin, who was then about twenty, had got so bad in his ways, an' used to kick up sitch shindies in the house, an' swore so terrible, that your mother made up her mind to send you to a boardin'-school, to keep you out o' harm's way, though it nigh broke her heart; for you seemed to be the only comfort she had in life.

"About that time I was goin' a good deal about the house, bein', as I've said, a chum o' your brother. But he was goin' too fast for me, and that made me split with him. I tried at first to make him hold in a bit; but what was the use of a black sheep like me tryin' to make a white sheep o' him! The thing was so absurd that he laughed at it; indeed, we both laughed at it. Your mother was at that time very poorly off -- made a miserable livin' by dressmakin'. Indeed, she'd have bin half starved if I hadn't given her a helpin' hand in a small way now an' then. She was very grateful, and very friendly wi' me, for I was very fond of her, and she know'd that, bad as I was, I tried to restrain her son to some extent. So she told me about her wish to git you well out o' the house, an' axed me if I'd go an' put you in a school down at Brighton, which she know'd was a good an' a cheap one.

"Of course I said I would, for, you see, the poor thing was that hard worked that she couldn't git away from her stitch-stitchin', not even for an hour, much less a day. When I got down to the school, before goin' up to the door it came into my head that it would be better that the people should know you was well looked after, so says I to you, quite sudden, 'Betty, remember you're to call me father when you speak about me.' You turned your great blue eyes to my face, dear lass, when I said that, with a puzzled look.

"'Me sought mamma say father was far far away in other country,' says you.

"'That's true,' says I, 'but I've come home from the other country, you see, so don't you forget to call me father.'

"'Vewy well, fadder,' says you, in your own sweet way, for you was always a biddable child, an' did what you was told without axin' questions.

"Well, when I'd putt you in the school an' paid the first quarter in advance, an' told 'em that the correspondence would be done chiefly through your mother, I went back to London, puzzlin' my mind all the way what I'd say to your mother for what I'd done. Once it came into my head I would ax her to marry me -- for she was a widow by that time -- an' so make the deception true. But I quickly putt that notion a one side, for I know'd I might as well ax an angel to come down from heaven an dwell wi' me in a backwoods shanty -- but, after all," said Paul, with a quiet laugh, "I did get an angel to dwell wi' me in a backwoods shanty when I got you, Betty! Howsever, as things turned out I was saved the trouble of explainin'.

"When I got back I found your mother in a great state of excitement. She'd just got a letter from the West Indies, tellin' her that a distant relation had died an' left her a small fortin! People's notions about the size o' fortins differs. Enough an' to spare is ocean's wealth to some. Thousands o' pounds is poverty to others. She'd only just got the letter, an' was so taken up about it that she couldn't help showin' it to me.

"'Now,' says I, 'Mrs Buxley,' -- that was her name, an' your real name too, Betty -- says I, 'make your will right off, an putt it away safe, leavin' every rap o' that fortin to Betty, for you may depend on't, if Edwin gits wind o' this, he'll worm it out o' you, by hook or by crook --  you know he will -- and go straight to the dogs at full gallop.'

"'What!' says she, 'an' leave nothin' to my boy? -- my poor boy, for whom I have never ceased to pray! He may repent, you know -- he will repent. I feel sure of it -- and then he will find that his mother left him nothing, though God had sent her a fortune.'

"'Oh! as to that,' says I, 'make your mind easy. If Edwin does repent an' turn to honest ways, he's got talents and go enough in him to make his way in the world without help; but you can leave him what you like, you know, only make sure that you leave the bulk of it to Betty.'

"This seemed to strike her as a plan that would do, for she was silent for some time, and then, suddenly makin' up her mind, she said, 'I'll go and ask God's help in this matter, an' then see about gettin' a lawyer --  for I suppose a thing o' this sort can't be done without one.'

"'No, mum,' says I, 'it can't. You may, if you choose, make a muddle of it without a lawyer, but you can't do it right without one.'

"'Can you recommend one to me?' says she.

"I was greatly tickled at the notion o' the likes o' me bein' axed to recommend a lawyer. It was so like your mother's innocence and trustfulness. Howsever, she'd come to the right shop, as it happened, for I did know a honest lawyer! Yes, Betty, from the way the world speaks, an' what's often putt in books, you'd fancy there warn't such'n a thing to be found on 'arth. But that's all bam, Betty. Leastwise I know'd one honest firm. 'Yes, Mrs Buxley,' says I, 'there's a firm o' the name o' Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger in the City, who can do a'most anything that's possible to man. But you'll have to look sharp, for if Edwin comes home an' diskivers what's doin', it's all up with the fortin an' Betty.'

"Well, to make a long story short, your mother went to the lawyer's, an' had her will made, leavin' a good lump of a sum to your brother, but the most of the fortin to you. By the advice o' Truefoot Tickle, and Badger, she made it so that you shouldn't touch the money till you come to be twenty-one, 'for,' says she, 'there's no sayin' what bad men will be runnin' after the poor thing an deceivin' her for the sake of her money before she is of an age to look after herself.' 'Yes,' thought I, 'an' there's no sayin' what bad men'll be runnin' after the poor thing an' deceivin' of her for the sake of her money after she's of an age to look after herself,' but I didn't say that out, for your mother was excited enough and over-anxious about things, I could see that.

"Well, when the will was made out all right, she took it out of her chest one night an' read it all over to me. I could see it was shipshape, though I couldn't read a word of its crabbed letters myself.

"'Now Mrs Buxley,' says I, 'where are you goin' to keep that dockiment?'

"'In my chest,' says she.

"'Won't be safe there,' says I, for I knowed her forgivin' and confidin' natur' too well, an' that she'd never be able to keep it from your brother; but, before I could say more, there was a tremendous knockin' wi' a stick at the front door. Your poor mother turned pale -- she know'd the sound too well. 'That's Edwin,' she says, jumpin' up an runnin' to open the door, forgetting all about the will, so I quietly folded it up an' shoved it in my pocket.

"When Edwin was comin' up stairs I know'd he was very drunk and savage by the way he was goin' on, an' when he came into the room an' saw me he gave a yell of rage. 'Didn't I tell you never to show your face here again?' says he. 'Just so,' says I, 'but not bein' subjec' to your orders, d'ye see, I am here again.'

"Wi' that he swore a terrible oath an' rushed at me, but he tripped over a footstool and fell flat on the floor. Before he could recover himself I made myself scarce an' went home.

"Next mornin', when I'd just finished breakfast a thunderin' rap came to the door. I know'd it well enough. 'Now look out for squalls,' said I to myself, as I went an' opened it. Edwin jumped in, banged the door to, an' locked it.

"'You've no occasion to do that' says I, 'for I don't expect no friends -- not even bobbies.'

"'You double-faced villain!' says he; 'you've bin robbin' my mother!'

"'Come, come,' says I, 'civility, you know, between pals. What have I done to your mother?'

"'You needn't try to deceive me, Paul,' says he, tryin' to keep his temper down. 'Mother's bin took bad, wi' over-excitement, the doctor says, an' she's told me all about the fortin an' the will, an' where Betty is down at Brighton.'

"'My Betty at Brighton!' says I -- pretendin' great surprise, for I had a darter at that time whom I had called after your mother, for that was her name too -- but she's dead, poor thing! -- she was dyin' in hospital at the very time we was speakin', though I didn't know at the time that her end was so near -- 'my Betty at Brighton!' says I. 'Why, she's in hospital. Bin there for some weeks.'

"'I don't mean your brat, but my sister,' says Edwin, quite fierce. 'Where have you put her? What's the name of the school? What have you done wi' the will?'

"'You'd better ax your mother,' says I. 'It's likely that she knows the partiklers better nor me.'

"He lost patience altogether at this, an' sprang at me like a tiger. But I was ready for him. We had a regular set-to then an' there. By good luck there was no weapons of any kind in the room, not even a table knife, for I'd had to pawn a'most everything to pay my rent, and the clasp-knife I'd eat my breakfast with was in my pocket. But we was both handy with our fists. We kep' at it for about half an hour. Smashed all the furniture, an' would have smashed the winders too, but there was only one, an' it was a skylight. In the middle of it the door was burst open, an' in rushed half a dozen bobbies, who put a stop to it at once.

"'We're only havin' a friendly bout wi' the gloves,' says I, smilin' quite sweet.

"'I don't see no gloves,' says the man as held me.

"'That's true,' says I, lookin' at my hands. 'They must have dropped off an' rolled up the chimbly.'

"'Hallo! Edwin Buxley!' said the sargeant, lookin' earnestly at your brother; 'why you've bin wanted for some time. Here, Joe! the bracelets.'

"In half a minute he was marched off. 'I'll have your blood, Paul, for this,' he said bitterly, looking back as he went out.

"As I wasn't 'wanted' just then, I went straight off to see your mother, to find out how much she had told to Edwin, for, from what he had said, I feared she must have told all. I was anxious, also, to see if she'd bin really ill. When I got to the house I met a nurse who said she was dyin', an' would hardly let me in, till I got her persuaded I was an intimate friend. On reachin' the bedroom I saw by the looks o' two women who were standin' there that it was serious. And so it was, for there lay your poor mother, as pale as death; her eyes closed and her lips white; but there was a sweet, contented smile on her face, and her thin hands clasped her well-worn Bible to her breast."

Paul Bevan stopped, for the poor girl had burst into tears. For a time he was silent and laid his heavy hand gently on her shoulder.

"I did not ventur' to speak to her," he continued, "an' indeed it would have been of no use, for she was past hearin'. A few minutes later and her gentle spirit went up to God.

"I had no time now to waste, for I knew that your brother would give information that might be bad for me, so I asked the nurse to write down, while I repeated it, the lawyer's address.

"'Now,' says I, 'go there an' tell 'em what's took place. It'll be the better for yourself if you do.' An' then I went straight off to Brighton."



Chapter Twenty One.

"Well, you must know," said Paul Bevan, continuing his discourse to the Rose of Oregon, "when I got to Brighton I went to the school, told 'em that your mother was just dead, and brought you straight away. I wasn't an hour too soon, for, as I expected, your brother had given information, an' the p'lice were on my heels in a jiffy, but I was too sharp for 'em. I went into hidin' in London; an' you've no notion, Betty, what a rare place London is to hide in! A needle what takes to wanderin' in a haystack ain't safer than a feller is in London, if he only knows how to go about the business.

"I lay there nigh three months, durin' which time my own poor child Betty continued hoverin' 'tween life an death. At last, one night when I was at the hospital sittin' beside her, she suddenly raised her sweet face, an fixin' her big eyes on me, said -- 

"'Father, I'm goin' home. Shall I tell mother that you're comin'?'

"'What d'ye mean, my darlin'?' says I, while an awful thump came to my heart, for I saw a great change come over her.

"'I'll be there soon, father,' she said, as her dear voice began to fail; 'have you no message for mother?'

"I was so crushed that I couldn't speak, so she went on -- 

"'You'll come -- won't you, father? an' we'll be so glad to welcome you to heaven. An' so will Jesus. Remember, He is the only door, father, no name but that of Jesus -- ' She stopped all of a sudden, and I saw that she had gone home.

"After that" continued Paul, hurrying on as if the memory of the event was too much for him, "havin' nothin' to keep me in England, I came off here to the gold-fields with you, an' brought the will with me, intendin', when you came of age, to tell you all about it, an' see justice done both to you an' to your brother, but -- "

"Fath -- Paul," said Betty, checking herself, "that brown parcel you gave me long ago with such earnest directions to keep it safe, and only to open it if you were killed, is -- "

"That's the will, my dear."

"And Edwin -- does he think that I am your real daughter Betty?"

"No doubt he does, for he never heard of her bein' dead, and he never saw you since you was quite a little thing, an' there's a great change on you since then -- a wonderful change."

"Yes, fath -- Oh! it is so hard to lose my father," said Betty, almost breaking down, and letting her hands fall listlessly into her lap.

"But why lose him, Betty? I did it all for the best," said Paul, gently taking hold of one of the poor girl's hands.

She made a slight motion to withdraw it, but checked herself and let it rest in the man's rough but kindly grasp, while tears silently coursed down her rounded cheeks. Presently she looked up and said -- 

"How did Edwin find out where you had gone to?"

"That's more than I can tell, Betty, unless it was through Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger. I wrote to them after gettin' here, tellin' them to look well after the property, and it would be claimed in good time, an' I raither fear that the postmark on the letter must have let the cat out o' the bag. Anyhow, not long after that Edwin found me out an' you know how he has persecuted me, though you little thought he was your own brother when you were beggin' of me not to kill him -- no more did you guess that I was as little anxious to kill him as you were, though I did pretend I'd have to do it now an' then in self-defence. Sometimes, indeed, he riled me up to sitch an extent that there wasn't much pretence about it; but thank God! my hand has been held back."

"Yes, thank God for that; and now I must go to him," said Betty, rising hastily and hurrying back to the Indian village.

In a darkened tent, on a soft couch of deerskins, the dying form of Buxley, alias Stalker, lay extended. In the fierceness of his self-will he had neglected his wounds until too late to save his life. A look of stern resolution sat on his countenance -- probably he had resolved to "die game," as hardened criminals express it. His determination, on whatever ground based, was evidently not shaken by the arguments of a man who sat by his couch. It was Tom Brixton.

"What's the use o' preachin' to me, young fellow?" said the robber-chief, testily. "I dare say you are pretty nigh as great a scoundrel as I am."

"Perhaps a greater," returned Tom. "I have no wish to enter into comparisons, but I'm quite prepared to admit that I am as bad."

"Well, then, you've as much need as I have to seek salvation for yourself."

"Indeed I have, and it is because I have sought it and obtained it," said Tom, earnestly, "that I am anxious to point out the way to you. I've come through much the same experiences, no doubt, as you have. I have been a scouter of my mother's teachings, a thief, and, in heart if not in act, a murderer. No one could be more urgently in need of salvation from sin than I, and I used to think that I was so bad that my case was hopeless, until God opened my eyes to see that Jesus came to save His people from their sins. That is what you need, is it not?"

"Ay, but it is too late," said Stalker, bitterly.

"The crucified thief did not find it too late," returned Tom, "and it was the eleventh hour with him."

Stalker made no reply, but the stern, hard expression of his face did not change one iota until he heard a female voice outside asking if he were asleep. Then the features relaxed; the frown passed like a summer cloud before the sun, and, with half-open lips and a look of glad, almost childish expectancy, he gazed at the curtain-door of the tent.

"Mother's voice!" he murmured, apparently in utter forgetfulness of Tom Brixton's presence.

Next moment the curtain was raised, and Betty, entering quickly, advanced to the side of the couch. Tom rose, as if about to leave.

"Don't go, Mr Brixton," said the girl, "I wish you to hear us."

"My brother!" she continued, turning to the invalid, and grasping his hand, for the first time, as she sat down beside him.

"If you were not so young I'd swear you were my mother," exclaimed Stalker, with a slight look of surprise at the changed manner of his nurse. "Ha! I wish that I were indeed your brother."

"But you are my brother, Edwin Buxley," cried the girl with intense earnestness, "my dear and only brother, whom God will save through Jesus Christ?"

"What do you mean, Betty?" asked Stalker, with an anxious and puzzled look.

"I mean that I am not Betty Bevan. Paul Bevan has told me so -- told me that I am Betty Buxley, and your sister!"

The dying man's chest heaved with labouring breath, for his wasted strength was scarcely sufficient to bear this shock of surprise.

"I would not believe it," he said, with some difficulty, "even though Paul Bevan were to swear to it, were it not for the wonderful likeness both in look and tone." He pressed her hand fervently, and added, "Yes, dear Betty. I do believe that you are my very sister."

Tom Brixton, from an instinctive feeling of delicacy, left the tent, while the Rose of Oregon related to her brother the story of her life with Paul Bevan, and then followed it up with the story of God's love to man in Jesus Christ.

Tom hurried to Bevan's tent to have the unexpected and surprising news confirmed, and Paul told him a good deal, but was very careful to make no allusion to Betty's "fortin."

"Now, Mister Brixton," said Paul, somewhat sternly, when he had finished, "there must be no more shilly-shallyin' wi' Betty's feelin's. You're fond o' her, an' she's fond o' you. In them circumstances a man is bound to wed -- all the more that the poor thing has lost her nat'ral protector, so to speak, for I'm afraid she'll no longer look upon me as a father."

There was a touch of pathos in Paul's tone as he concluded, which checked the rising indignation in Brixton's breast.

"But you forget, Paul, that Gashford and his men are here, and will probably endeavour to lay hold of me. I can scarce look on myself as other than an outlaw."

"Pooh! lay hold of you!" exclaimed Paul, with contempt; "d'ye think Gashford or any one else will dare to touch you with Mahoghany Drake an' Mister Fred an' Flinders an' me, and Unaco with all his Injins at your back? Besides, let me tell you that Gashford seems a changed man. I've had a talk wi' him about you, an' he said he was done persecutin' of you -- that you had made restitootion when you left all the goold on the river's bank for him to pick up, and that as nobody else in partikler wanted to hang you, you'd nothin' to fear."

"Well, that does change the aspect of affairs," said Tom, "and it may be that you are right in your advice about Betty. I have twice tried to get away from her and have failed. Perhaps it may be right now to do as you suggest, though after all the time seems not very suitable; but, as you truly observe, she has lost her natural protector, for of course you cannot be a father to her any longer. Yes, I'll go and see Fred about it."

Tom had considerable qualms of conscience as to the propriety of the step he meditated, and tried to argue with himself as he went in search of his friend.

"You see," he soliloquised aloud, "her brother is dying; and then, though I am not a whit more worthy of her than I was, the case is nevertheless altered, for she has no father now. Then by marrying her I shall have a right to protect her -- and she stands greatly in need of a protector in this wild country at this time, poor thing! and some one to work for her, seeing that she has no means whatever!"

"Troth, an' that's just what she does need, sor!" said Paddy Flinders, stepping out of the bush at the moment. "Excuse me, sor, but I cudn't help hearin' ye, for ye was spakin' out loud. But I agree with ye intirely; an', if I may make so bowld, I'm glad to find ye in that state o' mind. Did ye hear the news, sor? They've found goold at the hid o' the valley here."

"Indeed," said Tom, with a lack of interest that quite disgusted his volatile friend.

"Yes, indade," said he. "Why, sor, they've found it in big nuggets in some places, an' Muster Gashford is off wid a party not half an hour past. I'm goin' mesilf, only I thought I'd see first if ye wouldn't jine me; but ye don't seem to care for goold no more nor if it was copper; an that's quare, too, whin it was the very objec' that brought ye here."

"Ah, Flinders, I have gained more than my object in coming. I have found gold -- most fine gold, too, that I won't have to leave behind me when it pleases God to call me home. But never fear, I'll join you. I owe you and other friends a debt, and I must dig to pay that. Then, if I succeed in the little scheme which you overheard me planning, I shall need some gold to keep the pot boiling!"

"Good luck to ye, sor! so ye will. But plaze don't mintion the little debt you say you owe me an' the other boys. Ye don't owe us nothin' o' the sort. But who comes here? Muster Fred it is -- the very man I want to see."

"Yes, and I want to see him too, Paddy, so let me speak first, for a brief space, in private, and you can have him as long as you like afterwards."

Fred Westly's opinion on the point which his friend put before him entirely coincided with that of Paul Bevan.

"I'm not surprised to learn that Paul is not her father," he said. "It was always a puzzle to me how she came to be so lady-like and refined in her feelings, with such a rough, though kindly, father. But I can easily understand it now that I hear who and what her mother was."

But the principal person concerned in Tom Brixton's little scheme held an adverse opinion to his friends Paul and Fred and Flinders. Betty would by no means listen to Tom's proposals until, one day, her brother said that he would like to see her married to Tom Brixton before he died. Then the obdurate Rose of Oregon gave in!

"But how is it to be managed without a clergyman?" asked Fred Westly one evening over the camp fire when supper was being prepared.

"Ay, how indeed?" said Tom, with a perplexed look.

"Oh, bother the clergy!" cried the irreverent Flinders.

"That's just what I'd do if there was one here," responded Tom; "I'd bother him till he married us."

"I say, what did Adam and Eve an' those sort o' people do?" asked Tolly Trevor, with the sudden animation resulting from the budding of a new idea; "there was no clergy in their day, I suppose?"

"True for ye, boy," remarked Flinders, as he lifted a large pot of soup off the fire.

"I know and care not, Tolly, what those sort o' people did," said Tom; "and as Betty and I are not Adam and Eve, and the nineteenth century is not the first, we need not inquire."

"I'll tell 'ee what," said Mahoghany Drake, "it's just comed into my mind that there's a missionary goes up once a year to an outlyin' post o' the fur-traders, an' this is about the very time. What say ye to make an excursion there to get spliced, it's only about two hundred miles off? We could soon ride there an' back, for the country's all pretty flattish after passin' the Sawback range."

"The very thing!" cried Tom; "only -- perhaps Betty might object to go, her brother being so ill."

"Not she," said Fred; "since the poor man found in her a sister as well as a nurse he seems to have got a new lease of life. I don't, indeed, think it possible that he can recover, but he may yet live a good while; and the mere fact that she has gone to get married will do him good."

So it was finally arranged that they should all go, and, before three days had passed, they went, with a strong band of their Indian allies. They found the missionary as had been expected. The knot was tied, and Tom Brixton brought back the Rose of Oregon as a blooming bride to the Sawback range.

From that date onward Tom toiled at the goldfields as if he had been a galley-slave, and scraped together every speck and nugget of gold he could find, and hoarded it up as if he had been a very miser, and, strange to say, Betty did not discourage him.

One day he entered his tent with a large canvas bag in his hand quite full.

"It's all here at last," he said, holding it up. "I've had it weighed, and I'm going to square up."

"Go, dear Tom, and God speed you," said the Rose, giving him a kiss that could not have been purchased by all the gold in Oregon.

Tom went off, and soon returned with the empty bag.

"It was hard work, Betty, to get them to take it, but they agreed when I threatened to heave it all into the lake if they didn't! Then -- I ventured," said Tom, looking down with something like a blush -- "it does seem presumptuous in me, but I couldn't help it -- I preached to them! I told them of my having been twice bought; of the gold that never perishes; and of the debt I owe, which I could never repay, like theirs, with interest, because it is incalculable. And now, dear Betty, we begin the world afresh from to-day."

"Yes, and with clear consciences," returned Betty. "I like to re-commence life thus."

"But with empty pockets," added Tom, with a peculiar twist of his mouth.

"No, not quite empty," rejoined the young wife, drawing a very business-looking envelope from her pocket and handing it to her husband. "Read that, Tom."

Need we say that Tom read it with mingled amusement and amazement; that he laughed at it, and did not believe it; that he became grave, and inquired into it; and that finally, when Paul Bevan detailed the whole affair, he was forced to believe it?

"An estate in the West Indies," he murmured to himself in a condition of semi-bewilderment, "yielding over fifteen hundred a year!"

"A tidy little fortin," remarked Paddy Flinders, who overheard him. "I hope, sor, ye won't forgit yer owld frinds in Oregon when ye go over to take possession."

"I won't my boy -- you may depend on that."

And he did not!

But Edwin Buxley did not live to enjoy his share of the fortune. Soon after the wedding he began to sink rapidly, and finally died while gazing earnestly in his sister's face, with the word "mother" trembling faintly on his lips. He was laid under a lordly tree not far from the Indian village in the Sawback range.

It was six months afterwards that Betty became of age and was entitled to go home and claim her own. She and Tom went first to a small village in Kent, where dwelt an old lady who for some time past had had her heart full to the very brim with gratitude because of a long-lost prodigal son having been brought back to her -- saved by the blood of the Lamb. When at last she set her longing eyes on Tom, and heard his well-remembered voice say, "Mother!" the full heart overflowed and rushed down the wrinkled cheeks in floods of inexpressible joy. And the floods were increased, and the joy intensified, when she turned at last to gaze on a little modest, tearful, sympathetic flower, whom Tom introduced to her as the Rose of Oregon!

Thereafter Tom and the Rose paid a visit to London City and called upon Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger.

Truefoot was the only partner in the office at the time, but he ably represented the firm, for he tickled them with information and badgered them with questions to such an extent that they left the place of business in a state of mental confusion, but on the whole, very well satisfied.

The result of all these things was that Tom Brixton settled down near the village where his mother dwelt, and Fred Westly, after staying long enough among the Sawback Mountains to dig out of them a sufficiency, returned home and bought a small farm beside his old chum.

And did Tom forget his old friends in Oregon? No! He became noted for the length and strength of his correspondence. He wrote to Flinders begging him to come home and help him with his property, and Flinders accepted. He wrote to Mahoghany Drake and sent him a splendid rifle, besides good advice and many other things, at different times, too numerous to mention. He wrote to little Tolly Trevor endeavouring to persuade him to come to England and be "made a man of", but Tolly politely declined, preferring to follow the fortunes of Mahoghany and be made a man of in the backwoods sense of the expression, in company with his fast friend the Leaping Buck. Tolly sent his special love to the Rose of Oregon, and said that she would be glad to hear that the old place in the Sawback range had become a little colony, and that a missionary had settled in it, and Gashford had held by his promise to her -- not only giving up drink and gambling entirely, but had set up a temperance coffee-house and a store, both of which were in the full blast of prosperity.

Tolly also said, in quite a poetical burst, that the fragrance of the Rose not only remained in the Colony, but was still felt as a blessed memory and a potent influence for good throughout all the land.

Finally, Tom Brixton settled down to a life of usefulness beside his mother -- who lived to a fabulous old age -- and was never tired of telling, especially to his young friends, of his wonderful adventures in the Far West and how he had been twice bought -- once with gold and once with blood.

<eob>

And Thus He Came: A Christmas Fantasy

By

Cyrus Townsend Brady



I

The Baby

"A Little Child Shall Lead Them"



I

The Baby


The heavy perfume of rare blossoms, the wild strains of mad music, the patter of flying feet, the murmur of speech, the ring of laughter, filled the great hall. Now and again a pair of dancers, peculiarly graceful and particularly daring, held the center of the floor for a moment while the room rang with applause.

Into alcoves, screened and flower-decked, couples wandered. In the dancing-space hands were clasped, bosoms rose and fell, hearts throbbed, pulses beat, and moving bodies kept time to rhythmic sound.

Suddenly the music stopped, the conversation ceased, the laughter died away. Almost, as it were, poised in the air, the dancers stood amazed. One looked to another in surprise. Something stole throughout the room which was neither music, nor lights, nor fragrance, but which was life -- a presence!

"Do you see that child?" asked the wildest of the dancers of her escort. "There," she pointed. "He looks like a very little boy."

"I see nothing," said the man, who still held her in the clasp of his arm.

"He is strangely dressed, although I see him indistinctly, vaguely," whispered the woman. "He wears a long white robe and there is a kind of light about his face. See, he is looking at us."

"I see nothing," repeated the man in low tones. "The heat, the light, the music, have disturbed you; let me get you -- "

"I want nothing," interposed the woman, waving the man aside and drawing away from his arm. "Don't you see him, there?"

She made a step toward the center of the room. She stopped, put her hand to her head.

"Why, he is gone," she exclaimed.

"Good," said the man, while at that instant the room suddenly rang with cries: "Go on with the music, the dance is not half over." He extended his arm to the woman again. "Our dance is not finished."

"Yes, it is," she said as the flying feet once more twinkled across the polished floor, as everybody took a long breath and a new start apparently unconscious of the pause.

"It is over for me. What I saw!"

"What did you see?"

"I don't know, but I'm going back home to my child. Good-night."

*    *    *    *    *

Yes, the music had stopped suddenly. The man in the farthest alcove turned to his companion. They were hidden by a group of palms.

"I wonder why?" queried the woman. She was deathly pale. Her eyes were dark with fear, yet alight with passionate determination.

"When it begins," said the man tenderly, "we will slip away. My car is outside. Everything is ready."

"That is my husband over there," said the woman.

"Yes," said the man, "he won't trouble you any more."

"That woman with him is leaving him," she said. "I wonder why." She turned suddenly with a great start. "There is somebody here," she whispered, staring into the back of the alcove.

"Nonsense," said the man, throwing a glance around the recess. "There's nobody here but you and I. We are alone together, as we shall be hereafter, when we have taken the step."

"But that child," whispered the woman, "with his strange vesture and his wonderful face. His eyes look at me so."

"There is no child there, my dear," urged the man; "you are overwrought, excited, nervous. The music starts. Let us go."

He stretched out his hand to the woman, but as he came nearer she shrank back with her own hand on her heart.

"Oh," she said faintly, "he's gone."

"Of course he's gone," he answered soothingly. "Now is our time to get away. Let me -- "

"No, no," said the woman. "I can't go with you now. It wouldn't be right."

"But you knew that before," pleaded the man. "Besides -- "

"Yes, but I can't do it. He was there! His eyes spoke -- I -- don't touch me," she said; "I'm going back to my husband. Don't follow."



II

The Child



"Suffer The Little Children To Come Unto Me"



II

The Child


The employees had all gone home, carrying with them Christmas checks and hearty greetings from the great man whose beck and nod they followed. He sat in his private office absolutely alone. He had some serious matters to consider and did not want any interruptions. His balance-sheet for the year had been made up according to the custom of the firm before Christmas instead of on New Year's Day. He examined it again. It showed tremendous profit. The mills were turning out quantities of material, the demand for which was greater and the cost of production less than ever before.

"I tell you," said the man to himself, "it was a master-stroke to displace the men with children in the mills. They have reduced the cost by four fifths. War has made the prices go up. This is not wealth, it is riches beyond calculation."

He picked up a letter, read it over. It was a proposal from the superintendent to clear more land, to build more buildings, to install more machines, to employ more children and increase the profits greatly.

"I'll do it," said the man. "We can crush opposition absolutely. I'll control the markets of the world. I'll build a fortune upon this foundation so great that no one can comprehend it."

He stopped, leaned back in his chair, lifted his eyes up toward the ceiling of the room and saw beyond it the kingdoms of this world and the means unlimited to make him lord and master. He gave no thought to the foundations, only to the structure erected by his fancy. How long he indulged in dreams he scarcely realized, but presently he put his hands on the arms of the chair and started to rise, saying,

"I'll telegraph the superintendent to go ahead."

He had scarcely formulated the words when right in front of him, seated on his desk, he saw a young lad regarding him intently. He stopped, petrified, in the position he had assumed.

"How did you get in? What are you doing here?" he asked. There was no answer. "Come," said the man, shrinking back. "I can't imagine how you got in here. If my people had not all gone I should hold them to strict account. As it is, you -- "

The room was suddenly filled with people. They came crowding through the walls from every side and pressed close to him. Such people he had never seen: wan, worn, stunted, pinched, starved, joyless. They were all children, meagerly clothed, badly nourished, ill developed. They were quite silent. They did not cry. They did not protest. They did not argue. They did not plead. They did not laugh. They just looked at him. They made no sound of any sort. He had children of his own and he had known many children. He had never known so many gathered together without a smile or a laugh.

His eye wandered around the room. They were very close to him and yet they did not touch him. He turned to the desk where the lad had sat, but he was no longer there and yet he well remembered his face. He knew exactly how he looked. He turned to the nearest child and in some strange way, although the poor, wretched face had not changed, his look suggested the lad who had been his first visitor. He turned to another and another. They all looked back at him in the same way with the same eyes.

He threw his head up again and saw the castle of success of which he had dreamed. He looked down again. This was the foundation. Slowly his hand went to the desk. The little crowding figures drew back to give him freedom of movement as he stretched his hand out for a telegraph-blank. He drew it to him. He seized a pen and wrote rapidly:

"Build no more mills, take the children out of those already in operation, put men in their places. We will be content with less profit in the future."

He read over the telegram. The telephone was close at hand. He called up the telegraph-office, dictated it and directed it to be sent immediately. He had been so engrossed in this task that he had noticed nothing else. Now he looked up. The room was still filled with children, but they were all laughing. It was a soundless laugh, and yet he heard it. And then the room was empty save for the child he had seen first and vaguely. He had just time to catch a smile from his lips and then he, too, was gone as silently and as strangely as he had appeared.

Was it a dream? No, there was the telegram in his hand! Had he sent it? Again he called up the office on the telephone.

"Did you get a message from me just a minute ago?"

"Yes, do you want to recall it?"

The man thought a second.

"No," he said quietly -- was it to himself or to his vanished visitors? -- "let it go. Merry Christmas."



III

The Friend



"Inasmuch As Ye Have Done It Unto One Of The Least Of These, My Brethren"



III

The Friend


"Is the story of the Christ Child true, Mommy?" quivered one little, thin voice.

"Yes, they told us it was over at the mission Sunday-school," said the littlest child.

"I don't believe it," answered the mother. "God ain't never done much for me."

"It's Christmas eve, ain't it?" asked the boy, climbing up on the thin knees of the threadbare woman and nestling his thin face against a thinner breast which the rags scarcely covered decently.

"Yes, it's Christmas eve."

"And that's the day He came, ain't it?" urged the oldest girl.

"They say so."

"Don't you believe it, Mommy?"

"I used to believe it when I was a girl. I believed it before your father died, but now -- "

"Don't you believe it now?" repeated the first child.

"How can I believe it? You're old enough to understand. That's the last scuttle of coal we got. We ate the last bit of bread for supper to-night."

"They say," put in the little boy, "that if you hang up your stockings, Santa Claus'll fill 'em, 'cause of the Christ Child."

"Don't you believe it, Sonny," said the mother desperately.

"I'm going to hang up mine and see," said the littlest girl.

"He's got too many other children to look after," said the woman, "to care for the likes of us, I'm afraid, and -- "

"But my Sunday-school teacher said He came to poor people special. He was awful poor Himself. Why, He was born in a stable. That's awful poor, ain't it?" asked the boy.

"When I was a girl," answered the mother, "I lived on a farm and we had a stable there that was a palace to this hole we live in now. No, you'd better not hang up your stockings, none of you."

"And you don't believe in Him, Mommy?"

"No. What would be the use if you hung 'em up and didn't find anything in 'em in the morning?"

"It'd be awful, but I believe in Him," said the littlest girl. "I don't think God has forgot us, really. I'm going to try."

"I tell you 'tain't no use."

"Oh, yes, it is."

"I'm sure it ain't. But have it your own way," said the woman. "If someone would fill your stockings with milk and bread and -- "

"I want a turkey," said the oldest girl.

"And cranberry sauce," added the boy.

"I want a doll-baby in mine," said the littlest girl.

The mother hid her face and groaned aloud.

"You ain't sick, are you, Mommy?"

"I guess so. Come, you'd better say your prayers and go to bed. We don't have to keep the fire going so hard when you're all covered up."

It did not take long for the three little youngsters to divest themselves of the rags of clothing they wore. They slept in what passed for their underclothes, so there was no donning of white gowns for the night.

"Here are our stockings, Mommy," said the oldest, handing three ragged, almost footless, black stockings to the woman.

"It's no use, I tell you. I can't do it."

"It won't do any harm, Mommy," urged the girl.

"Do you believe in it, too?" asked the mother, and the girl shook her head. "You won't be disappointed in the morning if there's nothing in 'em?"

"No, I suppose it will be because Santa Claus was too busy."

With nervous fingers the woman hung the three stockings near the window. She was hungry, she was cold, she was broken, she was a mother. She could scarcely keep from crying.

"Maybe you'll be glad you did it," said the littlest girl drowsily.

"Ain't you comin' to bed, too, Mommy?" asked the oldest, beneath the covers over the mattress on the floor.

"In a little while."

"And you won't forget to say your prayers?"

"I ain't said 'em for months, ever since your father was killed, and we got so poor."

"But you'll say 'em to-night 'cause it's Christmas eve?"

"Yes, to-night," said the mother; "now you go to sleep."

"Are you waitin' for him to come, Mommy?" asked the littlest girl, who was very sleepy.

"Yes," said the mother.

Presently, as she sat in the dark, having turned out the light, the deep breathing of the children told her they were asleep. She rose quietly, stepped to the window, and stood looking at the three shapeless, tattered stockings. She was high up in the tenement and the moonlight came softly over the house roofs of the city into the bare, cold, cheerless room. She stared at the stockings and tears streamed down her wasted cheeks. She had hung them low at the suggestion of the littlest girl so the children could easily get at them in the morning.

She pressed them against her face.

After a time she fell down on her knees. She pressed them against her face. She did not say anything. She could scarcely think anything. She just knelt there until something gently drew her head around. She dropped the stockings. She put her right hand on the window-ledge to steady herself and looked backward.

No sound save the breathing of the children and her own stifled sobs had broken the silence; the door was shut, but a man was there, a man of strange vesture seen dimly in the moon's radiance, yet there was a kind of light about his face. She could see his features. They were those of a man in middle years. They were lined with care. He had seen life on its seamy side. The woman felt that he had known poverty and loneliness. She stared up at him.

"I didn't believe," she whispered; "it cannot be. I thought we were forgotten."

The man slowly raised his hand. The moonlight struck fair upon it. She saw that it was calloused, the hand of a man who toiled. It was extended over her head. There was no bodily touch, but her head bent low down until she rested it upon her hands upon the floor. When she looked up, the room was empty. There was no sound save the breathing of the children and the throb of her own heart which beat wildly in the fearful hollow of her ear.

She heard a sound of strange footsteps outside the door. There was a crackle as of paper, the soft sound of things laid upon the floor, a gentle rapping on the panels, a light laugh, a rustle of draperies, footsteps moving away. As in a dream she got to her feet, she knew not how. She opened the door.

The hall was dimly illuminated. Her feet struck a little heap of joy-bringing parcels. She leaned back against the door-jamb, her hand to her heart, trembling. What could it mean?

A tiny voice broke the silence. It was the littlest girl turning over in her sleep, murmuring incoherently and then clearly:

"If you only believe, that's enough; if you only believe."



IV

The Workman

"Is Not This The Carpenter?"



IV

The Workman


In the mean squalid room back of the saloon half a score of men were assembled. They were all young in years, in other things not youthful. Some of them lounged against the wall. Some sat at tables. All were drinking. The air was foul with smoke and reeked with the odor of vile liquor.

"We've got two jobs on hand to-night," said the leader of the gang. "There's a crib to be cracked an' a guy to be croaked. Red, you an' Gypsie an' the Gunney will crack the crib. It's dead easy. Only an old man an' his wife. The servants are out except one an' he's fixed. I'll give you the layout presently. The other job's harder. Kid, I'll put you in charge, an' as it's got to be done early to-night I'll give you the orders now. He'll be at The Montmorency at ten o'clock. Someone will call him out to the street."

"Who?"

"Never mind who. You'll be there in the car."

"Whose car?"

"Never mind whose. Why're you askin' so many questions? It'll take you an' the four to The Montmorency at ten o'clock. When he comes out every one of you let go, the whole bunch, understand. If they don't find five bullets in him there'll be trouble to-morrow."

"What do we get out of it?"

"A hundred apiece fer you an' a hundred an' fifty fer me fer engineerin' the job. Christmas money! You get me?"

"Of course. How'll we know who we've got to shoot?"

"I'll be there myself on the sidewalk. I'll point him out to you."

"The police?"

"They're fixed."

"Easy enough," said the Kid, the youngest of the gang.

"Well, you guys," said the leader pointing out four of the men, "will go with the Kid. The car'll be at the door in half an hour."

"Now, gimme my orders," said Red.

The gang leader scribbled something on a bit of paper.

"You go to that number with these two guys between midnight an' two in the mornin'. You'll find a back winder open. Here's the combination of the safe. The silver'll be in that."

"Jewels?"

"In a wall cabinet upstairs. It'll be unlocked."

"An' if they make any noise?"

"Croak 'em, of course. But don't make no noise doin' it. Better use a blackjack. We're not sure about the cop on that beat."

"I understand."

"Well, git your gats and make ready. Before we go, the drinks'll be on me. Fill up, men," he added, first pouring himself a liberal glassful, "an' here's to bringin' it off easy."

With deep relish the toast was drunk by all save Red and the Kid. Red set his glass down on the table. The Kid dropped his to the floor.

"There's somebody else in the room," whispered Red.

"Yes, yonder by the door," said the Kid. "You c'n jest see him."

"Don't be a fool," said the gang leader. "There's nobody here but us."

"He's wearin' strange clothes," said Red.

"He looks like a carpenter by his kit o' tools," said the Kid.

"Here, pull yourselves together, men," said the gang leader; "you're dippy, there's nobody here. Where's your nerve?"

But Red made no move to obey. He thrust his glass from him and rose and leaned over the table staring. The other men shrank back glancing at the two figures, for the Kid had also dashed the proffered glass aside.

"I see him," he said, "he's lookin' at me, he's lookin' through me."

In his excitement he took a step forward and the table went over with a crash. The two men passed their hands over their eyes in bewilderment.

"Why, there ain't nobody here," said the Kid.

"But I seen him I tell you," persisted Red.

"And so did I."

"Well, he's gone, whoever he was, accordin' to your own showin'," said the gang leader contemptuously. "Now brace up. Take your liquor. Get a move on youse."

"Not me," exclaimed Red suddenly.

"Nor me," said the Kid.

"What d'ye mean?"

"I won't do it."

"Neither will I."

Both men moved to the door. The gang leader sprang to intercept them, his arms upraised, his hands clenched.

"Lemme pass," said Red.

"Are you goin' to give us away?"

"No," answered Red. "But you don't rob no house, an' you don't kill no man to-night."

"You all know what that means," cried the leader. "Here you men grab 'em."

But the rest of the gang hung back.

"Mebbe they did see somethin'," said one.

"You cowardly dogs," cried the leader.

"We won't mention no names to nobody," said the Kid, "but you can't pull them jobs off. We'll jest warn 'em."

"You swore you'd be true to the gang, that you'd obey orders an' follow directions."

"We won't give ye away but I'm goin' to quit the gang an' go to work," said Red.

"Me too," said the Kid.

"Work! Hell!" exclaimed the gang leader, but they shoved him out of the way and went out of the door.



V

Comforter



"Neither Do I Condemn Thee"



V

The Comforter


She was a daughter of shame. Even inexperience could see that as she wandered up and down the streets of the town, desperate, impelled to go on by a force too strong for her to resist. She trod the pavement, yet loathed the necessity and hated herself for her compliance. She had only to look forward to the jail or the hospital; yet there was always the river. Had it come to that? Was there nothing else?

She lifted her eyes from the stone walk as hard as the heart of the world, and found herself opposite a brightly lighted building. She leaned against the door. From within came the sound of music, the strains of a hymn, words of prayer. The light streamed about her face from the stained window. This was a Church of God. Stained window, stained woman, confronting each other in the night!

There was no God for her. There might have been once, but she had committed the unpardonable sin against society and society was God. There was no place for her anywhere, save the jail or the hospital or the river. That last was the best. The street was deserted. She had thought it not a good place in which to ply her trade! She made a step forward and stopped.

In her pathway stood a figure seen dimly in the darkness. It stood in the shadow beyond the broad light from the painted window. There was something strangely familiar about it. She glanced up at that window. Had the figure there stepped down and embodied itself vaguely on the walk before her?

She laid her hand upon the knob of the church door.

What was this strange figure? Who was he? As she stared, the outline drew nearer. A man vested in long white draperies confronted her. He was bareheaded and appeared insensible to the cold in which she shivered. She put out her hand and something folded it back upon her breast. She opened her lips and something sealed them.

As she watched, the figure slowly moved. It bent forward and went slowly down on its knees on the sidewalk. The white hand began to trace strange, mysterious, unknown, incomprehensible characters upon the pavement. She watched with bated breath, some memory of another sinful woman of whom she had heard in childhood coming back to her prostrate mind. Yes, and there behind the figure stood others, hateful and hating, very violent, passionate men. She stared from the handwriting in the dust to these others and they faded away. She was alone with the kneeling figure and, as she looked, it too vanished in the chill air.

She bent over the pavement. There was nothing there, yet she had received a message. After a last glance she turned away, new courage, new life, new hope in her heart.

She mounted the steps, she laid her hand upon the knob of the church door, she turned it and went bravely within.



VI

The Burden Bearer

"He, Bearing His Cross, Went Forth"



VI

The Burden Bearer


The sound of the running feet of the man smashing through the burned stubble ceased abruptly. He stopped at the threshold of the door. No friendly bark of dog welcomed him. From the barn there came no gentle lowing of cattle, no homely clucking of chickens. Like the house the byre too had been ruined, gutted with flame.

The soldier whose march had brought him back to his own village that night stood in the entrance of what had been his home and stared at the smoking walls, the charred roof gaping to the sky, the empty casements. The enemy had been there. He whispered his young wife's name, he called softly to the baby, as if they might be sleeping somewhere within the devastated house. He listened for a reply but none came. Perhaps he would have been thankful even for a groan or a cry of agony, anything that meant life. But all was silence within, without.

Yonder on the winding road at the foot of the hill he could hear the trampling of men, the groaning of wheels, the clank of iron cavalrymen, the jingling of bits and swords, sharp words of command. The army was advancing. He could delay no longer. He must get back to his place in the ranks. Summoning his courage he crossed the threshold and stepped into the vacant emptiness of the house. Everything was gone but the four stone walls. There were unrecognizable heaps of ashes here and there. He bent over them fearfully in the twilight wondering whether the shapeless, formless masses were -- 

Something caught his eye. The one thing intact apparently. He stooped over it. It was the baby's shoe -- white, it had been originally. He remembered it. Now it was stained with blood. That was all that was left -- a little baby's shoe, blood spotted. He pressed it to his heart and groaned aloud. A spasm of mortal anguish shook his frame. He lifted his clenched hand toward the sky overshadowing the roofless walls.

Now he suddenly became aware that he was not alone. There was someone else in the room. He saw vaguely, indistinctly, a figure strangely clad, staggering on with bended back as if under some crushing load. He stared in the twilight striving to concentrate his faculties. The figure passed by. On its back was a shadowy something -- beams of wood roughly crossed, he decided. It raised its head and looked at him. The face was somehow lighter than the rest.

The man's arm fell. The room was empty after all. He stared at the little shoe. Was it somewhere well with the child, with its mother? Unbuttoning his tunic he thrust the little shoe within, over his heart. He straightened up. Away off on the road a bugle call rang out above the tumult. He turned away, seized his rifle, shouldered it, stepped rapidly toward his regiment and his duty.



VII

The Thorn Crowned

"The Soldiers Platted A Crown Of Thorns And Put It On His Head"



VII

The Thorn Crowned


It was ghastly cold in the ruined church. It had been warm enough there during the day, but the fire that had gutted it had died like the young acolyte, like the aged sacristan, the venerable mother, the sweet young novice, the women who had sought shelter there in vain. Neither the dignity of age nor the sweetness of maidenhood nor the innocence of youth nor the sanctity of profession had availed.

The old priest was glad they were dead. Life after what they had suffered had been unthinkable. He thanked God for that oblivion. He wished that he, too, might die in that violated shrine where he had peacefully ministered for so long a time. They had taken the flock, the shepherd must follow. He should have led.

He had fought, oh, he had played the man for the honor of the poor lambs committed to him. Had he done right? Should he not have stood dumb before the shearers? They had shot him and stabbed him and beaten him into insensibility. The last thing he had heard was the shriek of one woman, the piteous appeal of another. They thought he was dead, but he was living. Why had he not died?

How could God be so cruel? This was war. This ruined sanctuary, these broken men and women who had sought only to serve Him! Was there a God indeed? Faith, hope, what were they? Assurance, trust? Words, words! Ah, how he suffered.

"It is He," whispered the priest. "His sorrow was greater than mine."

It was bitter cold and yet he burned with fever. The tremors of pain so exquisite that they might almost be counted pleasure shot through his ruined, torn, broken figure, yet he recked little of these. It was the shame, the shame. He had been zealous for the Lord of Hosts. There was no God. Men were not made in any image save that of hell. He could not move hand or foot, but he could see. He could speak. He could curse God and die.

As his lips framed that anathema he saw vaguely the figure of a stranger; a slender, wasted body, dark stains upon it in the moonlight. It wore some kind of curious headgear. The man stared. The light was reflected from the sharp points of long thorns. A cloth was fastened about the loins. The figure stood very straight in the desecrated Holy of Holies. A light seemed to come from its face. Its eyes looked at the man with great pity. Slowly the figure raised its arms. Slowly the arms extended themselves; there were blood-stains in the palms of the hands.

"It is He," whispered the priest. "His sorrow was greater than mine. Lord, I believe."

He knew nothing more save that a great peace had suddenly stolen around him.



VIII

The Broken Hearted



"One Of The Soldiers With A Spear Pierced His Side"



VIII

The Broken Hearted


"I'll get that man if I die for it," said the soldier. "He's found the one position in the lines from which he can fire into our trenches."

"It's easier said than done," remarked his comrade, "and the minute you cross that spot you come within his range. He'll put a bullet through you before you can level a rifle or press a trigger."

"I'll not go that way," said the man.

"What is your plan?"

"You know that salient yonder on the right? I'm going out of the trench there."

"When?"

"Now. I'll wrap myself in white. That little run of coppice will cover me until I get within a few feet of him, then I'll have to chance it."

"Wish I could help you, old man. I'd like to get that man. He's shot six of the best fellows in the company and -- "

"You can help me by making a diversion to attract his attention. Keep him looking at that alley."

A few moments later the soldier shrouded in white crept out of the trench and noiselessly rolled down the slope to the bushes. The snow was deep on the ground. There was no touch of color about the soldier. He even thrust his rifle under the linen in which he had wrapped himself. Outside the shelter of the trenches the wind blew with terrific force. It was terribly cold. He had discarded his overcoat for freedom of motion. Only his indomitable resolution kept him alive. He locked his jaws together to keep his teeth from chattering. The ice-covered snow under his bare hands almost blistered the flesh as he crept along.

He intended to use the bayonet. If he shot the man he was stalking alarm would be given and he would be riddled with bullets before he got back. He was willing to give a life for a life if it were necessary, but he was reluctant to do so if it could be avoided. Cold steel would be better. Cold steel! He smiled grimly. It would need some hot blood to take the chill off the bayonet at the end of his rifle.

Slowly, almost holding his breath lest he be noticed, he edged his way along. He had plenty of time for thought. This was not so easy a job as he had fancied, not the physical part, but the mental strain. He could shoot a man who was shooting at him, he could batter a man over the head who was trying to do the same to him, but this stalking a man in cold blood was different somehow. Cold blood! He laughed soundlessly at his recurrent fancy. He went a little more slowly. Finally he stopped to consider.

From the nook ahead of him in which the enemy had ensconced himself came a sudden rapid rattle of rifle-shots. His friend back in the trench was doing his part. The man was awake -- on the alert. It would be something of a fair fight, he thought with some little satisfaction. He surveyed the intervening space beyond the coppice. The men in the trenches on both sides would be awake, too. It would take him a few seconds to cross that space and get at the man he was stalking. Could they shoot him before that? There was some shelter where the enemy was. If the stalker could get to that spot he would be protected for a moment from fire from the enemy's trench.

It would take him a second or two to cross that space. In a second or two what might happen? Well, he would have to risk that. At the very end of the coppice he gathered himself together and rose slowly to a crouching position. Another rain of shots came from the nook; the man's rifle would be empty, he must give him no chance to reload. Now it would be a fair fight with the bayonet.

He threw aside the white draperies that impeded his legs and in half a dozen bounds the two men were face to face.

No shot had been fired. Yes, the magazine of the man's rifle was empty. He heard the crunch of his enemy's feet on the snow. He rose to his feet, his bayoneted rifle extended. The two barrels struck with terrific force. The men swayed, drew back for another thrust, and they were suddenly aware of a mist-like figure between them, a figure draped in white, lightly, diaphanously.

They stood arrested, guns drawn back, and stared. The figure slowly extended its arm, carrying drapery with it. A man's breast was bared. There, over the heart, was a great gaping wound, fresh, as if a broad, heavy blade had pierced it.

There was a clatter on the ice as a gun dropped and another clatter as a similar weapon struck the stone opposite. The two men bent forward, their hands outstretched. They took a step as if to touch the figure and there was nothing there! The hands met. They clasped warmly in the cold against each other.

"My God, what was that?" said the stalker.

"I don't know," answered the other.

"A pierced side!"

"Was it -- "

"No. It couldn't be."

"Well, we worship the same God and -- "

Ah, they were seen. There were quick words of command from the trenches, a staccato of rifle-shots, and two bodies lay side by side, hands still clasped, while the snow reddened and reddened beneath them.

And it was Christmas eve.



IX

The Forgiver of Sins



"I Say Unto Thee Until Seventy Times Seven"



IX

The Forgiver of Sins


"A Priest, for Christ's sake, a priest," moaned the man.

A white-faced sister of charity upon whom had developed the appalling task of caring for the long rows of wounded at the dressing station before they were entrained and sent south to the hospital, hovered over the stretcher.

"My poor man," she whispered, "there is no priest here."

"I can't die without confession -- absolution," was the answer. "A priest, get me a priest."

Next to and almost touching the cot on which the speaker writhed in his death agony lay another man apparently in a profound stupor. He wore the uniform of a private soldier and his eyes were bandaged. His face had been torn to pieces by shrapnel, fragments of which had blinded him. At that instant he came out of that stupor. Perhaps the familiar words recalled him to himself. He moved his hand slightly. The sister saw his lips tremble. She bent low.

"Who seeks confession, absolution?" he whispered. "I am a priest."

"You are wounded, dying, father."

"How can I die better than shriving a fellow sinner?"

That was true. The heroic woman turned to the man who still kept up his monotonous appeal.

"The man next to you," she said, "dying like you, is a priest."

"Father," cried the first man with sudden strength. "I must confess before I die."

"Lift me up," said the priest.

The woman slipped her arm about his shoulders and raised him.

"The sister?" began the other.

"I shall be blind and deaf," said the woman.

"Speak on," whispered the priest.

"I have been a great sinner -- there isn't time to confess all."

"What is heaviest upon your soul, my son?"

"A woman's fate."

"Ah."

"There were two who loved her -- a dozen years ago -- she preferred me -- I took her away."

"Did you marry her?"

"No. And then we quarreled -- I deserted her. When I came to seek her she was gone -- young, innocent, penniless, alone in Paris -- I have sought her and never found her."

"What is your name?" asked the priest suddenly with a fierce note in his quivering voice.

"Father, can I be forgiven?" answered the man giving his name.

The dying soldier stared anxiously up at his bandaged comrade, at the nun who had hid her face behind the shoulder of the priest. He noticed that her body was shaking.

"And the woman's name?"

The priest suddenly sat upright. He shook off the sister's restraining hand. He tore the bandage from his own face. He bent over the dying man as he murmured the woman's name.

"Wretch," he cried, "look at me."

His face was gashed and cut and torn but something remained by which the other recognized him.

"You!" he cried shrinking away.

"I loved her, too," said the priest. "I would have married her. When she went away with you Holy Church received me."

"Mercy," cried the soldier uplifting his hand.

"What mercy did you show her?"

The priest could not see but he could feel. His hand seized the other's throat.

"My father," interposed the nun. "He has confessed. God will forgive, even as I."

"Who are you?" asked the blind priest, fearfully.

"The woman!" cried the dying man shaking off the other's hand and lifting himself up.

The sight came back to the priest on the instant. The fierce agony that filled his blinded eyes seemed to give place to the gentle touch of a hand upon them. He seemed to hear a mighty word -- Ephphatha -- that meant "be opened." Light flooded his soul. Looking up he was aware of two figures. One of the twain, an old man, gray bearded, was appealing to the other, clad in white raiment and youthful. And the priest suddenly recalled an old and well-known story of a fellow servant who would not have mercy.

"Father, forgive -- " whispered the man before him.

As the voice of the dying sinner died away in the silence all was dark again. The priest saw no more, but the horrible pain in his eyes did not return. Over his torn features came a look of calm. He lifted his arm. His wavering hand cut the air in the sign of the cross.

"Absolvo te," he murmured as he pitched forward dead upon the breast of the dying.

And the woman tenderly covered them over.

Absolvo te.



X

The Giver of Life

"He That Eateth Of This Bread Shall Live Forever"



X

The Giver of Life


Of the five specters in the boat three were without life. Those whose faint breathing indicated that they had not yet reached the point of death were too weak and indifferent to rid the boat of the bodies of the others. Ever since the homeward-bound whaler had struck a derelict in a gale of wind north of the Falklands and foundered, this little boat, surviving the shipwreck as by a miracle, had drifted on.

For three weeks in vain they had scanned the horizon for a sail. Their scanty supply of bread and water had been consumed in ten days. Thereafter they had nothing. The baby had died first, next a man whose arm had been broken by a falling spar in the disaster, and then the ship's cabin boy. The survivors were a man and a woman. They were both far gone. The woman was plainly dying. The man kept himself up by sheer exercise of will.

Their drifting had been northward toward warmer seas. It was winter in their home land and, though they knew it not, Christmas day. There the tropic sun blazed overhead from an absolutely cloudless sky. There was no vestige of breeze to stir the canvas of the solitary sail or ripple the glassy surface of the smoothed out ocean. The boat lay still. Not even the iron man at the helm could have lifted an oar. It had been dead calm for days. Speech there was none except in the gravest necessity. To talk connectedly was impossible.

After scanning the horizon for the thousandth time the man's burning eyes sought those of the woman at his feet. He was astonished to find them open. Her mouth was working, her parched lips strove to form words. He dropped the tiller which his hand had grasped mechanically, and which was useless since there was no way on the boat, and bent his head lower. Some sudden recrudescence of strength which the dying sometimes receive came to the woman.

"Death," she whispered. "Glad." She turned her head slightly and saw the form of the child. "The Baby -- and -- I -- together."

The man nodded. Tenderly he laid his hot wasted hand on the woman's fevered brow.

"A priest," she said, looking up at him uncomprehendingly.

She was evidently going fast yet she knew what she wanted although she was not conscious that she craved the impossible. It would appear that she had been a good churchwoman. The man could only stare. He was no priest, only a rough sailor.

"A priest," said the woman more clearly. "I want -- a priest -- the sacrament." By some nervous convulsive effort she lifted her arms up toward him beseeching, appealing. There was another kind of agony in her voice that had not been present when she had moaned for water in the days before.

"The sacrament," she insisted, "I die."

The man looked away. Hard by the boat where there had been but a waste of sea rose a green island. A stretch of pleasant meadow met his eyes. It was so close to him that if he had leaned over the gunwale of the boat he could have laid his hand on the lush grass. Dumbly he wondered where it had been before, how he had come upon it so suddenly, why he had not seen it hours ago.

In front of him were hundreds of people, men, women, and children, plain people in strange simple garb, the like of which he had never seen. In front of these people and with their backs toward him stood a little group of men, in the center a figure in white garments. A lad offered something in a basket.

The man watched, amazed, awe-stricken, yet with a strange peace in his soul. He made no movement to gain the shore. He only looked and looked. The white-robed figure bent over the basket. He lifted from it a crude rough loaf of bread. He raised his eyes to heaven, his lips moved. He broke the bread and gave it.

As the sailor watched the island disappeared as suddenly as it had come. The scene changed. Now he looked into a low room, dimly lighted with strange lamps. Through an open window he saw the stars. The few men that had stood about the man in the grassy meadow were alone with him in that upper chamber reclining about a table. The man lifted from the board a cup of silver. He blessed it and gave it. The fragrance of wine came to the watcher.

He rubbed his eyes and looked again and before him spread the smooth unbroken surface of the monotonous sea. The woman's voice smote his ear again, higher, shriller, with more painful entreaty.

"A priest -- for the love of God -- the sacrament," she whispered.

The man tore open the last canvas bread-bag. It was tough material but it yielded to his insistence. In the corner there was a single tiny crumb they had overlooked. He lifted it gently with his great hand. He held it up in the air a moment striving to think. He was an English sailor and in his boyhood had been a chorister in a great Cathedral. The mighty words came back to him. He bent over the woman.

The cry for bread.

"Bread," he whispered. "The body -- "

He shattered the water breaker with his fist. There was a suggestion of moisture on the inside of the staves of the cask. He drew his finger across them and touched it to the woman's lips.

"Water," he said hoarsely. "The blood -- "

The terror, the yearning, disappeared from the woman's eyes. She looked at the man sanely, gratefully.

"God bless -- " she faltered and then her lips stiffened.

Some tag of quaint old Scripture that had impressed him when he first heard it because of its very strangeness, but of which he had never thought in all the years of his rough life since boyhood, came into the man's mind now. He lifted his head as if to see again that figure.

"A priest forever," he gasped, "after the order of Melchis -- "

He did not finish the word. The woman was dead. He knew now for what he had been kept alive. His task had been performed. He bowed his head in his hands and entered into life eternal with the others.

Presently a little cloud flecked the sky. Out of the south the wind blew softly. The smooth sea rippled blue and white in the gentle breeze. The little boat, cradling its dead, rocked gently as it drifted on.



XI

The Stiller of the Storm



"Be Of Good Cheer; It Is I; Be Not Afraid"



XI

The Stiller of the Storm


"It's Christmas eve at home," murmured the young lad after he had said his prayers and tumbled into his narrow berth on the great ship. "I suppose they're trimming the Christmas tree now and hanging up the stockings. I wish I were there."

He was very young to serve his country, but not too young according to the standards of mankind to be a midshipman on the great steel monster keeping the leaden deep. It was the first time he had ever been away from home on Christmas day, too. The youngsters had all laughed and joked about it in the steerage mess. They had promised themselves some kind of a celebration in the morning, but in his own cot with no one to see, a few tears which he fondly deemed unmanly would come. He had the midnight watch and he knew that he must get some sleep, but it was a long time before he closed his eyes and drifted off to dream of home and his mother.

Athwart that dream came a sudden, frightful, heart-stilling roar of destruction; a hideous crash followed, a terrible rending, breaking, smashing, concatenation of noises, succeeded by frightful detonations, as through the gaping hole torn in the great battleship by the deadly torpedo, the water rushed upon the heated boilers, the explosion of which in turn ignited the magazines. By that deadly underwater thrust of the enemy the battleship was reduced in a few moments to a disjointed, disorganized, sinking mass of shapeless, formless, splintered steel.

As the explosions ceased, from every point rose shrieks and groans and cries of men in the death-agony hurled into eternity and torn like the steel. And then the boy heard the surviving officers coolly, resolutely calling the men to their stations.

He had been thrown from his berth by the violence of the explosion. His face was cut and bleeding where he had struck a near-by stanchion. His left arm hung useless. He had lain dazed on the deck for a few moments until he heard the orders of his lieutenant. He was one of the signal midshipmen stationed on the signal bridge. Whatever happened that was the place to which to go; he still had a duty to perform.

Picking himself up as best he could, he hurried to report to the lieutenant. With such means as were available signals were made. Calls for help? Oh, never! Warnings that the enemy's submarines were in the near vicinity and that other ships should keep away.

The captain was on the half wrecked bridge above. The boy noticed how quiet he was, yet his voice rang over the tumult.

"Steady, men, steady. Keep your stations. Stand by. Be ready."

The old quartermaster whose business it was to tell the hours saluted the captain.

"Eight bells, sir," he said, "midnight. Christmas day," he added.

"Strike them," said the captain.

And, as clear as ever, the four couplets rang out over the chaos and the disaster.

"Christmas day," the boy murmured.

"She's going, men," said the captain, as the cadences died away. "Save yourselves. Abandon the ship."

"Christmas morning," said the boy. "I wonder what they're doing at home."

"Overboard with you, youngster," said the signal lieutenant; "I wish I had a life-preserver for you, but -- "

"Merry Christmas, sir," said the lad suddenly.

"Good God!" said the man. "Merry Christmas! They will think of us at home."

What was left of the ship gave a mighty reel.

"Quick or she'll suck you down," the officer roared, as he fairly flung the boy into the water, -- and how he hurt that broken arm! "You can swim. Strike out. Good-by."

The boy had caught a glimpse of the captain standing on the bridge as the wreck went down and then the wild waters closed over his head. It was frightfully cold. A hard gale was blowing. The waves ran terribly high. His left arm was helpless. His head ached fiercely. What was the use? Still the boy struck out bravely with his free hand. The instinct of life! It was too dark to see. The sky was covered with drifting clouds. Only here and there a little rift of moonlight came through.

"Christmas morning," he sobbed out as the waves rolled him over. "Oh, my God!"

He felt himself going down. All at once the waters seemed to grow still. It was suddenly calm. He was no longer cold. He threw his head up for one last look at the sky and life and then he hung, as it were, suspended in some strange way. He saw a figure walking across the smooth of the seas as it had been solid ground. The figure drew nearer, the wind seemed to have died away, but the draperies that shrouded it swung gently as they would while a man walked along. The face he saw dimly, vaguely, but there was light in it somehow. It came slowly nearer.

"Christmas morning," whispered the boy.

The hand of the figure reached down. It caught the boy's right arm. He was lifted up.

"Home and Christmas morning," whispered the boy, closing his eyes.

The moonlight broke through a cloud and fell upon him. A wave rolled over him and the sea was empty as before.


*    *    *    *    *

He that hath eyes to see, let him see!

<eob>

Making His Way

Or

Frank Courtney's Struggle Upward

By

Horatio Alger, Jr.



Chapter I

Two School Friends


Two boys were walking in the campus of the Bridgeville Academy. They were apparently of about the same age -- somewhere from fifteen to sixteen -- but there was a considerable difference in their attire.

Herbert Grant was neatly but coarsely dressed, and his shoes were of cowhide, but his face indicated a frank, sincere nature, and was expressive of intelligence.

His companion was dressed in a suit of fine cloth, his linen was of the finest, his shoes were calfskin, and he had the indefinable air of a boy who had been reared in luxury.

He had not the broad, open face of his friend -- for the two boys were close friends -- but his features were finely chiseled, indicating a share of pride, and a bold, self-reliant nature.

He, too, was an attractive boy, and in spite of his pride possessed a warm, affectionate heart and sterling qualities, likely to endear him to those who could read and understand him.

His name was Frank Courtney, and he is the hero of my story.

"Have you written your Latin exercises, Frank?" asked Herbert.

"Yes; I finished them an hour ago."

"I was going to ask you to write them with me. It is pleasanter to study in company."

"Provided you have the right sort of company," rejoined Frank.

"Am I the right sort of company?" inquired Herbert, with a smile.

"You hardly need to ask that, Herbert. Are we not always together? If I did not like your company, I should not seek it so persistently. I don't care to boast, but I have plenty of offers of companionship which I don't care to accept. There is Bob Stickney, for instance, who is always inviting me to his room; but you know what he is -- a lazy fellow, who cares more to have a good time than to study. Then there is James Cameron, a conceited, empty-headed fellow, who is very disagreeable to me."

"You don't mention your stepbrother, Mark Manning."

"For two reasons -- he doesn't care for my company, and of all the boys I dislike him the most."

"I don't like him myself. But why do you dislike him so much?"

"Because he is a sneak -- a crafty, deceitful fellow, always scheming for his own interest. He hates me, but he doesn't dare to show it. His father is my mother's husband, but the property is hers, and will be mine. He thinks he may some day be dependent on me, and he conceals his dislike in order to stand the better chance by and by. Heaven grant that it may be long before my dear mother is called away!"

"How did she happen to marry again, Frank?"

"I can hardly tell. It was a great grief to me. Mr. Manning was a penniless lawyer, who ingratiated himself with my mother, and persecuted her till she consented to marry him. He is very soft-spoken, and very plausible, and he managed to make mother -- who has been an invalid for years -- think that it would be the best thing for her to delegate her cares to him, and provide me with a second father."

Frank did not like his stepfather, he did not trust him.

"Your stepbrother, Mark Manning, enjoys the same advantages as yourself, does he not?" inquired Herbert.

"Yes."

"Then his father's marriage proved a good thing for him."

"That is true. When he first came to the house he was poorly dressed, and had evidently been used to living in a poor way. He was at once provided with a complete outfit as good as my own, and from that time as much has been spent on him as on me. Don't think that I am mean enough to grudge him any part of the money expended upon him. If he were like you, I could like him, and enjoy his society; but he is just another as his father."

Here Herbert's attention was drawn to a boy who was approaching with a yellow envelope in his hand.

"Frank," he said, suddenly, "there's Mark Manning. He looks as if he had something to say to you. He has either a letter or a telegram in his hand."



Chapter II

The Telegram


Frank's heart gave a great bound at the suggestion of a telegram. A telegram could mean but one thing -- that his mother had become suddenly worse.

He hurried to meet his stepbrother.

"Is that a telegram, Mark?" he asked, anxiously.

"Yes."

"Is it anything about mother? Tell me quick!"

"Read it for yourself, Frank."

Frank drew the telegram from the envelope, and read it hastily:

"My wife is very sick. I wish you and Frank to come home at once."

"When does the next train start, Herbert?" asked Frank, pale with apprehension.

"In an hour."

"I shall go by that train."

"I don't think I can get ready so soon," said Mark, deliberately.

"Then you can come by yourself," replied Frank, impetuously. "I beg your pardon, Mark," he added. "I cannot expect you to feel as I do. It is not your mother."

"It is my stepmother," said Mark.

"That is quite different. But I must not linger here. I will go at once to Dr. Brush, and tell him of my summons home. Good-bye, Herbert, till we meet again."

"I will go with you to the depot, Frank," said his friend, sympathizingly. "Don't wait for me. Go ahead, and make your preparation for the journey. I will be at your room in a quarter of an hour."

"You won't go by the next train, Mark?" said Herbert.

"No. I don't care to rush about as Frank is doing."

"You would if it were your own mother who was so ill."

"I am not sure. It wouldn't do any good, would it?"

"You would naturally feel anxious," said Herbert.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so!" answered Mark, indifferently.

Mark Manning was slender and dark, with a soft voice and rather effeminate ways. He didn't care for the rough sports in which most boys delight; never played baseball or took part in athletic exercises, but liked to walk about, sprucely dressed, and had even been seen on the campus on a Saturday afternoon with his hands incased in kid gloves.

For this, however, he was so ridiculed and laughed at that he had to draw them off and replace them in his pocket.

As Frank and Herbert walked together to the railway station, the latter said:

"It seems to me, Frank, that the telegram should have been sent to you, rather than to Mark Manning. You are the one who is most interested in the contents."

"I thought of that, Herbert, but I was too much affected by the contents to speak of it. I am not surprised, however. It is like Mr. Manning. It jarred upon me to have him speak of mother as his wife. She is so, but I never could reconcile myself to the fact."

"Do you remember your father -- your own father, Frank?"

"You need not have said 'your own father.' I don't recognize Mr. Manning as a father, at all. Yes, I remember him. I was eight years old when he died. He was a fine-looking man, always kind -- a man to be loved and respected. There was not a particle of similarity between him and Mr. Manning. He was strong and manly."

"How did it happen that he died so young?"

"He was the victim of a railway accident. He had gone to New York on business, and was expected back on a certain day. The train on which he was a passenger collided with a freight train, and my poor father was among the passengers who were killed. The news was almost too much for my poor mother, although she had not yet become an invalid. It brought on a fit of sickness lasting for three months. She has never been altogether well since."

"After all, Frank, the gifts of fortune, or rather Providence, are not so unequally distributed as at first appears. You are rich, but fatherless. I am poor enough but my father and mother are both spared to me."

"I would gladly accept poverty if my father could be restored to life, and my mother be spared to me for twenty years to come."

"I am sure you would, Frank," said Herbert. "Money is valuable, but there are some things far more so."

They had reached the station by this time, and it was nearly the time for the train to start. Frank bought his ticket, and the two friends shook hands and bade each other good-bye.

In an hour Frank was walking up the long avenue leading to the front door of the mansion.

The door was opened by his stepfather.

"How is mother?" asked Frank, anxiously.

"I am grieved to say that she is very sick," said Mr. Manning, in a soft voice. "She had a copious hemorrhage this morning, which has weakened her very much."

"Is she in danger?" asked Frank, anxiously.

"I fear she is," said Mr. Manning.

"I suppose I can see her?"

"Yes; but it will be better not to make her talk much."

"I will be careful, sir."

Frank waited no longer, but hurried to his mother's chamber. As he entered, and his glance fell on the bed and its occupant, he was shocked by the pale and ghastly appearance of the mother whom he so dearly loved. The thought came to him at once:

"She cannot live."

He found it difficult to repress a rising sob, but he did so for his mother's sake. He thought that it might affect her injuriously if he should display emotion.

His mother smiled faintly as he approached the bed.

"Mother," said Frank, kneeling by the bedside, "are you very weak?"

"Yes, Frank," she answered, almost in a whisper. "I think I am going to leave you."

"Oh, don't say that, mother!" burst forth in anguish from Frank's lips. "Try to live for my sake."

"I should like to live, my dear boy," whispered his mother; "but if it is God's will that I should die, I must be reconciled. I leave you in his care."

Here Mr. Manning entered the room.

"You will be kind to my boy?" said the dying mother.

"Can you doubt it, my dear?" replied her husband, in the soft tones Frank so much disliked. "I will care for him as if he were my own."

"Thank you. Then I shall die easy."

"Don't speak any more, mother. It will tire you, and perhaps bring on another hemorrhage."

"Frank is right, my dear. You had better not exert yourself any more at present."

"Didn't Mark come with you?" asked Mr. Manning of Frank.

"No, sir."

"I am surprised that he should not have done so. I sent for him as well as you."

"I believe he is coming by the next train," said Frank, indifferently. "He thought he could not get ready in time for my train."

"He should not have left you to come at such a time."

"I didn't wish him to inconvenience himself, Mr. Manning. If it had been his mother, it would have been different."

Mr. Manning did not reply. He understood very well that there was no love lost between Mark and his stepson.



Chapter III

Frank's Bereavement


Early in the evening Mark made his appearance. Supper had been over for an hour, and everything was cold. In a house where there is sickness, the regular course of things is necessarily interrupted, and, because he could not have his wants attended to immediately, Mark saw fit to grumble and scold the servants. He was not a favorite with them, and they did not choose to be bullied.

Deborah, who had been in the house for ten years, and so assumed the independence of an old servant, sharply reprimanded the spoiled boy.

"You ought to be ashamed, Mr. Mark," she said, "of making such a fuss when my poor mistress lies upstairs at the point of death."

"Do you know who you are talking to?" demanded Mark, imperiously, for he could, when speaking with those whom he regarded as inferiors, exchange his soft tones for a voice of authority.

"I ought to know by this time," answered Deborah, contemptuously. "There is no other in the house like you, I am glad to say."

"You are very impertinent. You forget that you are nothing but a servant."

"A servant has the right to be decently treated, Mr. Mark."

"If you don't look out," said Mark, in a blustering tone, "I will report you to my father, and have you kicked out of the house."

Deborah was naturally incensed at this rude speech, but she was spared the trouble of replying. Frank entered the room at this moment in time to hear Mark's last speech.

"What is this about being kicked out of the house?" he asked, looking from Mark to Deborah, in a tone of unconscious authority, which displeased his stepbrother.

"That is my business," replied Mark, shortly.

"Mr. Mark has threatened to have me kicked out of the house because he has to wait for his supper," said Deborah.

"It wasn't for that. It was because you were impertinent. All the same, I think it is shameful that I can't get anything to eat."

"I regret, Mark," said Frank, with cool sarcasm, "that you should be inconvenienced about your meals. Perhaps you will excuse it, as my poor mother is so sick that she requires extra attention from the servants. Deborah, if possible, don't let Mark wait much longer. It seems to be very important that he should have his supper."

"He shall have it," assured Deborah, rather enjoying the way in which Mark was put down; "that is, if he don't get me kicked out of the house."

"You had better not make any such threats in the future, Mark," said Frank, significantly.

"Who's to hinder?" blustered Mark.

"I am," answered Frank, pointedly.

"You are nothing but a boy like me," retorted Mark.

"My mother is mistress here, and I represent her."

"Things may change soon," muttered Mark; but Frank had left the room and did not hear him.

Mark did not trouble himself even to inquire for his stepmother, but went out to the stable and lounged about until bedtime. He seemed very much bored, and so expressed himself.

Frank wished to sit up all night with his mother, but, as she had a professional nurse, it was thought best that he should obtain his regular rest, the nurse promising to call the family if any change should be apparent in her patient's condition.

About half-past four in the morning there was a summons.

"Mrs. Manning is worse," said the nurse. "I don't think she can last long."

One last glance of love -- though she could no longer speak -- assured Frank that she knew him and loved him to the last.

The memory of that look often came back to him in the years that followed, and he would not have parted with it for anything that earth could give.

Just as the clock struck five, his mother breathed her last. The boy gazed upon the inanimate form, but he was dazed, and could not realize that his mother had left him, never to return.

"She is gone," said Mr. Manning, softly.

"Dead!" ejaculated Frank.

"Yes, her sufferings are over. Let us hope she is better off. My boy, I think you had better return to your bed. You can do nothing for your mother now."

"I would rather stay here," said Frank, sadly. "I can at least look at her, and soon I shall lose even that comfort."

The thought was too much for the poor boy, and he burst into tears.

"Do as you please, Frank," assented Mr. Manning. "I feel for you, and I share in your grief. I will go and tell Mark of our sad loss."

He made his way to Mark's chamber and entered. He touched Mark, who was in a doze, and he started up.

"What's the matter?" he asked, crossly.

"Your poor mother is dead, Mark."

"Well, there was no need to wake me for that," said the boy, irritably. "I can't help it, can I?"

"I think, my son, you might speak with more feeling. Death is a solemn thing."

"There's nobody here but me," said Mark, sneering.

"I don't catch your meaning," said his father, showing some annoyance, for it is not pleasant to be seen through.

"Why should you care so much?" continued Mark. "I suppose you will be well provided for. Do you know how she has left the property? How much of it goes to Frank?"

"I can't say," said Mr. Manning. "I never asked my wife."

"Do you mean to say, father, that you don't know how the property is left?" asked Mark, with a sharp glance at his father.

"I may have my conjectures," said Mr. Manning, softly. "I don't think my dear wife would leave me without some evidences of her affection. Probably the bulk of the estate goes to your brother, and something to me. Doubtless we shall continue to live here, as I shall naturally be your brother's guardian."

"Don't call him my brother," said Mark.

"Why not? True, he is only your stepbrother; but you have lived under the same roof, and been to school together, and this ought to strengthen the tie between you."

"I don't like Frank," said Mark. "He puts on altogether too many airs."

"I had not observed that," said his father.

"Well, I have. Only this evening he saw fit to speak impudently to me."

"Indeed! I am really amazed to hear it," said Mr. Manning, softly.

"Oh, he thinks he is the master of the house, or will be," said Mark, "and he presumes on that."

"He is unwise," said Mr. Manning. "Even if the whole property descends to him, which I can hardly believe possible, I, as his guardian, will have the right to control him."

"I hope you'll do it, father. At any rate, don't let him boss over me, for I won't stand it."

"I don't think he will boss over you," answered his father, in a slow, measured voice, betraying, however, neither anger nor excitement. "Of course, I should not permit that."

Mark regarded his father fixedly.

"I guess the old man knows what's in the will," he said to himself. "He knows how to feather his own nest. I hope he's feathered mine, too."

Mr. Manning passed from his son's chamber and went softly upstairs, looking thoughtful.

Anyone who could read the impassive face would have read trouble in store for Frank.



Chapter IV

Mrs. Manning's Will


During the preparations for the funeral Frank was left pretty much to himself.

Mr. Manning's manner was so soft, and to him had been so deferential, that he did not understand the man. It didn't occur to him that it was assumed for a purpose.

That manner was not yet laid aside. His stepfather offered to comfort him, but Frank listened in silence. Nothing that Mr. Manning could say had the power to lighten his load of grief. So far as words could console him, the sympathy of Deborah and the coachman, both old servants, whom his mother trusted, had more effect, for he knew that it was sincere, and that they were really attached to his mother.

Of Mr. Manning he felt a profound distrust, which no words of his could remove.

Meanwhile, Mr. Manning was looking from an upper window down the fine avenue, and his eye ranged from left to right over the ample estate with a glance of self-complacent triumph.

"All mine at last!" he said to himself, exultingly. "What I have been working for has come to pass. Three years ago I was well-nigh penniless, and now I am a rich man. I shall leave Mark the master of a great fortune. I have played my cards well. No one will suspect anything wrong. My wife and I have lived in harmony. There will be little wonder that she has left all to me. There would be, perhaps, but for the manner in which I have taken care he shall be mentioned in the will -- I mean, of course, in the will I have made for her."

He paused, and, touching a spring in the wall, a small door flew open, revealing a shallow recess.

In this recess was a folded paper, tied with a red ribbon.

Mr. Manning opened it, and his eyes glanced rapidly down the page.

"This is the true will," he said to himself. "I wish I could summon courage to burn it. It would be best out of the way. That, if found out, would make me amenable to the law, and I must run no risk. In this secret recess it will never be found. I will replace it, and the document which I have had prepared will take its place, and no one will be the wiser."

On the day after the funeral, the family solicitor and a few intimate friends, who had been invited by Mr. Manning, assembled in the drawing room of the mansion to hear the will read.

Mr. Manning himself notified Frank of the gathering and its object.

He found our hero lying on the bed in his chamber, sad and depressed.

"I don't like to intrude upon your grief, my dear boy," said his stepfather, softly, "but it is necessary. The last will of your dear mother and my beloved wife is about to be read, and your presence is necessary."

"Couldn't it be put off?" asked Frank, sadly. "It seems too soon to think of such things."

"Pardon me, my dear Frank, but it is quite needful that there should be an immediate knowledge of the contents of the will, in order that the right person may look after the business interests of the estate. I assure you that it is the invariable custom to read the will immediately after the funeral."

"If that is the custom, and it is necessary, I have nothing to say. When is the will to be read?"

"At three o'clock, and it is now two."

"Very well, sir; I will come down in time."

"Of course there can't be much doubt as to the contents of the will," pursued Mr. Manning. "You are doubtless the heir, and as you are a minor, I am probably your guardian. Should such be the case, I hope that the relations between us may be altogether friendly."

"I hope so," said Frank, gravely.

At three o'clock the members of the family, with a few outside friends, gathered in the drawing room. The family solicitor, Mr, Ferret, held in his hand what purported to be the last will of Mrs. Manning.

The widowed husband had directed the lawyer to the bureau of the deceased lady as likely to contain her will. It was found without trouble in the topmost drawer.

Deborah and the coachman had speculated as to whether they would be invited to attend at the reading of the will.

Their doubts were set at rest by an invitation from Mr. Manning himself.

"You were so long in the service of my dear wife," he said, "that it is fitting that you be present at the reading of her will, in which it is quite probable that you may be personally interested."

"He is uncommonly polite, I am sure," thought Deborah, disposed for the moment to think more favorably of the man whom she had never been able to like.

"My friends," said the lawyer, after a preliminary cough, "you are assembled to listen to the will of Mrs. Manning, just deceased. The document which I hold in my hand I believe to be such an instrument. I will now open if for the first time."

He untied the ribbon, and began reading the will.

It commenced with the usual formula, and proceeded to a few bequests of trifling amount.

Deborah and Richard Green were each left two hundred dollars, "as a slight acknowledgment of their faithful service."

One or two friends of the family were remembered, but to an inconsiderable extent. Then came the important clause:

"All the rest and residue of the property of which I may die possessed I leave to my beloved husband, James Manning, whose devoted affection has made happy the last years of my life. Having implicit confidence in his good judgment and kindness of heart, I request him to make proper provision for my dear son Frank, whose happiness I earnestly desire. I hope that he will consent to be guided by the wisdom and experience of his stepfather, who, I am sure, will study his interests and counsel him wisely. In my sorrow at parting with my dear son, it is an unspeakable comfort to me to feel that he will have such a guardian and protector."

Frank listened with amazement, which was shared by all present.

Practically, he was disinherited, and left wholly dependent upon his stepfather.



Chapter V

Disinherited


The contents of the will created general astonishment. There was not one in the room who didn't know the devotion of Mrs. Manning to her son Frank, yet, while speaking of him affectionately, she had treated him, as they considered, most cruelly. Why should she have left such a dangerous power in her husband's hands?

And how was Mr. Manning affected?

He summoned to his face an expression of bewilderment and surprise, and, feeling that all eyes were fixed upon, him, he turned toward the lawyer.

"Mr. Ferret," he said, "I need hardly say that this will surprises me very much, as I see that it does the friends who are present. Are you sure that there is no codicil?"

"I have been unable to discover any, Mr. Manning," said the lawyer, gravely, as he scanned the face of the widower keenly.

Mr. Manning applied his handkerchief to his eyes, and seemed overcome by emotion.

"I knew my dear wife's confidence in me," he said, in a tremulous voice, "but I was not prepared for such a striking manifestation of it."

"Nor I," said Mr. Ferret, dryly.

"Knowing her strong attachment to Frank," paused Mr. Manning, "I feel the full extent and significance of that confidence when she leaves him so unreservedly to my care and guidance. I hope that I may be found worthy of the trust."

"I hope so, sir," said Mr. Ferret, who, sharp lawyer as he was, doubted whether all was right, and was willing that Mr. Manning should be made aware of his feeling. "It is certainly a remarkable proviso, considering the affection which your wife entertained for her son."

"Precisely, Mr. Ferret. It shows how much confidence the dear departed felt in me."

"So far as I can see, the boy is left wholly dependent upon you."

"He shall not regret it!" said Mr. Manning, fervently. "I consecrate my life to this sacred trust."

"You acquiesce in the arrangement, then, Mr. Manning?"

"I cannot do otherwise, can I?"

"There is nothing to prevent your settling the property, or any part of it, on the natural heir, Mr. Manning. You must pardon me for saying that it would have been wiser had your wife so stipulated by will."

"I cannot consent to reverse, or in any way annul, the last wishes of my dear wife," said Mr. Manning, hastily. "It was her arrangement solely, and I hold it sacred. She has put upon me a serious responsibility, from which I shrink, indeed, but which I cannot decline. I will do all in my power to carry out the wishes of my late wife."

Mr. Ferret shrugged his shoulders.

"I am not surprised at your decision, sir," he said, coldly. "Few men would resist the temptation. My duty is discharged with the reading of the will, and I will bid you good-afternoon!"

Mr. Manning was a crafty man. He knew that the strange will would be discussed, and he thought it best that the discussion should come at once, that it might be the sooner finished.

Deborah, faithful old servant, was in a blaze of indignation.

She went up quickly to Frank, and said:

"It's a shame, Mr. Frank, so it is!"

"If my mother made that will, it is all right," said Frank, gravely.

"But she didn't, Mr. Frank! I know she would never do such a thing. She loved you as the apple of her eye, and she would not cheat you out of your rightful inheritance."

"No more she would, Mr. Frank," said the coachman, chiming in.

"I don't know what to think," said Frank. "It has surprised me very much."

"Surprised you!" exclaimed Deborah. "You may well say that. You might have knocked me down with a feather when I heard the property left away from you. Depend upon it, that man knows all about it."

"You mean Mr. Manning?"

"To be sure I mean him! Oh, he's managed artfully! I say that for him. He's got it all into his own hands, and you haven't a cent."

"If it was my mother's will I wouldn't complain of that, Deborah. It was hers to do with as she liked, and I know, at any rate, that she loved me."

"There's one thing surprises me," said Richard Green. "If so be as the will isn't genuine, how does it happen that you and I come in for a legacy, Deborah?"

"It's meant for a blind," answered Deborah. "Oh, he's the artfulest man!"

"You may be right, Deborah. I must say the will sounded all right."

"Maybe it was copied from the mistress' will."

This conversation took place in one corner of the room.

It ceased as Mr. Ferret advanced toward the disinherited boy.

"Frank," said he, in a tone of sympathy, "I am very sorry for the provisions of the will."

"So am I, sir," answered our hero. "It isn't pleasant to be dependent on Mr. Manning."

"Particularly when the whole estate should be yours."

"I wouldn't have minded if half had been left to him, provided I had been left independent of him."

"I appreciate your feelings, Frank. I knew your father, and I am proud to say that he was my friend. I knew your mother well, and I esteemed her highly. I hope you will let me regard myself as your friend also."

"Thank you, Mr. Ferret!" said Frank. "I am likely to need a friend. I shall remember your kind proposal. I want to ask you one question."

"Ask, and I shall answer."

"Did my mother consult with you about making this will?"

"No, Frank."

"Did she ever say anything that would lead you to think she would leave the property as it is left in this will?"

"Not a word."

"Was there another will?"

"Yes. I wrote her will at her direction more than a year ago. This will is dated only three months since, and, of course, takes precedence of it, even if the other is in existence."

"Can you tell me what were the provisions of the other will?"

"A legacy of ten thousand dollars was left to Mr. Manning, and the rest of the estate to you, except the small legacies, which were all larger than in the will I have read. For instance, Deborah and Richard Green were each put down for five hundred dollars."

"So they suffer as well as I?"

"Yes."

"Have you any idea, Mr. Ferret, of the value of the estate which falls into Mr. Manning's hands?"

"I have some idea, because I have talked with your mother on the subject. This estate is worth fifty thousand dollars at least, and there are fully fifty thousand dollars in money and bonds. The legacies do not altogether exceed one thousand dollars, and therefore it may be said that your stepfather has fallen heir to one hundred thousand dollars."

"I suppose there is nothing I can do, Mr. Ferret?"

"Not unless you can show that this will which I have read is not a genuine document. That would be difficult."

"Did you notice my mother's signature?"

"Yes. I am not an expert, but I cannot detect any difference greater than maybe existed between two signatures of the same person."

"Then I suppose there is nothing to be done at present. I expect to have a hard time with Mr. Manning, Mr. Ferret."

"How has he treated you in the past, Frank?" asked the lawyer.

"I have had nothing to complain of; but then he was not master of the estate. Now it is difficult, and I think his treatment of me will be different."

"You may be right. You remember what I said, Frank?"

"That I should regard you as a friend? I won't forget it, Mr. Ferret."

One by one the company left the house, and Frank was alone.

Left alone and unsustained by sympathy, he felt more bitterly than before the totally unexpected change in his circumstances.

Up to the last hour he had regarded himself as the heir of the estate. Now he was only a dependent of a man whom he heartily disliked.

Could it be that this misfortune had come to him through the agency of his mother?

"I will not believe it!" he exclaimed, energetically.



Chapter VI

An Unsatisfactory Interview


Frank came to a decision the next morning. A long deferred interview with his stepfather was necessary. Having made up his mind, he entered the room in which his stepfather sat. His air was manly and his bearing that of a boy who respects himself, but there was none of the swagger which some boys think it necessary to exhibit when they wish to assert their rights.

Mr. Manning, in a flowered dressing gown, sat at a table, with a sheet of paper before him and a lead pencil in his hand. Short as had been the interval since his accession to the property, he was figuring up the probable income he would derive from the estate.

He looked up as Frank entered the room, and surveyed him with cold and sarcastic eyes. His soft tones were dropped.

"Mr. Manning," said Frank, "I wish to talk to you."

"You may, of course," his stepfather replied mildly. "It is about the will," Frank advised him.

"So you would complain of your poor mother, would you?" said his stepfather, in a tone of virtuous indignation.

"I cannot believe that my mother made that will."

Mr. Manning colored. He scented danger. Should Frank drop such hints elsewhere, he might make trouble, and lead to a legal investigation, which Mr. Manning had every reason to dread.

"This is very foolish," he said, more mildly. "No doubt you are disappointed, but probably your mother has provided wisely. You will want for nothing, and you will be prepared for the responsibilities of manhood under my auspices."

Mr. Manning's face assumed a look of self-complacence as he uttered these last words.

"I have no blame to cast upon my dear mother," said Frank. "If she made that will, she acted under a great mistake."

"What mistake, sir?"

"She failed to understand you."

"Do you mean to imply that I shall be false to my trust?"

"Not at present, sir. I don't wish to judge of you too hastily."

As the boy turned to go, he said. "I have nothing further to say, sir."

"But I have," said Mr. Manning.

"Very well, sir."

"I demand that you treat my son Mark with suitable respect, and forbear to infringe upon his rights."

Frank looked up, and answered, with spirit: "I shall treat Mark as well as he treats me, sir. Is that satisfactory?"

"I apprehend," said Mr. Manning, "that you may make some mistakes upon that point."

"I will try not to do so, sir."

Frank left the room, and this time was not called back.

His stepfather looked after him, but his face expressed neither friendliness nor satisfaction.

"That boy requires taming," he said to himself. "He is going to make trouble. I must consider what I will do with him."

As Mr. Manning reviewed Frank's words, there was one thing which especially disturbed him -- the doubt expressed by his stepson as to his mother's having actually made the will.

He saw that it would not do for him to go too far in his persecution of Frank as it might drive the latter to consult a lawyer in regard to the validity of the will by which he had been disinherited.

Frank rather gloomily made his way to the stable. As he reached it, Richard Green came out.

"I'm sorry for you, Mr. Frank. But your mother was a saint. She was too good to suspect the badness of others, Mr. Frank. She thought old Manning was really all that he pretended to be, and that he would be as kind to you as she was herself. When she was alive, he was always as soft as -- as silk."

"His manner has changed now," said Frank, gravely. "Excuse me, Richard, for finding fault with you, but don't call him old Manning."

"Why not, Mr. Frank?"

"I have no liking for Mr. Manning -- in fact, I dislike him -- but he was the husband of my mother, and I prefer to speak of him respectfully."

"I dare say you are right, Mr. Frank, but, all the same, he don't deserve it. Is Mr. Mark to ride Ajax then?"

"If he asks for it, you are to saddle Ajax for him. I don't want you to get into any trouble with Mr. Manning on my account."

"I don't care for that, Mr. Frank. I can get another place, and I don't much care to serve Mr. Manning."

"I would rather you would stay, if you can, Richard. I don't want to see a new face in the stable."

"I don't think he means to keep me long, Mr. Frank. Deborah and I will have to go, I expect, and he'll get some servants of his own here."

"Has he hinted anything of this, Richard?" asked Frank, quickly.

"No; but he will soon, you may depend on it. I won't lose sight of you, though. I've known you since you were four years old, and I won't desert you, if I can do any good -- nor Deborah, either."

"I have two friends, then, at any rate," said Frank to himself. "That is something."



Chapter VII

A School Friend


Early Monday morning it had been the custom for Frank and Mark to take the train for Bridgeville, to enter upon a new week at the academy.

Frank felt that it would be better for him to go back without any further vacation, as occupation would serve to keep him from brooding over his loss.

"Are you ready, Mark?" he asked, as he rose from the breakfast table.

"Ready for what?"

"To go back to school, of course."

"I am not going back this morning," answered Mark.

"Why not?" asked Frank, in some surprise.

"I am going to stay at home to help father," said Mark, with a glance at Mr. Manning.

"If I can be of any service to you, sir, I will stay, too," said Frank, politely.

"Thank you, but Mark will do all I require," replied his stepfather.

"Very well, sir."

Frank appeared at the academy with a grave face and subdued manner, suggestive of the great loss he had sustained. From his schoolfellows, with whom he was a favorite, he received many words of sympathy -- from none more earnest or sincere than from Herbert Grant.

"I know how you feel, Frank," he said, pressing the hand of his friend. "If I could comfort you I would, but I don't know how to do it."

"I find comfort in your sympathy," said Frank. "I look upon you as my warmest friend here."

"I am glad of that, Frank."

To Herbert alone Frank spoke of his mother and her devoted affection; but even to him he did not like to mention the will and his disinheritance. He did not so much lament the loss of the property as that he had lost it by the direction of his mother, or, rather, because it would generally be supposed so.

For himself, he doubted the genuineness of the will, but he felt that it was useless to speak of it, as he was unprepared with any proofs.

So it happened that when, on Wednesday afternoon Mark Manning made his appearance, Frank's change of position, as respected the property, was neither known nor suspected by his schoolfellows. It was soon known, however, and of course, through Mark.

The boys immediately noticed a change in Mark. He assumed an air of consequence, and actually strutted across the campus. Instead of being polite and attentive to Frank, he passed him with a careless nod, such as a superior might bestow on an inferior.

"What has come over Mark?" asked Herbert of Frank, as the two were walking together from recitation.

"How do you mean?"

"He holds his head higher than he used to do. He looks as if he had been elected to some important office."

"You will soon learn, Herbert," said Frank. "Make a pretext to join him, and let the news come from him."

Herbert looked puzzled.

"Do you wish me to do this?" he asked.

"Yes, I have a reason for it."

"Very well. I am always ready to oblige you, Frank, but I hope Mark won't think I have suddenly formed a liking for his society."

"If he does, you can soon undeceive him."

"That is true."

Herbert left the side of his friend, and sauntered toward Mark.

As Herbert was known as Frank's especial friend, Mark was at first surprised, but quickly decided that his improved position had been communicated by Frank, and that Herbert was influenced by it. That is to say, he judged Herbert to be as mean and mercenary as himself.

Herbert's position was too humble to entitle him to much notice from Mark, but the latter was pleased with the prospect of detaching from Frank his favorite friend.

"You came back rather late, Mark," said Herbert.

"Yes," answered Mark, with an air of importance. "I remained at home a short time, to help my father in his accounts. You know the property is large, and there is a good deal to do."

"I should think that was Frank's place, to help about the accounts."

"Why?"

"The property is his, of course!"

"Did he tell you that?" asked Mark, sharply.

"He has not said a word about the property."

"No, I suppose not," said Mark, with a sneering laugh.

"Has anything happened? Didn't his mother leave as much as was expected?" went on Herbert, quite in the dark.

"Yes, she left a large estate, but she didn't leave it to him."

"To whom, then?"

"To my father!" replied Mark, with conscious pride. "Frank has nothing. He is entirely dependent upon father."

"Did his mother leave him nothing, then?" asked Herbert, in pained surprise.

"Nothing at all," assured Mark, complacently.

"That is very strange and unjust."

"I don't look upon it in that light," said Mark, nettled. "My father knows what is best for him. He will provide for him just as his mother did before."

"But when Frank is of age, doesn't he come into possession of the estate then?"

"No, of course not. Didn't I tell you it belongs to father? Frank is a poor boy -- as poor as you," said Mark, in a tone of evident satisfaction.

"Or you," added Herbert, pointedly.

"You are mistaken," said Mark, quickly. "I am father's heir."

"Suppose your father dies -- how will the property go?"

"I suppose something will be left to Frank, unless my father leaves me the property, with directions to provide for him."

"Would you think that right and just?" demanded Herbert, indignantly.

"Of course I would. My stepmother knew what she was about when she made her will. I see you are surprised. You won't be quite to thick with Frank, now, I expect."

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"Because he is just as poor as you are. He never can help you."

"Mark Manning, I believe you are about the meanest boy I ever encountered, and you judge me by yourself!"

"Do you mean to insult me? Mind what you say!" blustered Mark, unpleasantly surprised at this outburst from a boy whom he expected would now transfer his allegiance from Frank to himself.

"I mean that you and your father have robbed Frank of his inheritance, and glory in it, and you think that I am mean enough to desert him because he is no longer rich. It makes no difference to me whether he is rich or poor. I think I like him all the better because he has been so badly treated. As for you, I despise you, and shall continue to, even if you get the whole of Frank's money."

"You forget that you are talking to a gentleman, you low-born mechanic!" said Mark, angrily.

"You a gentleman!" replied Herbert, contemptuously. "Then I never want to be one!"

He walked away, leaving Mark very much incensed.

"He is a fool!" muttered Mark. "When I am a rich man, he may repent having insulted me."

Herbert went back to Frank.

"Did he tell you?" asked Frank, quietly.

"Yes; and he actually appeared to think I would be ready to desert you because you were poor, and follow him about."

"I am not afraid of that, Herbert."

"I don't think Mark will have that idea any more. I gave him a piece of my mind, and left him very angry. But what does it all mean, Frank?"

"I know no more than you do, Herbert. I cannot understand it."

"What could have induced your mother to make such a will?"

"I cannot believe my poor mother ever made such a will; but, if she did, I am very sure that she was over-persuaded by my stepfather, who is one of the most plausible of men."

"What shall you do about it?"

"What can I do? I am only a boy. I have no proof, you know."

"How are you likely to be treated?"

"I have had a little foretaste of that."

"It looks very bad for you, Frank," admitted Herbert, in a tone of sympathy.

"I don't so much care for the loss of the property, Herbert," said Frank, "but I am afraid I shall have sorts of annoyances to endure from Mark and his father. But I won't anticipate trouble. I will do my duty, and trust that things will turn out better than I fear."

The next afternoon a letter was placed in Frank's hands. It was in a brown envelope, and directed in a cramped and evidently unpracticed hand, with which Frank was not familiar.

On opening it, a glance at the signature showed that it was from Richard Green, the coachman. It commenced:

"Dear Mr. Frank: This comes hoping you are well. I have no good news to tell. Mr. Manning has sold your horse, Ajax, and he is to be taken away to-night. I thought you ought to know it, and that is why I take my pen in hand to write."

There was more, but this is all that was important.

Frank's face flushed with anger. He immediately went in search of Mark, who, he felt assured, knew of the sale.

It may be said here that Ajax was one of Frank's dearest trophies, a gift from his mother.



Chapter VIII

A New Plan


Mark was in his room, where Frank found him trying on a new necktie. Though decidedly plain, Mark fancied himself very good-looking, and spent no little time on personal adornment. In particular, he had a weakness for new neckties, in which he indulged himself freely.

When the boys came to the academy, the principal proposed that they should room together; but both objected, and Mark had a room to himself -- no one caring to room with him.

"Take a seat, Frank," said Mark, condescendingly. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," answered Frank. "I hear your father has sold Ajax, or is intending to do so. Will you tell me if it is true?"

"I believe it is," answered Mark, indifferently.

"And what right has he to sell my horse?" demanded Frank, indignantly.

"You'd better ask him," said Mark, with provoking coolness.

"It is an outrage," said Frank, indignantly.

"As to that," said his stepbrother, "you can't expect father to be at the expense of feeding your horse."

"With my money?"

"The money is legally his," replied Mark.

"Do you know to whom your father has sold Ajax?"

"To Col. Vincent, I believe."

"I am glad, at any rate, that he will have a good master."

Frank felt that there would be no advantage in prolonging the interview, or carrying on further a war of words.

He sought out his friend Herbert, and communicated to him this last infraction of his rights.

"It is too bad, Frank!" said his sympathizing friend.

"Yes, it is," said Frank, gravely; "but I fear it is only the beginning of annoyances. I don't believe I can ever live in any place with Mr. Manning or Mark."

"Will it be necessary?"

"I suppose so. I have no money, as you know. All has gone to him. Herbert, I tell you frankly, I envy you and your position."

"Though my father is a poor man?"

"Yes; for, at any rate, you have a peaceful home, and a father and mother who love you. I have a stepfather, who will do all he can to make me miserable."

"Would you be willing to work for your own support, Frank?"

"Yes; far rather than remain a dependent on Mr. Manning."

"Suppose you should run away," suggested Herbert.

Frank shook his head.

"I wouldn't do that except in case of extreme necessity. I know that if my mother knows what goes on here, it would grieve her for me to take such a step."

"Suppose your stepfather should consent to your leaving home?"

"Then I would do so gladly. I am willing to work and I think I could make a living in some way."

"Why not ask him?"

Frank's face brightened.

"Thank you for the hint, Herbert," he said. "I will think of it, and I may act upon it."

Frank was naturally self-reliant and energetic. He was not disposed to shrink from the duties of life, but was ready to go forth to meet them. The idea which Herbert had suggested commended itself to him the more he thought of it.

In spite, therefore, of the news which he had received about Ajax, he resumed his cheerfulness, considerably to the surprise of Mark, whose natural suspicion led him to conjecture that Frank had some plan in view to circumvent his father.

"If he has, he'd better give it up," reflected Mark. "The old man's as sly as a fox. A raw boy like Frank can't get the better of him."

At the close of the week, both the boys went home. They were on board the same train and the same car, but did not sit together. When they reached the house, Mr. Manning was not at home.

Frank went out to the stable at once to see Richard Green, the coachman.

He found him, indeed, but he also found another man, a stranger, who appeared to be employed in the stable.

"Who is this, Richard?" asked Frank.

"My successor," answered the coachman.

"Are you going to leave?" asked Frank, hastily.

"Come out with me, Mr. Frank, and I will tell you," said Richard. "I've had notice to leave," he said, "and so has Deborah. It came last evening. Mr. Manning got a letter from Bridgeville -- I know that, because I brought it home from the post office -- which appeared to make him angry. He called Deborah and me and told us that he should not need our services any longer."

"Did he give you any reason?"

"Yes; he said that he could have our places filled for a good deal less money, and he had no doubt we could do as well elsewhere."

"He has filled your place pretty soon."

"Yes. This man came this morning. I think Mr. Manning had sent for him already. I told you the other day we should soon be discharged."

"I know it; but I can tell you what has hastened it."

"What, then?"

"Mark wrote his father that I had learned about the sale of Ajax, and that the information came from you or Deborah."

"I think it likely, Mr. Frank, for the old gentleman seemed mighty cool. I hope you won't take it too much to heart that Ajax is sold."

"I am not sure but I am glad of it," said Frank.

The coachman looked at him in surprise.

"I thought you would be very angry," he said.

"So I was at first, but he has been sold to a man who will treat him well, and I shall be glad to think of that when I'm away from home."

"You don't mean to run away, Mr. Frank?"

"No; but I mean to get my stepfather's permission to go, if I can."

"Where do you mean to go, Mr. Frank?"

"Somewhere where I can earn my living, without depending upon anybody. You know very well, Richard, how miserable I should be to stay here in dependence upon Mr. Manning."

"But to think that you, to whom the property rightfully belongs, should go away and work for a living, while that man and his boy occupy your place. I can't bear to think of it."

"I have done a good deal of thinking within a few days, and I don't shrink from the prospect. I think I should rather enjoy being actively employed."

"But you were to go to college, Mr. Frank."

"I know it, Richard, but I am not sure whether it would be for the best. My tastes are for an active business life, and I don't care for a profession."

"Do you think your stepfather will give you a start?"

"In the way of money?"

"Yes."

"I don't know. If he won't, I have still fifty dollars in the savings bank, which I have saved from my pocket money. I will take that."

"Mr. Frank, will you promise not to be offended at what I'm going to say?"

"I don't think you would say anything that ought to offend me, Richard."

"Then I want you to take the money that comes to me by the will -- Mr. Manning is to pay it to me on Monday. I don't need it, and you may."

Frank shook his head.

"You are very kind, Richard, but I will get along with fifty dollars, unless Mr. Manning supplies me with more. If I really need money at any time, I will think of your offer."

"That's something, at any rate," said Richard. partly reconciled. "You won't forget it now, Mr. Frank?"

"No, Richard, I promise you."

Frank left the stable and went thoughtfully into the house.



Chapter IX

The New Owner Of Ajax


Frank and Mark took supper alone, Mr. Manning having left word that he would not return till later in the evening.

After supper, Frank decided to go over to call upon Col. Vincent, the new owner of Ajax. His estate was distant about three-quarters of a mile from the Cedars.

As Frank started, Mark inquired:

"Where are you going, Frank?"

"To see Ajax," answered our hero.

"Do you mean to make any fuss about him? I wouldn't advise you to."

"Thank you for your advice."

"I wonder what he is going to do?" thought Mark. "Of course he can't do anything now."

He did not venture to propose to accompany Frank, knowing that his company would not be acceptable.

"Is Col. Vincent at home?" asked Frank, at the door of a handsome house.

"Yes, Mr. Courtney," replied the colored servant, pleasantly, for Frank was a favorite among all classes in the neighborhood. "Come right in, sir. De colonel am smoking a cigar on de back piazza."

Frank followed the servant through the hall which intersected the house, and stepped out on the back piazza.

A stout, elderly gentleman was taking his ease in a large rustic rocking chair.

"Good-evening, Col. Vincent," our hero said.

"Good-evening, Frank, my boy," said the colonel, heartily. "Glad to see you. Haven't you gone back to school?"

"Yes, sir; but I came home to spend Sunday. It doesn't seem much like home now," he added, as his lip quivered.

"You have suffered a great loss, my dear boy," said the colonel, feelingly.

"The greatest, sir. My mother was all I had."

"I suppose Mr. Manning will keep up the establishment?"

"I suppose so, sir; but it is no longer home to me."

"Don't take it too hard, Frank. I was sorry about the will."

"So was I, sir; because it makes me dependent on a man whom I dislike."

"Don't be too prejudiced, Frank. I never took any fancy to your stepfather myself; but then we don't need to like everybody we associate with."

"I hear you have bought my horse, Col. Vincent," said Frank, desiring to change the subject.

"Was Ajax your horse?"

"Yes. It was given to me as a birthday present by my mother."

"I had some such idea, and expressly asked Mr. Manning whether the horse was not yours."

"What did he answer?"

"That it was only nominally yours, and that he thought it best to sell it, as both you and Mark were absent at school, and had no time to use it."

"I am not surprised at anything Mr. Manning may say," said Frank.

"It's too bad! I'll tell you what I will do, Frank. I haven't paid for the horse yet. I will return it to Mr. Manning, and tell him that I bought it under a misapprehension of the ownership. I don't think he will make any fuss."

"I would rather have you keep it, sir."

"You would!" exclaimed the colonel, in surprise.

"Yes, sir. If you should return Ajax, Mr. Manning would sell him to some one else, and you, I know, will treat him well."

"But you will lose the use of him. No, you won't, though. Come over to my stable when you like, and, if he is not in use, you can take him out."

"Thank you, sir! You are very kind. While I am in the neighborhood, I won't forget your kind offer. But I mean to go away."

"You mean to go away! Where?"

"Out into the world. Anywhere, where I can find work and make a living."

"But surely this is not necessary. Your stepfather will provide for you without your working."

"I have no reason to doubt it, Col. Vincent; but I shall be happier in the world outside."

"Of course you will let Mr. Manning know of your intention to leave home?"

"I shall ask his permission to go at the end of my school term. That comes in a couple of weeks."

"Where will you go?"

"A cousin of my father is at Newark, New Jersey. I think I shall go to him first, and ask his advice about getting a place either there or in New York."

"You will need some money to start with. Do you think Mr. Manning will give you any?"

"I don't know, sir! That won't prevent my going. I have fifty dollars in a savings bank, saved up from my allowance, and that will be all I shall need."

"If you have any difficulty on that score, Frank, remember that I was your father's friend, and mean to be yours. Apply to me at any time when you are in a strait."

"I will, sir, and thank you heartily."

"That was a strange will, Frank. I don't want to put any ideas into your head to disturb you, but had your mother ever led you to suspect that she intended to leave you dependent on your stepfather?"

"Never, sir!"

"Don't you think she would have done so, had she had such a plan in view?"

"I do," said Frank, quickly.

The colonel's eye met his, and each knew what the other suspected.

"There is nothing for me to do at present, sir," said Frank. "If Mr. Manning does not interfere with my plans, I shall not trouble him."

"I will hint as much when I see him. It may clear the way for you."

"I wish you would, sir."

"Come and see me again, Frank," said the colonel, as Frank rose to go.

"I certainly will, sir."

"Your father's son will always be welcome at my house. When did you say your school term closes?"

"In a fortnight."

"I will see your stepfather within a few days. By the way, Frank, wouldn't you like a gallop on Ajax to-night?"

"Yes, sir; I should enjoy it."

"Come out to the stable with me, then."

Ajax whinnied with delight when he saw his old, or rather his young master, and evinced satisfaction when Frank stroked him caressingly.

"Sam," said Col. Vincent, "Frank is to ride Ajax whenever he pleases. Saddle him for his use whenever he asks you."

"That I will, sir" answered Sam. "Often and often I've seen Mr. Frank on his back. Doesn't he ride well, though?"

"Don't flatter me, Sam," said Frank, laughing.

Five minutes later he was on the back of his favorite horse, galloping down the road.

"I hope I shall meet Mark," thought Frank. "I would like to give him a sensation."

Considering the manner in which Mark had treated his stepbrother, Frank may be excused for the wish to puzzle him a little.

Finding himself lonely, Mark decided to take a walk not long after Frank's departure. He was sauntering along the road, when he heard the sound of hoofs, and, to his surprise, saw his stepbrother on the back of Ajax.

His first thought was that Frank had gone to Col. Vincent's stable and brought away Ajax without permission, in defiance of Mr. Manning's will. He resolved to take him to task for it immediately. Frank purposely slackened the speed of his horse in order to give Mark the chance he sought.

"Why are you riding Ajax?" asked Mark.

"It is a pleasant evening," answered Frank, "and I thought I should enjoy it."

"Where did you get him?"

"From Col. Vincent's stable, where he never ought to have been carried," answered Frank, with spirit.

"You seem to think you can do anything you like, Frank Courtney," said Mark, provoked, deciding that his suspicions were well founded.

"Is there any particular reason why I should not ride Ajax?" demanded Frank.

"You have made yourself liable to arrest for horse stealing," said Mark. "It would serve you right if Col. Vincent should have you arrested and tried."

"I don't think he will gratify your kind wishes, Mark."

"Just wait and see what my father has to say to you."

"I have only done what I had a perfect right to do; but I can't stop to dispute with you. I must finish my ride. Hey, Ajax!"

As he spoke the horse dashed into a gallop, and Mark was left looking after him in a disturbed frame of mind.

"I'll tell my father as soon as he gets home," he decided; and he kept his word.

In consequence, Frank, by that time returned, was summoned into Mr. Manning's presence.

"What is this I hear?" he began. "Did you ride Ajax this evening?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where did you find him?"

"In Col. Vincent's stable."

"This is a high-handed proceeding, Frank Courtney. Have you any excuse to offer?"

"None is needed sir. Col. Vincent has given me permission to ride him whenever I please."

"It appears to me, Mark," said Mr. Manning, sharply, "that you have made a fool of yourself."

"How should I know?" replied Mark, mortified by the collapse of his sensation. "Frank didn't tell me he had leave to use the horse."

And he left the room, looking foolish.



Chapter X

Mark Yields To Temptation


There are some boys, as well as men, who cannot stand prosperity.

It appeared that Mark Manning was one of these.

While his stepmother was living and his father's prospects -- and consequently his own -- were uncertain, he had been circumspect in his behavior and indulged in nothing that could be considered seriously wrong.

When his father came into possession of a large fortune, and his pocket money was doubled, Mark began to throw off some of the restraint which, from motives of prudence, he had put upon himself.

About the middle of the week, as Frank was taking a walk after school hours, he was considerably surprised to see Mark come out of a well-known liquor saloon frequented by men and boys of intemperate habits.

The students of Bridgeville Academy were strictly forbidden this or any other saloon, and I am sure that my boy readers will agree with mo that this rule was a very proper one.

Mark Manning appeared to have been drinking. His face was flushed, and his breath, if one came near enough to him, was redolent of the fumes of alcohol. With him was James Carson, one of the poorest scholars and most unprincipled boys in the academy. It was rather surprising that he had managed for so long to retain his position in the institution, but he was crafty and took good care not to be caught.

To go back a little, it was chiefly owing to James Carson's influence that Mark had entered the saloon.

When he learned that Mark's worldly prospects had improved, and that he had a large supply of pocket money, he determined to cultivate his acquaintance -- though privately he thought Mark a disagreeable boy -- with the intention of obtaining for himself a portion of Mark's surplus means.

At the first of the term he had made similar advances to Frank, but they were coldly received, so much so that he did not think it worth while to persevere in courting our hero's intimacy.

He succeeded better with Mark, his crafty nature teaching him how to approach him.

"Mark," he said, with a great show of cordiality, "I am delighted to hear of your good fortune. I always liked you, and I think you deserve to be rich."

"Thank you!" said Mark, much gratified, for he liked flattery. "I am sure I am very much obliged to you."

"Oh, not at all! I only say what I think. Shall I tell you why I am particularly glad?"

"Yes, if you like," returned Mark, in some curiosity.

"Because I like you better than that young muff, your stepbrother. I hope you won't be offended at my plain speaking," he added, artfully.

"Certainly not!" said Mark.

"I suppose," said James, "you will see a little life now that you are your own master and have plenty of money."

"I don't know exactly what you mean, James. There isn't much life to be seen in Bridgeville."

"That is true; but still there is some. Suppose now" -- by this time they were in front of the saloon, which, besides a bar, contained a billiard and pool table -- "suppose now we go in and have a game of billiards."

"It's against the rules, isn't it?" asked Mark.

"What do you care for the rules?" said James, contemptuously.

"If the old man hears of it, we shall get into hot water."

By the "old man" Mark meant the Rev. Dr. Brush, the venerable and respected principal of the Bridgeville Academy, but such boys as he have very little respect for the constituted authorities.

"Why need he know it? We will slip in when no one is looking. Did you ever play a game of billiards?"

"I never played over half a dozen games in my life."

"Yon ought to know how to play. It is a splendid game. Come in."

Mark did not make very strong opposition, and the two boys, first looking cautiously in different directions, entered the saloon.

Toward the entrance was a bar, and in the roar of the saloon were two tables.

"Won't you have a drink, Mark?" asked James.

Mark hesitated.

"Oh, come now, it won't hurt. Two glasses of whisky, John."

"All right, Mr. Carson," said the barkeeper, to whom James was well known.

James tossed off his glass with the air of an old drinker, but Mark drank his more slowly.

"There, I know you feel better, Mark."

"Now, John, give me the balls. We'll play a game of billiards."

"All right, sir."

"I'll discount you, Mark," said James, "to give you a fair chance. It is about the same thing as giving you half the game. Or, if you like, I will give you seventeen points to start with, and then you will only have seventeen to make, while I am making thirty-four."

"I like that best."

"Now shall we play for the drinks?"

"We have just had a drink?"

"We'll have another."

"Won't that be too much? I don't want to get drunk."

"Two drinks won't do you any harm. Very well. Now let us string for the lead."

There is no need of describing the game in detail. Mark was only a novice, while James could really make three or four points to his one. He restrained himself, however, so that he only beat Mark by two points.

"You did splendidly, Mark," he said. "Considering how little you have played, you did remarkably well. Why, you made a run of three."

"Yes, I did pretty well," said Mark, flattered by his companion's praises.

"I had hard work to beat you, I can tell you that. As it was, you came within two points of beating. Don't you like the game?"

"Very much."

"I thought you would. Shall we have another game?"

"I don't mind," answered Mark.

He knew that he ought to be in his room writing a composition to be delivered the next day, but such obligations sat easily upon Mark, and he did not hesitate long.

That time James allowed him to score sixteen, so that Mark was only beaten by one point.

"You see, you are improving," said James. "I played a better game that time than before, and still you came within one of beating me."

"I think I shall become a good player in time," said Mark, complacently.

"Yes, and in a very short time. Now," said James, "I have a proposal to make to you."

"What is it?"

"We'll bet twenty-five cents on the next game, to give a little interest to it."

Mark had no special scruples against betting, which is only one form of gambling, but he decidedly objected to losing money, so he answered, cautiously:

"I don't know about that. You beat me both of the other games."

"That's true; but you play better now than you did at first."

"That may be so."

"What are twenty-five cents, anyway? I expect to lose it, but it will increase the interest of the game."

So Mark was persuaded, and the game was played.

James Carson managed to let Mark beat him by five shots, and the latter was correspondingly elated.

"You beat me after all," said James, pretending to be much disappointed, "and by five points. I'll tell you what I'll do -- I'll give you the same odds, and bet a dollar on the game. I suppose it's foolish, but I'll risk it!"

"Done!" said Mark, eagerly.

His cupidity was excited, and he felt sure of winning the dollar, as he had the twenty-five cents. But James had no idea of playing off now, and he played a better game, as he was well able to do. The result was that Mark was beaten by three points.

He looked quite crestfallen.

"I had better shows than you," said James. "I couldn't do it once in five times. Will you play again?"

Mark agreed to it with some hesitation, and he was again beaten.

"You had luck against you. Another day you will succeed better. Have you played enough?"

"Yes," answered Mark, annoyed.

He had four games to pay for and two dollars in bets, and it made rather an expensive afternoon.

"Have another drink? I'll treat," said James, who could afford to be liberal.

Mark accepted, and then, flushed and excited, he left the saloon, just as Frank came up, as described in the first part of the chapter. On the whole, he was sorry to meet his stepbrother just at this time.

Frank stopped, and his attention was drawn to Mark's flushed face.



Chapter XI

Mark Gets Into Trouble


Mark nodded slightly and was about to pass without a word, when Frank said, quietly:

"I am sorry to see you coming out of such a place, Mark."

"What is it to you, anyway?" returned Mark, rudely.

"Not much, perhaps," replied Frank, calmly, "but I don't like to see my acquaintances coming out of a liquor saloon."

"It won't hurt you," said Mark, irritably.

"No, it won't hurt me, but if tho principal should hear of it, it would not be pleasant for you. You know students are strictly forbidden to enter any saloon?"

"I suppose you mean to tell on me," said Mark, hastily, and not altogether without uneasiness.

"You are mistaken. I am not a talebearer."

"Then there is no need to say any more about it. Come along, James!"

Frank's interference was well meant, but, as we shall see, it did harm rather than good.

As Mark left the saloon, he had half decided not to enter it again. He was three dollars out of pocket, and this did not suit him at all.

In fact, Mark was rather a mean boy, and it was with considerable reluctance that he had handed over to his companion the two dollars with which to pay for the games.

Moreover, he was mortified at losing the two games of billiards, when so great odds had been given him.

James Carson was no scholar, but he was sharp enough to perceive the state of Mark's feelings, and he also saw how he was affected by Frank's remonstrance.

He decided to take advantage of this, and strengthen his hold on Mark.

"Well, Mark," he said, "I suppose you'll give up playing billiards now."

"Why should I?"

"Because your stepbrother doesn't approve of it. You won't dare to go into the saloon after he has forbidden you," he continued, with a sneer.

"What do you mean, James? Do you suppose I care that" -- snapping his fingers -- "for what Frank says, or even thinks, either?"

"I didn't know but you might stand in fear of him."

"Do you mean to insult me?" demanded Mark, hotly.

"Insult you! My dear friend, what can you be thinking of? Why, I like you ten times as much as that muff, Frank Courtney."

"Then what did you mean by what you said?" asked Mark, more calmly.

"I will tell you. I got an idea, from what Frank said once, that he was in charge of you -- well, not exactly that, but he looked after you."

This was a wicked falsehood, as Frank had never intimated any such thing. In fact, he had generally kept quite aloof from James.

Mark, however, fell into the trail, and never thought of doubting what his companion said.

"If Frank said that, I've a great mind to whip him," said Mark, angrily.

"Oh, I wouldn't notice him, if I were you!" said James. "For my part, I didn't believe what he said. I felt sure that a fine, spirited boy like you wouldn't submit to his dictation."

"I should say not -- the impudent follow!"

"When he spoke to you just now," continued James, "one would really have thought he was your uncle, or guardian, and that you were a little boy."

"I'll show him what I think of him and his advice. I hadn't thought of going to the saloon to-morrow, but now I will."

"Bravo! I like your spirit!" said James, admiringly. "It is just the way to treat him. Shall I come round with you about the same hour as to-day?"

"Yes, I wish you would."

When the two boys parted company, James Carson smiled to himself.

"What a fool Mark is!" he thought. "He thinks he is his own master, but I am going to twist him round my little finger. He's a sweet youth, but he's got money, and I mean to have some of it. Why, he tells me his father allows him eight dollars a week for spending money. If I manage well, I can get more than half away from his in bets."

The next day James called for Mark, as agreed upon, and again the two boys went to the billiard saloon. The performance of the day before was repeated.

James Carson, while flattering Mark's poor play, managed to beat in every game but one on which money was staked, and came out the richer by a dollar and a half.

"I am very unlucky," grumbled Mark, in a tone of dissatisfaction.

"So you were, Mark," admitted his sympathizing friend. "You made some capital shots, though, and if I hadn't been so lucky, you would have come out the victor in every game."

"But I didn't."

"No, you didn't; but you can't have such beastly luck all the time."

"I guess I'd better give up billiards. In two days I have spent five dollars. It doesn't pay."

"No doubt Frank will be gratified when he hears that you have given up playing. He will think it is because you are afraid of him."

James had touched the right chord, and poor Mark was once more in his toils.

"It's lucky for me that Frank spoke to him," thought James. "It makes it much easier for me to manage him."

One thing, however, James had not taken into account. There were others besides Frank who were liable to interfere with his management, and who had the authority to make their interference effectual.

On the day succeeding, as James and Mark were in the campus, Herbert Grant approached them.

Now Herbert was the janitor of the academy. He also was employed by the principal to summon students who had incurred censure to his study, where they received a suitable reprimand.

It was not a pleasant duty, but some one must do it, and Herbert always discharged it in a gentlemanly manner, which could not, or ought not, to offend the schoolfellows who were unlucky enough to receive a summons.

"Boys," said he, "I am sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant news, but Dr. Brush would like to see you in his study."

"Both of us?" asked James.

"Yes."

"Are there any others summoned?"

"No."

Mark and his companion looked at each other with perturbed glances. No one cared to visit the principal on such an errand. Corporal punishment was never resorted to in the Bridgeville Academy, but the doctor's dignified rebuke was dreaded more than blows would have been from some men.

"What do you think it is, James?" asked Mark, uneasily.

"I think it's the saloon," answered James, in a low voice.

"But how could he have found it out? No one saw us go in or come out."

The billiard saloon was at some distance from the academy building, and for that reason the two boys had felt more secure in visiting it.

"I'll tell you how it came out," said James, suddenly.

"How?" asked Mark.

"You remember Frank saw us coming out day before yesterday."

"He said he wouldn't tell."

It was not very difficult for Mark to believe anything against Frank, and he instantly adopted his companion's idea.

"The mean sneak!" he said. "I'll come up with him! I'll tell my father not to give him any money for the next month. I'll -- -I'll get him to apprentice Frank to a shoemaker! Perhaps then he won't put on so many airs."

"Good for you! I admire your pluck!" said James, slapping Mark on the back. "You are true grit, you are! Just teach the fellow a lesson."

"See if I don't!"

Mark nodded his head resolutely, and went into the presence of Dr. Brush, thirsting for vengeance against his stepbrother, who, he felt persuaded, had informed against him.

If Frank had known his suspicions he would have been very much surprised. As it happened, however, he did not even know that his stepbrother had been summoned to the doctor's study. Had he met Herbert, the later would have told him; but after receiving his list, it so chanced that he and his friend did not meet.

The fact was that a young man employed as tutor in mathematics in the academy, while taking an afternoon walk, had seen Mark and James Carson leaving the liquor saloon, and, as in duty bound, had reported the same to the principal.

Mr. Triangle, however, had not been observed by either of the two boys, and therefore they were led off on a false scent.

"What do you think the old man will say?" asked Mark, uneasily, as they ascended the stairs to the principal's study.

"He'll give us a raking down, I suppose," said James. "He will come down heavy on us."

"I wish I were out of it."

"Oh, it's not worth minding! We haven't committed murder, have we? What's the harm in a game of billiards?"

"Not much, perhaps; but the drinking and betting are certainly objectionable."

The boys knocked at the door, and the full, deep voice of Dr. Brush was heard to say: "Come in!"



Chapter XII

Suspended


Dr. Brush was seated at a table covered with papers, in a large armchair. He was an elderly man of dignified presence, not a petty tyrant such as is sometimes found in a similar position, but a man who commanded respect, without an effort.

Mark Manning and James Carson entered his presence a little nervously.

"Young gentlemen," said the doctor, gravely, "I am informed that you have violated one of the rules of the academy by frequenting a billiard saloon where liquor is sold."

"Who told you, sir?" asked Mark.

"That is not to the purpose," said the principal, gravely.

"But I should like to know who informed on me," persisted Mark.

"Whoever did so acted as your true friend, Manning; but there is no occasion for you to know who it was. Is it true?"

Mark would have been glad to deny the charge, and would not have felt any scruples about doing so, if it would have done any good. But it was clear, even to him, that he would not be believed, and that denial would only make his position worse. So he made a virtue of necessity, and answered:

"I have been in once or twice, sir."

"Exactly how many times have you been to the saloon?"

"Three times."

"What did you do there?'

"We played billiards."

"Did you order anything at the bar?"

"Yes, sir," said Mark, reluctantly.

"Carson, you accompanied Manning, did you not?" said Dr. Brush, turning to Mark's companion.

"Yes, sir."

"And I suppose you also played billiards and drank?"

"Well, yes, sir, I believe I did."

"You were aware, were you not, that it was against the regulations of the school?"

"I suppose it must have slipped my mind," answered James, trying to look as innocent as possible.

Dr. Brush frowned, for he saw clearly that this was but a subterfuge.

"If this were true," he continued, "it would be no excuse. As students, it is your duty to make yourselves acquainted with the rules that govern the institution. In point of fact, I cannot believe that either of you is ignorant of the rule forbidding students to frequent places where liquor is sold. It is hardly necessary for me to defend the propriety of this rule. Intemperance is a fruitful source of vice and crime, and I cannot allow the youth under by charge to form habits of indulgence which may blast all their prospects, and lead to the most ruinous consequences."

"We didn't drink much," said Mark.

"I shall not inquire how much you drank. In drinking a single glass, you violated the rule of the school, and I cannot pass over it."

"What is he going to do with us, I wonder?" thought Mark.

He was not required to wonder long.

"As this is your first offense, so far as I know," proceeded the principal, "I will not be severe. You are both suspended from the institution for the remainder of the term, and are required to leave Bridgeville by the early train to-morrow morning for your respective homes. I shall write to your parents, explaining the cause of your suspension."

But a week remained of the term, and the punishment was mild, but both boys were mortified and left the study crestfallen.

Mark was the first to recover his spirits.

"It is not so bad, James," he said. "To-morrow will be Saturday, and I should go home, anyway. I don't mind staying at home next week."

"What will your father say?"

"Oh, I'll make it all right with him! I don't mind much what he says. I guess he got into scrapes himself when he was a boy."

"My father isn't so easily managed. Just as likely as not, he'll cut off my allowance for a month; and that'll be no joke!"

"My father won't do that," said Mark. "If he did, I would raise a fuss."

"Would that do any good?"

"I'll bet it would!"

Frank, who was quite ignorant of Mark's trouble, was surprised when the latter approached him a little later with a frown and said, harshly:

"You won't make anything by what you have done, Frank Courtney!"

"Will you be kind enough to tell me what I have done?" asked Frank, calmly.

"You've been to Dr. Brush and told him about our playing billiards."

"You are entirely mistaken, Mark. I did not suppose he knew."

"It must have been you. He told us some one had informed him, and you were the only one who knew. It's a mean trick, isn't it, Carson?"

"Awfully mean!"

"I have already told you that the information did not come from me. It may be the best thing for you that it has been found out, for it was doing you no good to frequent such places."

"I don't want to hear any of your preaching, Frank Courtney. I guess I can manage my own affairs without any advice from you."

"I don't care to intrude any advice," said Frank. "I have not much reason to feel interested in you."

"You'd better look out how you treat me, though," said Mark, insolently. "I know very well you dislike me, but it won't be safe for you to show it while you are a dependent on my father."

"I don't propose to be a dependent on him long," said Frank, quietly. "The truth of it is, you and your father are dependent upon property which of right belongs to me. The time may come when I shall be able to show this."

"What does he mean?" thought Mark, uneasily. "Will he contest the will?"

It was perhaps an evidence of Mark's shrewdness that he had some doubts about the validity of the will under which his father inherited.



Chapter XIII

Mr. Manning's New Plan


Mark so represented his school difficulty to his father that he incurred but slight censure.

Indeed, Mr. Manning was so absorbed in plans for getting the greatest enjoyment out of the estate of which he had obtained possession by doubtful means that he didn't care to be disturbed about such a trifle as his son's suspension.

He felt more disposed to blame Frank, whom Mark charged with betraying him.

"What does Frank say about it?" asked Mr. Manning.

"Of course he denies it," said Mark, "but it can't be any one else."

"He is acting very unwisely," said Mr. Manning, compressing his thin lips.

"So I told him, but he said he didn't mean to be a dependent on you long."

"How is he going to avoid it?'

"I don't know."

"I have had some intimation from Col. Vincent, who appears to be in his confidence. He wants to leave us."

"To go away?"

"Yes."

"But you won't let him?"

"I have been thinking about that, Mark, and I may give my permission. The fact is, he stands in the way of some plans I have formed. I am thinking of traveling."

"Not without me?" said Mark, hastily.

"No; you shall go with me, but I don't care to take Frank."

"You might leave him at school."

"I might, but how do I know that he might not hatch some mischief while we are gone?"

"He might make some fuss about the property," suggested Mark.

"Has he hinted anything of that kind to you?" asked his father, quickly.

"Yes. Only yesterday he said that the property belonged by right to him."

Mr. Manning looked thoughtful, and watched Mark narrowly to see if from his manner he could divine the boy's intentions.

Later that same evening, Mark having retired early in consequence of a headache, Frank found himself alone with his stepfather, and took advantage of the opportunity to speak of the plan he had formed.

"Mr. Manning," he said, "if you are at leisure, I should like to speak with you a few minutes."

"Proceed," said his stepfather, waving his hand.

"But a week remains of the school term. Did you propose that I should return there at the end of the vacation?"

"Humph! I had not thought much on the subject."

"It has all along been intended that I should go to college when prepared, but I don't think I care much about it."

"In that case," said his stepfather, with alacrity, "you would only be throwing away time and money by going."

He was quite ready to agree to Frank's surrender of the college plan for two reasons.

A college course would be expensive. Again, should he turn his attention to the law, he might hereafter give him trouble about the estate.

"I don't think I should throw away my time, for, if I went to college, I should go there to work faithfully; but I have a fancy for a more stirring life."

"It might be a good plan for you to learn a trade," said Mr. Manning, reflectively.

"Learn a trade!" exclaimed Frank, in surprise.

"Yes; it would always enable you to earn a living."

"Do you intend Mark to learn a trade?" asked Frank, quickly.

"No; his case is very different from yours."

"Why it is different?"

"It is not necessary for me to explain," answered his stepfather, stiffly.

"If there were any need of it, Mr. Manning, I would not object to learn a trade," said Frank. "I have no false pride on the subject. But my tastes are more for mercantile business."

"I may be able to find you a place somewhere. I have a friend in the dry-goods business, who would receive you at my recommendation."

"Thank you!" said Frank, hastily. "But if you will allow me, I would prefer to look around for myself."

"What is it you want, then?"

"Your permission to go out into the world, and try to make a living."

"And if you don't," said Mr. Manning, "I suppose you expect me to defray your expenses?"

"If I did have such an expectation, I think I should be justified, in view of the large property which my mother left," said Frank, pointedly.

"She left it to me," said his stepfather.

"So it appears, at any rate. But I shall not call upon you to pay my board. Give me your permission to go where I please, with a small sum of money to start me, and I shall be satisfied."

"And what will the world say? That I, your stepfather, to whom you have a right to look for maintenance, had driven you out to earn your living! It would be unjust, of course, but the world is ever unjust."

And Mr. Manning assumed a look of wronged innocence, which would have imposed on anyone who knew him but slightly.

"I shall defend you from any such charge," said Frank. "I shall say that you were only yielding to my request."

"I will think of it, my dear boy," said Mr. Manning, graciously. "I already feel inclined to grant it, because it is your request. I shall be sorry to be separated from you; but I am willing to sacrifice my own feelings, if it will give you pleasure."

This did not impose upon Frank, who had a correct idea of the degree of fondness which Mr. Manning had for his society, but he was too well satisfied with the prospect of obtaining the permission he desired to imply any doubts.

"Again," continued his stepfather, "whatever you may say to the contrary, I know that the world will censure me; but I shall have the approval of my own conscience, and with that I can defy the world."

Mr. Manning certainly did look like a righteous man when he said this, and he beamed upon his stepson with a glance that was actually affectionate.

"Go back to school," ho said, "and when you return I shall be able to give you a definite answer."

Indeed, nothing could have suited Mr. Manning's plans better. He would get rid of the care and nearly the whole expense of his obnoxious stepson, while with his son Mark he would be spending the revenues of the estate which belonged to Frank.

During the coming week he arranged his plans for a prolonged absence from the Cedars. He wrote to New York to engage passage on a steamer bound for Liverpool, and quietly waited for the end of Frank's school term to release him from a care which had grown burdensome.

Frank returned to the Bridgeville Academy without Mark. As may be supported, however, he did not feel the loss of his society.

He at once communicated to his chosen friend, Herbert Grant, his probable departure from school.

"I am sorry to hear it, Frank," said Herbert, soberly. "Do you think you are acting wisely?"

"I am not acting as I would have done had my mother lived," answered Frank; "but you must remember that my position in life has very much changed. I am a poor boy."

"Hardly that, when there is so much property in the family."

"I know Mr. Manning too well to believe that I shall derive much benefit from it. No, Herbert, I have my own living to make, and I want to make it in my own way."

"It is a sad change for you, Frank."

"No, I can't say that. I don't know how it is, Herbert, but I am rather glad to have all this thrown upon me. I enjoy feeling that I have got to work."

"I have a chance of enjoying the same feelings," said Herbert, with a smile.

"I wish we could start together, Herbert. Couldn't you go with me?"

Herbert shook his head.

"Father has a plan for me," he said. "I am to learn his trade, and shall commence next week. I don't particularly like it, but it is well to have a trade to fall back upon."

"Mr. Manning wanted me to learn a trade."

"There is no occasion for your doing so."

"I don't know about that. If I had a particular fancy for any, I wouldn't mind choosing it, but I am better suited for something else."

"What is your plan? What will you do first?"

"My father has a cousin in the city of Newark, New Jersey, only a few miles from New York. Four years ago, he and his family made us a visit, and he was urgent then that we should return the visit. I will, first of all, go to him, and ask his advice. He is a business man, and he may be able to put me in the way of obtaining a position."

"I think you will succeed, Frank, but it will be harder than you think for. You don't know what poverty is yet. I have never known anything else."

"If I do succeed, Herbert, I may be able to find something for you."

"I wish you might," Herbert replied; but he was not as sanguine as Frank.

He understood, better than his friend, that for a boy to set out alone into the great world to earn a living is a serious undertaking.



Chapter XIV

Good-Bye


Frank had fixed upon the Tuesday morning succeeding the close of the academic term for his departure from home. Monday was devoted to a few necessary preparations and a few calls on old friends, among them Col. Vincent, the owner of Ajax.

"My dear Frank," said the colonel, kindly, "I feel a strong interest in your welfare, more especially because of the wrong which I do not scruple to say has been done you. What does Mr. Manning say to your plan?"

"He makes no objection," said Frank.

"Suppose he had done so?"

"I would not have run away. He is my stepfather and guardian, and I would have endured staying at home as well as I could."

"There you are right, Frank. Though I have a poor opinion of Mr. Manning, he is not likely to treat you in a manner to justify your going away without his permission. From what I have heard within the last week, I suspect that he feels relieved to have you go."

"What have you heard, sir?"

"That Mr. Manning will shortly sail for Europe, taking Mark with him."

Frank was surprised, having no suspicion of this.

"Now are you not sorry that you have decided to go out into the world to earn a living when you might have seen something of the Old World?"

"Mr. Manning would never have taken me along," answered Frank, quietly, "nor should I have enjoyed traveling with him and Mark."

"Of the two, who would interfere the more with your enjoyment?"

"Mark."

"Then you prefer the father to the son?" said the colonel.

"The father has much more agreeable manners. I don't think Mark could be agreeable if he tried."

Col. Vincent smiled.

"Perhaps you are right, Frank," he said. "Now, as your father's old friend, I shall exact a promise from you."

"What is it, sir?"

"You are going out into the world to earn your own living. Boys of your age are apt to think it an easy thing. I have seen more of life, and I am sure you will find it more difficult than you suppose. You may find yourself in difficulty, possibly in want. In that case, promise to let me know, and I will come to your assistance."

"I will, sir," answered Frank.

The time came for Frank to say good-bye to Mr. Manning and Mark, and the house which had been his home from infancy.

His stepfather handed him a small pocketbook.

"Frank," he said, "in this pocketbook you will find twenty-five dollars. It is not much, but -- "

"I am satisfied, sir," said Frank. "It won't be long before I am earning something."

"I hope your anticipations may be realized, but it is possible that you may require help."

"I think not, sir."

"I will authorize my banker to pay you the same sum -- twenty-five dollars -- every three months. Of course, it is not enough to support you; but, as you say it is your intention to procure a place -- "

"Yes, sir."

"It will probably be enough to make up any deficiency that may exist in your income. I am aware that you do not regard me as -- as I would like to have you; but I am resigned to be misunderstood, and I merely call your attention to the fact that I have given you my free permission to carry out your own plans and have given you more assistance than you asked for."

"That's true, sir."

"Should anyone in your hearing condemn me for what I have done, I depend upon your defending me."

"I will state the facts, sir. I will take the entire responsibility for anything that may result from the step I have taken."

Mr. Manning looked well pleased. Things were taking the course he desired, and for the paltry sum of one hundred dollars a year, he was getting rid of an obnoxious stepson, while appearing to confer a favor upon him.

"Perhaps you are right, Frank," said his stepfather, disguising the satisfaction he felt. "If, however, you should find that you have made a mistake, you will do me the justice to remember that I gave you your choice."

Knowing, as he did, that the offer was not genuine, Frank remained silent. He could not make up his mind to express gratitude, and therefore said nothing.

Here the carriage drove up to the door to convey Frank to the railway station. Mindful of appearance, Mr. Manning accompanied him to the cars, and in presence of several neighbors bade him an effusively affectionate farewell.

So Frank was fairly started on his campaign.



Chapter XV

Erastus Tarbox, Of Newark


Erastus Tarbox kept a dry-goods store in the city of Newark, New Jersey. He was well to do, not so much because of his enterprise and skill as a merchant as because of his extreme poverty. Some people called it parsimony. He only employed two clerks to assist him in his store, and they, as well as the boy who carried out parcels and ran the errands, were paid scarcely more than two-thirds the rates paid in neighboring stores.

Mr. Tarbox prided himself upon his relationship to the Courtneys. They were rich, and riches, in his eyes were a great merit. He often sighed to think that there was no chance for him to benefit by a share of the large property owned by his cousins. Without hope of personal advantage, however, he had always been obsequious to them, and often took occasion to mention them, by way of enhancing his own social credit somewhat.

Mr. Tarbox had heard of Mrs. Courtney's death, but had not heard the particulars of the will. He took it for granted that Frank was sole heir, and it did cross his mind more than once how very agreeable it would be if he could be selected as guardian of the rich young heir. Of course, he knew that there was no probability of it, since the stepfather would undoubtedly be appointed to that position.

Mr. Tarbox had just sold a calico dress pattern to a poor woman, when his attention was drawn to the entrance of Frank Courtney, who entered his store, valise in hand.

Mr. Tarbox was rather short-sighted, and did not immediately recognize the son of his rich cousin.

"What can I do for you, young man?" he asked, in his business tone.

"This is Mr. Tarbox, I believe?" said Frank, who did not know his relatives very well.

"Yes, that is my name."

"I am Frank Courtney."

"Bless my soul!" ejaculated Mr. Tarbox, surprised and delighted. "When did you arrive in Newark?"

"I have only just arrived."

"I do hope you are going to make us a visit," said Mr. Tarbox, cordially.

"Thank you!" answered Frank, cheered by this warm reception. "If you are sure it won't inconvenience you."

"Inconvenience me! We shall be delighted to have you with us."

"You must come up and see Mrs. Tarbox. She will be delighted to see you."

Mr. Tarbox lived over his store. There was a door from the street adjoining the shop front. Mr. Tarbox opened it with a pass-key, and conducted Frank upstairs, ushering him into a gloomy parlor, with stiff, straightbacked chairs, ranged at regular intervals along the sides of the room, and a marble-topped center table, with two or three books lying upon it. There was a framed engraving, representing Washington crossing the Delaware, over the mantel, and two plaster figures and similar ornaments on the mantelpiece. The whole aspect of the room chilled Frank.

"Wait here, and I will call my wife," said Mr. Tarbox.

Frank sat down on a hard sofa and awaited the entrance of Mrs. Tarbox.

She came in, a tall, thin woman, about as handsome for a woman as her husband was for a man. Indeed, they were very well matched. She was quite as mean as he, and between them they managed to make annually a sensible addition to their world possessions.

Mr. Tarbox privately hinted his hopes respecting Frank to his wife, and she instantly agreed that it would be a most eligible arrangement.

"We must make him contented, my dear," said her husband. "Give him the best bedroom, and I think it might be well to have something a little extra for supper."

"I did intend to put on the rest of that cold mutton," said Mrs. Tarbox, doubtfully.

"It won't do, Martha. There is only a little of it, you know, and the boy has been traveling, and, of course, is hungry. What do you say, now, to some nice beefsteak?"

"Beefsteak is high now," said Mrs. Tarbox. "Still, if we buy round steak -- that is cheaper than sirloin or tenderloin."

"And quite as good," said her economical partner. "We can tell Frank, however, that no sirloin was to be had so late in the day at the markets."

Mrs. Tarbox nodded her head, approving the suggestion.

This little matter being adjusted, the husband and wife entered the parlor where our hero was waiting patiently.

"This is our young cousin, Martha," said Mr. Tarbox, smiling pleasantly.

"Welcome to Newark," said Mrs. Tarbox, extending her hand. "And how did you leave your stepfather?"

"He is well," said Prank, coolly.

The two exchanged glances. It was clear that Frank did not like his stepfather, and this was satisfactory to them. There was the more chance of his leaving him and boarding with them.

"The children will be so glad to see you," said Mr. Tarbox; "won't they, Martha?"

"Delighted!" assured the lady.

"Pliny must be about your age. How old are you, by the way?"

"Sixteen."

"Just Pliny's age. Do you remember him?"

Frank remembered a tall, thin stripling who had accompanied his parents to the Cedars, and who appeared to have an inexhaustible appetite.

"Yes, I remember him. Does he go to school?"

"No; Pliny is in a store," answered Mr. Tarbox.

"Your store?"

"Oh, no! I thought it would be better for him to enter the employ of a stranger. He is in a bookstore."

There was one great advantage in Pliny's entering the employ of a stranger. He was paid four dollars a week, whereas Mr. Tarbox paid his boy but two. Here, then, was a clear gain of two dollars a week.

"But you must be tired," said Mrs. Tarbox. "You will see the children at supper. Martha, I think Frank would like to go to his room."

The best bedroom was over the parlor. It was rather more cheerful, because lighter.

"Here," said Mr. Tarbox, "you must make yourself at home. Martha, isn't one of the drawers in that bureau empty? I thought so. Take your clothes out of the valise and put them away. Now, is there anything you would like?"

"Only a little water to wash in," said Frank. "You are both very kind."

"We hope to make you comfortable. You are our relative, you know."

The water was brought up by Mrs. Tarbox herself, and Frank was left alone, on the whole well pleased with his reception.



Chapter XVI

An Unpleasant Discovery


It never occurred to Frank that his cordial reception was wholly due to his supposed wealth. Had he known the Tarbox family better, he would have had no uncertainty on this point. As it was, the discovery was soon made.

"All my olive branches are for you, my dear young cousin," said Mr. Tarbox, waving his hand. "A peaceful, happy family. Children, this is our esteemed relative, Frank Courtney. You remember visiting his delightful home, the Cedars."

"Yes, pa," said Julia.

Pliny said nothing, but stared at Frank, inwardly considering whether it would be possible to borrow some money of him.

"I am glad to meet you all. I hope we shall become better acquainted," said Frank politely.

"No doubt you will," said Mr. Tarbox. "They are rather bashful, but they long to know you."

"How are you?" said Pliny, in a sudden burst of sociability.

"Pretty well, thank you!" answered Frank, finding it rather difficult to preserve his gravity.

"I am in a store," said Pliny.

"In your father's store?"

"No. He wouldn't pay me as much as I get where I am."

Mr. Tarbox looked embarrassed.

"A smaller boy answered my purpose," he said, in an explanatory manner. "Pliny is suited for higher duties. But our supper is ready. It is frugal compared with yours at the Cedars, my dear Frank, but you are heartily welcome to it."

"It looks very nice, Mr. Tarbox," said our hero, "and I have not been accustomed to luxurious living."

This answer pleased Mr. and Mrs. Tarbox. Even if Frank should become a boarder on liberal terms, they didn't wish to spend too much on their table.

"We couldn't get sirloin steak," said Mr. Tarbox; "but I hope you will find this good."

"No doubt I shall," said Frank, politely.

"Won't you have another piece of steak?" asked Mrs. Tarbox.

Frank saw that there was but a small piece left, and, though his appetite was not wholly satisfied, he answered:

"No, thank you."

"I will!" said Pliny, quickly.

Mrs. Tarbox frowned at her son, but did not venture to refuse in the presence of her guest. She cut off a small portion of the steak, and, with a severe look, put it on the extended plate of Pliny.

"You've got a good appetite, Pliny," said Julia.

"So would you have, if you had to work like me!" grumbled Pliny.

After the steak came an apple pie, which was cut into seven pieces. Mrs. Tarbox managed to make Frank's piece a little larger than the rest.

Her husband observed it with approval. He was very desirous that Frank should be satisfied with his fare.

When Pliny rose from the table, saying that he must be getting back to the store, Frank rose also.

"I will go with you," he said, "if you have no objection. I would like to take a walk."

"Come along," said Pliny. "I should like to have company."

"You will be a great deal of company for Pliny," observed Mr. Tarbox, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "Just of an age and of congenial tastes."

Frank hardly expected to find Pliny very congenial, but he wished to obtain some information, which he thought the latter could give him, and he also wanted to see something of Newark.

"I say, your name is Frank, isn't it?" commenced Pliny:

"Yes."

"The old man's awful glad to see you."

"I am glad of it. He has received me very kindly."

"Got up an extra supper for you. We don't often get steak for supper."

This was rather an embarrassing revelation, and surprised Frank somewhat. The supper had not seemed to him at all extra. It would do, but was far from luxurious.

"I hope you'll stay with us a good while," continued Pliny.

"Thank you."

"You see we shall live better while you are with us, and the rest of us will be gainers."

"I don't want to put your father to any unusual expense."

"Oh, he can afford it! But he's stingy, father is. He doesn't spend any more than he can help."

"It is best to be economical, I suppose."

"When you don't carry it too far. I say, Frank," continued Pliny, lowering his voice, "you can't lend me five dollars, can you?"

Frank regarded Pliny with astonishment. The proposal was very abrupt, especially when the shortness of their acquaintance was considered.

"Are you particularly in need of money?" asked Frank.

"Well, you see," said Pliny, "I want it for a particular purpose."

"Why not ask your father for it?"

"Oh, he'd never let me have it!"

Now, in Frank's present circumstances, five dollars represented a good deal of money. He was the more impressed with the necessity of economy since he had found out how small were the wages paid in stores to boys of his age.

He did not feel at all inclined to grant Pliny's request, especially as he had a strong suspicion that it would be a long time before the sum would be returned.

"Why do you apply to me, Pliny?" he asked, seriously.

"Didn't your mother die and leave you a big property? Father says you must be worth more than a hundred thousand dollars."

"Your father probably has not heard of the will," said Frank, quietly.

"What was there in the will?" asked Pliny.

"The whole property was left to Mr. Manning."

"Who is he?"

"My stepfather."

"And nothing to you?"

"Nothing to me."

"But he's got to take care of you, hasn't he?"

"It was expected, but I am going to earn my own living, if I can."

Pliny stopped short in blank amazement and whistled.

"Then you haven't got a lot of money?"

"No."

"Won't your stepfather give you a part of the property?"

"I haven't asked him, but I don't think he will."

"And why did you come to Newark?"

"I thought your father might give me some help about getting a place."

"If this isn't the richest joke!" said Pliny, laughing uproariously.

"Where is the joke? I don't see it," returned Frank, inclined to be angry.

"The way you have taken in the old man. He thinks you are rich, and has treated you accordingly -- got up an extra supper and all that. Oh, it's too good!"

"I certainly didn't intend to take him in, as you call it," said Frank. "The sooner you tell him the better."

"I'll tell him," said Pliny. "I shall enjoy seeing how provoked he'll be."

"I think I will leave you," said Frank, shortly. "I will take a walk by myself.

"Well, don't lose your way. Oh, I wish the store was shut! I want to tell the old man."

And Pliny laughed again, while our hero walked off in disgust.



Chapter XVII

The Way Of The World


Frank felt like an impostor when he discovered that his cordial reception was wholly owing to the belief that he was his mother's heir.

The situation was unpleasant, and he was impatient to have Mr. Tarbox undeceived. He was sure that Pliny would lose no time in revealing his true position, and decided not to return to the house of Mr. Tarbox till nine o'clock, when the story would have been told.

He wandered about aimlessly till he heard the city clocks strike nine, and then rang the bell at his relation's house.

The family, with the exception of the two younger children, were assembled in the common sitting room.

As Frank entered, instead of the cordial welcome he had previously received, he noticed a look of coldness and constraint on the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Tarbox, while Pliny looked as if some stupendous joke was being perpetrated.

"Good-evening!" said Frank, politely. "I have been taking a walk."

"My son Pliny tells me," said Mr. Tarbox, "that you have not inherited your mother's property."

Frank bowed.

"And that it has gone to your stepfather."

"It seems so."

"I am amazed."

"So was I, sir."

"Your mother has practically disinherited you?"

"It was not my mother, sir," said Frank, hastily. "I can't explain it, but I'm sure she would not will away everything from me."

"Do you suspect your stepfather of anything irregular?" asked Mr. Tarbox, briskly.

"I would rather not answer your question, sir. I don't care to make any charges which I cannot prove."

"And so Mr. Manning has sent you out into the world to earn your own living, has he?"

"No, sir. He has consented that I may do so. It was my own plan."

Much as Frank was prejudiced against his stepfather, his natural sense of justice would not allow him to accuse him unjustly.

"Did he suggest that you should come to me?" asked Mr. Tarbox, in a tone which Frank did not like.

"No, sir."

"So that was your idea, too," continued Mr. Tarbox, with a palpable sneer.

"Yes, sir," answered Frank. "You are not a very near relative, but the nearest I know of, and I supposed you would be willing to give me some advice about the best means of earning my living. I remembered," he could not help adding, "that my mother received you all as guests for a considerable time, and I thought I might take the liberty."

"Oh, certainly!" returned Mr. Tarbox, rather abashed. "I am, of course, ready to give you advice, and my first advice is to seek a lawyer and let him institute a suit against your stepfather, on speculation. That is, he gets nothing if he fails, but obtains a commission if he succeeds. I could myself recommend a reliable man."

"Thank you, sir; but I have no present thought of contesting the will."

"I think you make a mistake. Do I understand that you expect to earn your own living?"

"I shall try to do so."

"You will find it very difficult. You may expect me to take you into my own store, but there is no vacancy, and -- "

Frank hastily assured Mr. Tarbox that he had no such expectations. He had no wish to deprive the errand boy of the two dollars a week, which he probably richly earned.

"Situations in Newark are not easily obtained," proceeded Mr. Tarbox. "I am willing that you should stay with us a day or two, but I don't think you will find it worth your while to stay here."

Mr. Tarbox feared that his young relative might expect to find a home free of charge in his house, and such an arrangement did not suit his economical ideas. There was no profit in it, but, on the contrary, a positive loss. Frank read clearly the thoughts of his host, with the help of what Pliny had told him, and, expressing his thanks very briefly, announced his intention to go to New York the next morning.

"It may be the best thing you can do!" said Mr. Tarbox, relieved. "New York opens a much wider field to a boy of enterprise than Newark, and probably you will pick up something to do."

"It won't be my fault, if I don't," said Frank.

"You have my best wishes," said Mr. Tarbox. "The demands of my family forbid me offering you any pecuniary assistance, but -- "

"I don't stand in need of it, sir. I have money enough to keep me till I get started in something."

"Really, I am very glad to hear it!"

And there is no doubt that Mr. Tarbox was sincere.

"I wonder how much money he has got?" thought Pliny. "Perhaps he'd lend me two dollars. I'll ask him, if I have a chance."

Pliny proposed to borrow, not because he needed the money, but because he liked to levy contributions upon any available party, with a very faint idea of repaying the same. The money would go to swell his deposit at the savings bank. It was very commendable, of course, to save his money, but not at the expense of others, as Pliny too frequently did.

"I have moved you out of the spare room," said Mrs. Tarbox, when our hero asked permission to retire, "and put you in the same room with Pliny. I suppose you won't mind?"

"Just as you please, Mrs. Tarbox," said Frank, though he would have preferred to have passed the night alone.

"Could you make it convenient to lend me two dollars?" asked Pliny, as they went up to bed together.

"Not just now," answered Frank. "When I get something to do I shall not need to be so careful of my money."

"One dollar would answer," persisted Pliny.

Without a word, Frank drew a dollar bill from his pocketbook and handed it to Pliny.

"Now," he thought, "I shall not feel under any obligations to the family."

"You're a good fellow, even if you are poor," said Pliny, in high good humor.

Frank was tired, and it was not long before all his anxieties for future were lost sight of in a sound and refreshing slumber.



Chapter XVIII

Frank Arrives In New York


The breakfast the next morning was very meager. It was no longer an object to gratify Frank's palate, now that he turned out to be a poor relation, and the family returned to their usual plain diet.

"So you are resolved to go to New York this morning," said Mr. Tarbox. "Of course it would gratify us to have you remain longer, but I appreciate your anxiety to go to work."

Frank was by no means deceived by this statement. He knew very well that Mr. Tarbox would be relieved by his departure, but of this knowledge he made no sign. He merely said that he thought it best to go.

He took leave of his hosts, and, purchasing a ticket at the railway station, found himself within an hour in New York. He had been there before, but it was not for a long time, and he had but a vague general idea of the city.

Frank made inquiries of a kindly man who owned a clean little store on one of the streets. The latter knew of places where Frank could board and lodge for five dollars a week or about that and directed Frank to them. They were all near University Place. He found the place without difficulty.

A slipshod servant answered the bell.

"Have you got any small rooms?" asked Frank.

"Yes," answered the girl. "Missus is out, but I'll show you a hall bedroom, if you like."

"I should like to see it."

Frank followed the girl upstairs.

He was not favorably impressed by the appearance of the interior. He did not so much mind its being shabby, but he was repelled by the evident lack of neatness.

The girl threw open the door of a small hall bedroom at the head of the stairs, but it looked so comfortless that he felt sure he should not like it. He thought it best, however, to inquire the price.

"Five dollars a week with board," answered the girl.

"I don't think it will suit me," said our hero.

"There's a larger room for seven dollars," said the servant.

"No. I think I will look elsewhere."

The next house was not much better, but the third was much neater and more attractive, and Frank agreed to take a room at five dollars per week.

It was a small hall bedroom, but it looked clean, and the lady who showed him about the house was very neat in her dress.

"When will you come?" asked the lady.

"Now," replied Frank, promptly.

"Would you mind paying the first week in advance?"

"Not at all. Here is the money."

And Frank drew a five-dollar bill from his portemonnaie.

"Thank you!" said the boarding-house keeper. "I have lost so much by boarders going away owing me money that I am obliged to ask gentlemen to pay in advance till I am well acquainted with them."

"That is quite right," said Frank. "What is your dinner hour?"

"Six o'clock. We have lunch at half-past twelve for the ladies, but if any gentleman happens to be at home at that time, he can go in."

Frank looked at his watch. It was only eleven o'clock and as so much of the day remained, he decided, as soon as he had unpacked his valise, to go downtown and look for a place without delay.

"I shall not be here at lunch to-day," he said. "You may expect me at dinner."

There was a small bureau in the room -- a piece of furniture not often found in hall bedrooms.

Frank deposited the contents of the valise in the bureau drawers, and then went downstairs and out into the street.



Chapter XIX

Frank Seeks Employment In Vain


It was a bright, pleasant day, and Broadway looked very lively. In spite of his being alone in a strange city, with uncertain prospects, Frank felt in good spirits.

Boys of his age usually like excitement and bustle, and Frank was quick to notice the shifting scenes of the great panorama.

"Here are thousands of people," he reflected, "all of whom make a living in some way. I don't see why I can't succeed as well as they."

Some of the objects he saw amused him.

In front of him walked an elderly man with a large placard strapped to his back, on which was the advertisement of a "Great Clothing Emporium."

"I don't think I should fancy that kind of employment," thought our hero.

As he was looking in at a shop window, a boy about his own age hailed him.

"I say, Johnny, what's the price of turnips?"

"Do you want to buy any?" asked Frank quietly.

"Well, I might. Have you got any with you?"

"I am sorry I can't supply you," said Frank, coolly. "Up our way we keep our cattle on turnips."

"You ain't so green, after all," said the boy, laughing good-naturedly.

"Thank you for the compliment!"

"I suppose I look countrylike," thought Frank, "but it won't last long. I shall get used to city ways."

Close by he saw in a window the sign:

"Cash Boy Wanted."

Frank as not altogether certain about the duties of cash boys nor their rate of compensation, but he made up his mind not to lose sight of any chances, and accordingly stepped into the store.

It proved to be a large dry-goods store.

Near the entrance he met a tall man, with black whiskers.

"Do you want any cash boys?" inquired Frank.

"Are you inquiring for yourself?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are too large. Besides, you would not be satisfied with the wages?"

"How much do you pay, sir?"

"Two dollars a week."

"No; I don't think I should like to work for that," said Frank. "Are those cash boys?" he asked, pointing out some boys of apparently ten to twelve years, old, who were flitting about from desk to counter.

"Yes."

"I see they are much younger than I. Excuse the trouble I have given you!"

"None whatever," said the man, politely.

Frank left the store, and continued his walk down Broadway.

He began to feel a little serious. It was evident that the boys did not receive as large compensation for their services as he had supposed.

The problem promised to be a perplexing one, but Frank was by no means discouraged. In fact, if he had been, he would hardly have deserved to be the hero of my story.

Though Clinton Place is not very far uptown, it is a considerable walk from this point to the Astor House.

There was so much to see, however, that Frank did not become tired, nor was he sensible of the distance. He walked a little beyond the Astor House, and, crossing Broadway, turned down Fulton Street.

On the left side of the street his attention was drawn to a restaurant, and he was led by the prompting of appetite to enter.

The prices he found to be reasonable, and the tables were already pretty well filled with clerks and business men, who were partaking of their midday lunch.

Frank found that a plate of meat, with potato and a small supply of bread and butter, could be obtained for fifteen cents.

He afterward found restaurants where the same could be gotten for ten cents, but generally there was a deficiency in quality or quantity, and there was less neatness in serving the articles.

Seated at the same table with Frank were two young men, neither probably much over twenty. One appeared to be filling a regular clerkship.

"What are you doing now, Jack?" he asked of the other.

"I am in the tea business."

"How is that?"

"You know the Great Pekin Tea Company, of course?"

"Yes."

"Well, until I can get a place, I am selling for them."

"How do you make out?"

"I can't tell you, for I have only just commenced," said his friend.

"How do they pay -- salary or commission?"

"They are to pay me a commission -- twenty per cent on what I sell."

"That is a good commission."

"Yes; it is good enough, if I can make a fair amount of sales. There is a good deal of uncertainty about it of course. I would much rather have a place like yours."

Frank listened with interest. He wondered whether the Great Pekin Tea Company would employ him. If so, he would have a field for his energy, and every inducement to work hard, since his pay would depend on the amount of his sales. Besides, as an agent, he would occupy a comparatively independent position, and Frank was ambitious enough to enjoy this.



Chapter XX

An Adventure In Wall Street


When the two men at his table left the restaurant, Frank followed them. At the door the two parted, the clerk going toward Broadway, while the agent walked in the direction of Nassau Street.

"I beg your pardon," said Frank, overtaking him; "but may I ask you a question?"

"Half a dozen, if you like," said the other, good-naturedly.

"I overheard what you said about the Great Pekin Tea Company. Do you think I could get a chance to sell for them?"

"Oh, yes; there'll be no trouble about that!"

"I am looking for something to do," continued Frank, "and I think I should like to try that."

"You'll find it uphill work," said the agent; "hard work and poor pay. I shall leave it as soon as I can get a regular position. Can't you get a place?"

"Perhaps I can. I haven't tried very hard yet," answered Frank; "but I find boys are paid so little that I can't make enough to live on. If I were a man it would be different."

"I don't believe you can make more than a boy's wages at selling tea," said Frank's new acquaintance, "but you might try it."

"Would you mind giving me a note to the company?" asked Frank.

"I will write a line on one of my business cards," said the agent. "That will be all you will need."

He drew out a card and wrote a line commending Frank to the attention of the company.

Frank thanked him, and sought the direction given.

Entering a large shop, not far from the Astor House, he looked about his inquiringly. Around him were chests of tea, inscribed with Chinese characters. A portly man addressed him.

"Well, my boy, what can I do for you?" he asked.

"Mr. Mason, one of your agents, has given me this card," said Frank. "He thinks you might be willing to employ me."

"We are ready to employ any competent person," said the gentleman; "but you seem very young."

"I am sixteen, sir."

"That is young. Have you had any experience as an agent?"

"No, sir?"

The man questioned him further and finally accepted him.

Frank was told that it would be well to take samples of different kinds of teas with their respective prices attached, and seek orders for them at private houses and groceries, noting down in a little book orders obtained. Small quantities he could himself deliver, and large quantities, should he be fortunate enough to obtain any, could be sent out from the store by their general delivery.

"What commission am I to get, sir?" inquired Frank.

"Twenty per cent on parcels sold to private houses and ten per cent when you sell to retail dealers. To the first you can charge a full price, but it is necessary to sell at lower rates to dealers."

"I understand, sir," said Frank.

"When do you want to begin?"

"To-morrow morning, sir. Where do you advise me to go?"

"New York has been pretty well canvassed, except perhaps the upper part, Harlem. It might be well to make a start in Brooklyn."

"Very well, sir. I will call to-morrow and get samples."

As Frank left the store, he reflected, with satisfaction:

"I have only been a few hours in New York, and I have gotten employment already."

This reflection raised his spirits, and disposed him to regard the future with a degree of confidence. He resolved to spend the rest of the afternoon in walking about in the lower part of the city, and acquiring a little familiarity with the streets, as this was a kind of knowledge he was likely to need.

He strolled down Broadway, admiring the massive and stately structures that lined the streets on either side. Very soon he came to Trinity Church, and, standing in front it, looked down Wall Street. He had heard so much of this street that he felt inclined to turn from Broadway and walk down its entire length.

As he sauntered along a man whom he met scrutinized him sharply, as if considering some plan. Apparently making up his mind, he stepped up to Frank, and, touching him on the shoulder, said:

"Boy, would you like a job?"

Now Frank, though he had engaged to work for the Great Pekin Tea Company was ready to accept any other proposal, and answered promptly:

"Yes, sir."

"That is right," said the man. "It is a mere trifle, but I am willing to pay you a dollar."

"What is it, sir?"

"Do you see that window?"

He pointed to a basement window, in which were exposed rolls of gold, currency and greenbacks of different denominations, and English sovereigns and French gold coins.

"I want you to do me a little errand in there," he said.

Frank was rather surprised that the man did not do his own errand, when the broker's office was so near, but he had no objection to earning a dollar and signified his willingness.

"What I want you to do," said his new acquaintance, "is to sell some government bonds for me."

"Very well, sir."

The man produced a large yellow envelope, already open.

"In this envelope," he said, "are two five-twenty governments for a hundred dollars each. Take them in and sell them, and bring the proceeds to me."

"All right, sir."

Frank took the envelope, and entered the office of Jones & Robinson, that being the style of the firm.

He advanced to the counter, and singling out a clerk, said:

"I want to sell these bonds."

The clerk took them and drew them out of the envelope. Then he figured a little on a slip of paper, and said:

"They are worth two hundred and twenty-five dollars and twenty-five cents."

"All right, sir."

"Will you take a check or currency?"

Frank hesitated.

"Perhaps I'd better ask the man I am getting them for."

"Very well. You can bring them here to-morrow."

"Oh, I will let you know in a minute! The man is just outside."

This answer immediately excited suspicion. Frank was too little versed in business ways to understand how singular it was for his principal not to transact his own business under the circumstances, but the brokers were necessarily keen, shrewd men.

"Wait a minute," said the clerk; "I will speak to Mr. Jones."

Mr. Jones came forward and addressed Frank.

"Are you acquainted with the man who gave you these bonds to sell?" he asked.

"No, sir. I met him in the street."

"Did he offer you any pay for selling them?"

"Yes, sir. He is going to give me a dollar."

"Will you go out and ask him to come in here a moment?"

Frank obeyed.

When his employer saw him coming, he asked, eagerly:

"Have you got the money?"

"No," answered Frank. "They asked me if I wanted a check or currency."

"Either currency or gold," answered the man, hastily. "Go back at once, and don't keep me waiting."

"They want to see you, sir."

"What for?" inquired the man, looking disturbed.

"I don't know."

"There is no need of my going in," said the man, angrily. "I paid you to sell the bonds. Now go back."

"He won't come," reported Frank. "He says I can attend to the business. He will take either gold or currency."

"No doubt," said Mr. Jones, significantly. "Thomas, go out with this boy, and tell the man that employed him that we do not purchase bonds unless we have a reasonable assurance that they belong to the person offering them. We will take the liberty of retaining them, giving him a receipt for them, and if we are satisfied, he can have his money to-morrow."

Robinson, who had been examining some newspaper slips, here came forward, and said:

"That is unnecessary. I find that these bonds are among those stolen from the house of Henry Percival, Madison Avenue, a week since. We must manage to delay the man while we notify the police."

Frank was very much surprised to learn that he was acting as agent for a bond robber, and was fearful that he might himself be regarded with suspicion; but he need not have troubled himself on this score. Wall Street men are good judges of human nature, and it was at once concluded in the office that Frank was the dupe of a designing knave.

A boy was dispatched to the nearest police office, and Frank was directed to tell his principal that he would not long be delayed.

Naturally, however, the man outside had become suspicious.

"I can't wait," he said. "Meet me on the steps of the Astor House at five o'clock with the money. I am obliged to hurry away now to a business appointment."

Frank could think of no other pretext for delaying him, and was forced to see him hurry away.

He hastened back to the office and gave the alarm.

"He has taken fright," said Robinson. "I fear we have lost him. Where did he go?"

Frank, however, was too ignorant of city streets to give any accurate information.

The consequence was that when the policeman appeared on the scene, there was no occasion for his services.

"At any rate," said the broker, "we have secured a little of the plunder. What is your name and address my boy? We may wish to communicate with you."

Frank gave his name, and added the directions of his boarding house.

"Shall I meet the man at the Astor House?" he inquired, as he was leaving the office.

"To be sure!" said Mr. Jones. "I came near forgetting that. Officer, will you be on hand at the time?"

"Better employ a detective, sir, as my uniform would keep the thief at a distance. I don't think he'll appear, at any rate."

"I do," said the broker. "He won't give up the money while he thinks there is a chance of securing it."



Chapter XXI

The Capture


At the hour named, Frank repaired to the Astor House, and took a position on the steps.

He looked about him for his street acquaintance, but could see no one who bore any resemblance to him.

Finally, a man dressed in a gray suit with a pair of green glasses, walked carelessly up to our hero and said, in a low voice:

"Have you got the money?"

Frank looked at him in surprise.

This man had thick, black whiskers, while the man who had employed him had none at all, so far as he could remember. Besides, the green glasses altered him considerably.

To make sure that he was not deceived he inquired:

"What money?"

"You know very well," said the man, impatiently. "You are the boy whom I employed to sell some bonds this morning."

"You don't look like the same man," said Frank.

"Because of my glasses. I have to wear them at times on account of the weakness of my eyes."

While he was speaking, a quiet-looking man approached and listened to the conversation.

"Then," said Frank, "you can tell me how many bonds you handed me."

"They were two five-twenty government bonds of a hundred dollars each."

"Correct, sir."

"Then hand me the money and be quick about it, for I have no time to waste! You shall have the dollar I promised you."

But here the quiet-looking man took a part in the conversation. Passing his arm through that of the man with the green glasses, he said:

"I will trouble you to come with me."

"How dare you touch me? Do you mean to insult me?" demanded the other, struggling with captor.

"I will make all clear in due time. You must come with me and explain how you came in possession of the bonds you gave this boy."

"They were put in my hands by an acquaintance. If there is anything wrong, I am not to blame."

"In that case no harm will come to you; but now you must come along."

After his experience, Frank walked to his boarding place. He was quite ready for six o'clock.

When he entered the dining room, his hostess introduced him to all.

A young man sat next to him and entered into conversation.

"What do you do, Mr. Courtney?"

"I have taken an agency to sell tea for the Great Pekin Tea Company. I am to begin to-morrow."

"I am afraid you won't like it. A friend of mine tried it once and came near starving."

This was not encouraging, but Frank was not going to despair before he had fairly begun his work.

"I find that boys receive such small wages," Frank continued, "that I preferred to try an agency."

"Quite true," said Mr. Preston, condescendingly. "When I started I was paid a paltry sum; now I am not paid what I am worth. Still, twenty-five dollars a week is fair."

"Quite fair," responded Frank, who could not, of course, know that Mr. Preston did not receive one-half of this sum, though he chose to give that impression.

After dinner, Preston was obliged to go back to the store where he was employed. By invitation, Frank walked with him.

Turning into Sixth Avenue they passed a saloon.

"Won't you have something to drink, Courtney?" said Preston.

"No, thank you, I never drink," answered Frank.

"It will brace you up, and make you feel jolly. Better come in!"

"I don't need bracing up," answered Frank, quietly.

"Well, perhaps you are right," said Mr. Peter Preston. "I don't indulge very often, but sometimes I feel like it."

Some boys might have yielded to the temptation, but Frank had determined that he would abstain from liquor, and kept his resolution. A boy who comes to the city is exposed at every step to this peril, and needs a firm will to withstand it. It is the fruitful source of crime and misery, and does more to fill our prisons than any other cause.

"This is my store," said Preston, as he pointed to a modest-looking shop on the west side of the avenue. "I wish I could keep you company longer, but business before pleasure, you know."

Before returning to his boarding house, Frank sat down for a short time in Washington Park, and reviewed his plans and prospects. He could not tell how he would succeed in his tea agency; but if that failed, he was resolved to try something else.

He didn't feel homesick, for since his mother's death he had no longer any home ties. Young as he was, he felt that one part of his life was at an end, and that a new life and a new career were before him.



Chapter XXII

The Young Tea Merchant


The next morning, at breakfast, one of the gentlemen, who had been running his eyes over the morning paper, said, suddenly:

"Ah! I see they have caught one of the gang who robbed the house of Mr. Percival, on Madison Avenue, a week ago."

"Read the paragraph, Mr. Smith," said one of the boarders.

Mr. Smith read as follows:

"About noon yesterday a boy entered the banking house of Jones & Robinson, in Wall Street, and offered for sale two one-hundred-dollar government bonds. On inquiry, he said that the bonds belonged to a man in the street, whom he had never before met, and who had offered him a dollar to sell them. This naturally excited suspicion, and a policeman was sent for. Before he could arrive the man had hastily departed, requesting the boy to meet him at a specified hour in front of the Astor House and hand him the money. He came to the rendezvous, but in disguise, and, while talking to the boy, was arrested. It is understood that he has agreed to turn State's evidence, and probably the entire sum stolen, amounting to several thousand dollars, will be recovered."

Frank listened to this paragraph with interest. He was glad that his name was not mentioned in the account, as he didn't care for such publicity. He ventured to ask a question.

"Is Mr. Percival a rich man?" he asked.

"Very rich," answered Mr. Smith. "He is not now in the city, but is expected home from Europe in three or four weeks. His house was left in charge of an old servant -- a coachman -- and his wife; but the burglars proved too much for them."

"I am glad they are caught," said Mrs. Fletcher. "It makes my blood run cold to think of having the houses entered at night by burglars."

"Preston," said Mr. Smith, jokingly, "I hope you have your bonds locked securely up."

"I don't believe the sharpest burglar can find them," said Preston. "I only wish I could get hold of them myself."

"The boy who helped to capture the burglar ought to be well rewarded," said one of the boarders.

"Don't you wish it had been you, Courtney?" said Mr. Preston.

"It was," answered Frank, quietly.

There was a great sensation upon this announcement. All eyes were turned upon our hero -- most, it must be admitted, with an expression of incredulity.

"Come, now, you are joking!" said Preston. "You don't really mean it?"

"I do mean it," assured Frank.

"Tell us all about it," said Mrs. Fletcher, who had her share of curiosity. "I didn't suppose we had such a hero in our house."

"It didn't require much heroism," said Frank, smiling.

"Tell us all about it, at any rate."

Frank told the story as simply as he could, much to the satisfaction of the company.

"You'll come in for a handsome reward, when Mr. Percival gets home," suggested Mr. Smith.

"I don't expect anything," said Frank. "I shall be satisfied if I get the dollar which was promised me. I haven't received that yet."

"I wish I were in your shoes -- that's all I've got to say," said Preston, nodding vigorously. "Will you sell out for five dollars?"

"Cash down?" asked Frank, smiling.

"Well, I'll give you my note at thirty days," said the Sixth Avenue salesman, who seldom kept five dollars in advance of his liabilities.

"I won't sell what I haven't got," said Frank. "Probably I shall hear nothing from Mr. Percival."

After breakfast Frank went downtown and sought the store of the Great Pekin Company.

After half an hour's delay -- for there were others in advance of him -- he was fitted out with samples and started for Brooklyn.

It was his first visit to that city, but he had received some directions which made his expedition less embarrassing.

At the ferry he took a Flatbush Avenue car, and rode up Fulton Street, and past the City Hall, up Fulton Avenue, for nearly a mile.

Here were interesting streets, lined with comfortable houses -- for Frank had made up his mind first to try private houses. He had with him a few pound parcels of tea, which he thought he could perhaps succeed in disposing of at such places.

He selected a house at random, and rang the bell.

A servant answered the ring.

Frank felt rather embarrassed, but there was no time to hesitate.

"I have some samples of tea with me," he began, "of excellent quality and at reasonable prices."

"It's no use," said the girl, abruptly. "We never buy of peddlers," and she closed the door in his face.

"Not a very good beginning," thought Frank, rather mortified. "So I am a peddler," he said to himself, and he called to mind the agents and peddlers who in past years had called at the Cedars.

With some compunction, he remembered that he had regarded them with some contempt as traveling nuisances. Now he had entered the ranks of this despised class, and he began to see that they might be perfectly respectable, and were estimable persons, animated by a praiseworthy desire to make an honest living.

Thus thinking, he called at another door.

It was opened, not by a servant, but by an elderly maiden lady, who had rather a weakness for bargains.

"I've got some nice tea," said Frank, "which I should like to sell you. It is put up by the Great Pekin Company."

"Are you sure it's nice?" asked the elderly lady. "We've been getting ours at the grocery store on the avenue, and the last wasn't very good."

"You'd better try a pound of ours," said Frank.

"I don't know but I will," said the lady. "How much do you charge?"

"I have some at fifty cents, some at sixty and some at seventy."

"I guess I'll take the sixty."

Frank had a pound parcel ready, which he delivered to her, and received his money.

"Seems to me you are pretty young for a peddler," said the lady, regarding Frank with curiosity.

"Yes, ma'am."

"How old be you?"

"Sixteen."

"Been long in the business?"

"No, ma'am; I've only just commenced."

"You don't say so! Do you make much money at it?"

"I haven't made much yet. I should be glad to supply you with some more tea when this is gone."

"Well, you can call if you are round this way. If I like it, I will try you again."

Frank's spirits rose.

His profits on the pound of tea were twelve cents. This was not much, certainly, but it was a beginning.

At the next three houses he sold nothing, being rather rudely rebuffed at one. At the fourth house, the servant called her mistress, a kind, motherly-looking woman, who seemed to regard Frank with more interest than his merchandise.

"I hope you are succeeding well," she said, kindly.

"This is my first day," said Frank, "and I have made one sale."

"I have a son who is an agent like you, but he didn't begin so young. He is now traveling in the West."

"What is he selling?" asked Frank, with interest.

"Dry goods. He travels for a wholesale house in New York."

"I suppose he is a young man."

"Yes; he is twenty-five, but he began at nineteen in a small way. He sometimes got quite discouraged at first. That is why I feel interested in any who are passing through the same experience."

These pleasant words cheered Frank. Only at the nearest house he had been called a tramp, but here he found that he was regarded with consideration.

"It is rather uphill work," said Frank.

"And you seem very young."

"I am sixteen."

"Are you entirely dependent on what you earn?" asked the lady, sympathizingly.

"Not entirely," answered the young merchant, "but I hope to make a living in this or some other way. Can I sell you any?" he asked, hopefully.

"I believe we have some on hand. Still tea will always keep, and I would like to help you along."

The kind-hearted lady took three pounds -- two at sixty cents and one at seventy. This gave Frank a profit thirty-eight cents and put him in good spirits.

He worked his way back to the avenue on the other side of the street, and coming to a grocery store, entered.

It occurred to him that he would try to sell some at wholesale.

Frank was so young that the dealer did not suppose him to be an agent, and asked what he would like to buy.

"I came to sell, not to buy," said Frank.

"What are you dealing in?" asked the grocer.

"I have several samples of tea," said our hero. "If you will give me an order, I will have it sent to you to-morrow."

The grocer found, upon examination, that his stock was getting low, and gave Frank an order, but he was obliged to sell below the regular price, and only cleared three cents a pound. Still, on a sale of twenty-five pounds, this gave him seventy-five cents, which was very encouraging.

Adding up his profits, thus far, Frank found that his commission amounted to a dollar and a quarter, which exceeded his anticipations.

He continued his calls, but sold only one pound besides, at fifty cents, netting him ten cents more.



Chapter XXIII

Frank Meets Mr. Manning And Mark


The next morning Frank resumed his tea agency. As on the day previous, he went to Brooklyn; but, though I should be glad to say that he was more successful than on the first day, truth compels me to state that the day was a comparative failure.

It might be that he was unfortunate in the persons whom he visited, but at all events, at the close of his labors he found that his commissions amounted to less than fifty cents. He contented himself, therefore, with a ten-cent lunch, and crossed Fulton Ferry between three and four o'clock.

"This will never do," thought Frank, seriously. "I shall have to be economical to make my earnings cover my incidental expenses, while my board and lodging must be defrayed out of the money I have with me."

Frank was disappointed. It is easy to think of earning one's living, but not quite so easy to accomplish it. A boy, besides being ignorant of the world, is inexperienced, and so disqualified for many avenues of employment which are open to men. It is generally foolish for a boy to leave a good home and start out for himself, unless the chances are unusually favorable for him. If he does it, however, he should not allow himself to be easily discouraged.

If Frank had given up the business in which he was engaged simply because he had met with one unsuccessful day, I should not have been willing to make him the hero of my story.

"This will never do," thought Frank. "I must make a greater effort to-morrow."

The next day his commission amounted to a dollar, and the fourth day to a dollar and twelve cents.

"You are doing well," said his employer. "You are doing better than the majority of our agents."

In one way this compliment was satisfactory. In another way it was not encouraging, for it limited his prospects. Frank began to think that he would never be able to make his entire expenses as a tea agent.

I don't propose to speak in detail of Frank's daily experiences, but only to make mention of any incidents that play an important part in his history.

He was returning from Jersey City on the tenth day of his agency, when in the gentleman's cabin he saw, directly opposite, two persons whom he had reason to remember.

They were Mark Manning and his father.

Little reason as he had to like either, they reminded him of home, and he felt pleased to meet them.

He instantly crossed the cabin, and offered his hand to his stepfather, who had not yet seen him.

"When did you arrive, Mr. Manning?" he asked.

"Why, it is Frank!" exclaimed Mr. Manning, with an appearance of cordiality. "Mark, do you see Frank?"

"Yes, I see him," replied Mark, coldly.

"Haven't you anything to say to him?" asked his father, who was much more of a gentleman than his son.

"How are you?" said Mark, indifferently.

"Thank you for your kind inquiry," said Frank, more amused than vexed, for he cared very little for his stepbrother's friendship. "I am in very good health."

"And how are you getting along?" asked his stepfather, with an appearance of interest. "Are you in any business?"

"Yes," answered Frank.

"What are you doing?' asked Mark, inspired a little by curiosity.

"I am agent for a wholesale tea house in New York," Frank answered, briefly.

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mark, rather impressed. "What is the name of the firm?"

"The Great Pekin Tea Company."

"Does it pay well?" asked his stepbrother.

"I have met with very fair success," replied Frank.

"I congratulate you, Frank," said Mr. Manning. "Your energy and enterprise are creditable -- extremely creditable. I always predicted that you would succeed -- didn't I, Mark?'

"I don't remember hearing you say so," said Mark.

Mr. Manning shrugged his shoulders.

"Nevertheless," he said, "I have often made the remark."

"Where do you live?" asked Mark.

"I board in Clinton Place."

"A very respectable street," said Mr. Manning.

Frank now thought it was his turn to become questioner.

"How long do you remain in the city, Mr. Manning?" he asked.

"Not long -- only a day or two," said his stepfather.

"We sail for Europe on Saturday," interposed Mark, "on the Cunard steamer."

"Indeed! I wish you a pleasant voyage."

"I am sorry you won't go with us, Frank," said his stepfather, cautiously. "You remember I gave you the chance to do so, and you desired to devote yourself immediately to business."

"Yes, sir. I would rather remain in New York."

"It might possibly be arranged now, if you desire to go," said Mr. Manning, hesitatingly.

"No, thank you, sir."

"Well, perhaps you are right," said his stepfather, considerably relieved.

"What parts of Europe do you expect to visit?" asked Frank.

"We shall visit England, France, the Rhine, Switzerland, and perhaps Italy."

"I hope you will enjoy it."

"Thank you; I think we shall."

Frank checked a sigh. It was certainly tantalizing. If he could travel with congenial friends, he felt that he would very much enjoy such a trip; but with Mark in the party there would be little pleasure for him.

"We are staying at the St. Nicholas Hotel," said Mr. Manning. "I would invite you to come and dine with us, but I have an engagement first, and don't know when we shall dine."

"Thank you, all the same," said Frank.

They had reached the New York side, and were walking toward Broadway. It was necessary for Frank to go to the tea store, and he took leave of his stepfather and Mark, again wishing them a pleasant voyage.

"I hate that boy!" said Mark, as they walked away.

"You should not indulge in any such disagreeable feelings, Mark," said his father.

"Don't you hate him?"

"Certainly not."

"One would think by your soft manner that you loved him," said Mark, who was not noted for the respect with which he treated his father.

"Really, Mark, I am shocked by your strange words."

"What made you invite him to go to Europe with us?"

"I knew he would not go."

"He might have accepted, and then we should have been in a pretty pickle."

"Mark," said his father, rather irritated, "will you be kind enough to leave me to manage my own affairs? I believe I have succeeded pretty well so far."

"Yes, you have," Mark admitted. "All the same, we'd better keep clear of Frank till we get safely off on the steamer."



Chapter XXIV

A Discouraging Day


The next day was indeed a trying one and one of many experiences for Frank.

The first lady did not buy any tea, to be sure, but seemed sorry that she was already supplied, and questioned Frank as to what success he was meeting with.

When twelve o'clock came, Frank had not sold a single pound. Even if he earned nothing however, he had an appetite and must buy lunch.

He entered a small oyster saloon, and went up to the proprietor.

"Can I sell you some tea?" he asked.

"No, I guess not. I get my tea in Harlem."

"Take a couple of pounds," said Frank, "and I will take part of the pay in lunch."

"That is business," said the other. "Let me look at your tea."

Frank showed him his samples.

"Who employs you?'

"The Great Pekin Tea Company."

"They have a good name. Yes, I will try a couple of pounds at fifty cents."

This, of course, came to a dollar, and Frank's profit on the sale amounted to twenty cents. This was precisely the cost of the lunch which he ordered, so that he felt well satisfied with the arrangement.

He left the saloon in better spirits, and resumed his travels from house to house.

I am sorry to say, however, that though he certainly exerted himself to the utmost in the interests of the Great Pekin Tea Company and his own, he did not sell another pound of tea that day.

About three o'clock he got on board a Third Avenue horse car, bound downtown and sat quietly down in a corner.

"Harlem doesn't seem to be a very promising field for an agent," he said to himself. "Perhaps it isn't fair to judge it by the first day. Still, I don't think I shall have courage to come here to-morrow. I would rather go to Jersey City or Brooklyn."

Frank got off the cars at the Bible House and walked to his boarding house, where a disagreeable surprise was in store for him.

The night brought perplexity to Frank, but not discouragement. He was naturally hopeful, and, in a large city like New York, he felt that there are always chances of obtaining employment, provided he could maintain his position, as he would have been able to do if he had not lost the thirty-five dollars which his fellow boarder had stolen. Now, however, circumstances were materially changed.

One thing was tolerably clear to Frank, and this was, that he must give up his agency. He had tried it, and been unsuccessful. That is, he had failed to earn money enough to support himself, and this was necessary.

As to what he should take up next, Frank was quite in the dark. As a boy in a counting room he would be paid not more than four dollars a week, if he could gain such a situation, which was by no means certain.

The more he thought about the matter the more perplexed he felt, and it was in an uncomfortable frame of mind that he came down to breakfast the next morning.



Chapter XXV

Perplexity


He went out as usual after breakfast, and then walked leisurely downtown. He proposed to go to the shop of the Great Pekin Tea Company and resign his agency. He was on the watch during his walk for any opportunities to repair his unlucky loss:

At one place he saw a notice:

"Boy Wanted."

Though he felt sure the compensation would not be sufficient to allow of his accepting it, he thought it would do no harm to make inquiry, and accordingly entered.

It was an extensive retail store, where a large number of clerks were employed.

"Is a boy wanted here?" asked Frank of the nearest salesman.

"Yes. You may inquire at the desk."

He pointed to a desk some distance back, and Frank went up to it.

"You advertise for a boy," he said to a tall, stout man, who chanced to be the proprietor. "Is the place filled."

"No," was the answer; "but I don't think it would suit you."

"Do you think I would not be competent, sir?"

"No, that is not the difficulty. It would not be worth your acceptance."

"May I inquire what are the duties, sir?"

"We want a boy to open the door to customers, and this would not be worth your accepting."

"No, sir. Thank you for explaining it to me."

The gentleman was favorably impressed by Frank's polite and gentlemanly manners.

"I wish I had a place for you," he said. "Have you ever had any experience in our line of business?"

"No, sir; I have very little experience of any kind. I have acted for a short time as agent for a tea company."

"You may leave your name if you like, and I will communicate with you if I have a vacancy which you can fill."

Frank thanked the polite proprietor and walked out of the store.

Though this is a story written for boys, it may be read by some business men, who will allow me to suggest that a refusal kindly and considerately expressed loses half its bitterness, and often inspires hope, instead of discouragement.

Frank proceeded to the office of the tea company and formally resigned his agency. He was told that he could resume it whenever he pleased.

Leaving the store, he walked down Broadway in the direction of Wall Street.

He passed an elderly man, with stooping shoulders and a gait which showed that he was accustomed to live in the country.

He was looking about him in rather an undecided way. His glance happened to rest on Frank, and, after a little hesitation, he addressed him.

"Boy," he said, "do you live around here?"

"I live in the city; sir."

"Then I guess you can tell me what I want to know."

"I will if I can, sir," said Frank, politely.

"Whereabouts is Wall Street?"

"Close by, sir. I am going that way, and will be happy to show you."

Frank had no idea his compliance with the stranger's request was likely to have an important effect up his fortunes.



Chapter XXVI

Frank Hears Something To His Advantage


"My name," said the stranger, "is Peters -- Jonathan Peters, of Craneville, Onondaga County. I am a farmer, and don't know much about New York. I've got a few hundred dollars that I want to put into government bonds."

"All right," said Frank, "there won't be any difficulty about it."

"I've heerd there are a good many swindlers in New York," continued Mr. Peters. "The squire -- Squire Jackson, of our village -- perhaps you may have heard of him?"

"I don't think I have, Mr. Peters."

"Well, the squire told me I'd better take good keer of my money, as there were plenty of rascals here who would try to cheat me out of it."

"That is true, Mr. Peters. Only yesterday I was robbed of thirty-five dollars by a man who boarded in the same house."

"You don't say so?"

"He opened my trunk and took out my pocketbook while I was absent on business."

"I wouldn't dare to live in York!" said the farmer, whose apprehensions were increased by Frank's story.

By this time they had reached the office of Jones & Robinson, with whom, it will be remembered, Frank had once before had dealings.

"If you will come in here, Mr. Peters," said our hero, "you will be sure of honorable treatment. I will introduce you if you like."

"I should be obleeged if you would," said the farmer. "Out in Craneville I am to home, but I ain't used to York business men, and don't know how to talk to them."

It pleased Frank to find that, in spite of his inexperience, he was able to be of service to one more unaccustomed than himself to city scenes and city ways.

He walked up to the counter, followed by the farmer, and said:

"This gentleman wishes to buy some government bonds. I told him that he could transact his business here."

"Thank you! Mr. Benton, you may attend to this gentleman."

Frank was about to leave the office, when Mr. Robinson called him back.

"You have been in the office before, have you not?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Are you not the boy who assisted in the capture of the man who robbed Mr. Henry Percival, of Madison Avenue?"

"Yes, sir."

"I thought so. I have been trying to find you for the last week."

Naturally Frank looked surprised.

"Mr. Henry Percival was at that time in Europe," said Mr. Robinson. "On his return, a week since, he called on us, and expressed a desire to have you call upon him. We had mislaid or lost your address, and were unable to give him the information he desired."

Frank's heart beat high with hope as the broker spoke.

"Perhaps," he thought, "Mr. Percival may offer me a situation of some kind, and I certainly am greatly in need of one."

"Did Mr. Percival recover all his bonds?" he asked.

"Nearly all," answered Mr. Robinson. "He considered himself exceedingly fortunate, and he certainly was so."

"Do you know how much he was robbed of?" asked Frank.

"Rather over five thousand dollars. Of this sum all has been recovered except three bonds of a hundred dollars each. Mr. Percival is a rich man, and he won't miss that small amount."

"I wish I were rich enough not to miss three hundred dollars," thought our hero. "If I had my rights, I could say the same."

Just now, in his extremity, Frank thought regretfully of the fortune he had lost. Had he been so situated as to be earning enough to defray all his expenses, he would scarcely have given a thought of it.

"You had better go up to see Mr. Percival this evening," said the banker, "if you have no other engagement."

"Even if I had an engagement, I would put it off," said Frank. "Will you give me Mr. Percival's number?"

"No. 265," said Mr. Robinson.

Frank noted it down and left the office. By this time Mr. Peters had completed his business, and was ready to go out, also.

"I'm much obliged to you," he said to Frank. "I was afraid I'd get into a place where they'd cheat me. I guess Mr. Jones and Robinson are pretty good folks."

"I think you can depend upon them," said Frank.

"If ever you come to Craneville, I should like to have you stay a few days with me on my farm," said Mr. Peters, hospitably. "We are plain folks, but will treat you about right."

"Thank you, Mr. Peters. If I ever come to Craneville, I shall certainly call upon you."

Frank had something to look forward to in his approaching interview with Mr. Percival. He had been able to do this gentleman a service, and it was not unlikely that the capitalist would wish to make him some acknowledgment. Frank did not exaggerate his own merits in the matter. He felt that it was largely owing to a lucky chance that he had been the means of capturing the bond robber. However, it is to precisely such lucky chances that men are often indebted for the advancement of their fortunes.

While he was in a state of suspense, and uncertain what Mr. Percival might be disposed to do for him, he decided not to exert himself to obtain any employment. If he should be disappointed in his hopes, it would be time enough to look about him the following day.

What should he do in the meantime?

He determined to treat himself to an excursion. From the end of the Battery he had often looked across to Staten Island, lying six miles away, and thought it would prove a pleasant excursion. Now, having plenty of time on his hands, he decided to go on board one of the boats that start hourly from the piers adjoining the Battery. The expense was but trifling and, low as Frank's purse was, he ventured to spend the amount for pleasure. He felt that he needed a little recreation after the weeks of patient labor he had spent in the service of the Great Pekin Tea Company.



Chapter XXVII

An Incident In A Street Car


When Frank returned to the city, he walked slowly up through the Battery to the foot of Broadway. He passed the famous house, No. 1, which, a hundred years ago, was successively the headquarters of Washington and the British generals, who occupied New York with their forces, and soon reached the Astor House, then the most notable structure in the lower part of the city.

With his small means, Frank felt that it was extravagant to ride uptown, when he might have walked, but he felt some confidence in the success of his visit to Mr. Percival, and entered a Fourth Avenue horse car. It so chanced that he seated himself beside a pleasant-looking young married lady, who had with her a young boy about seven years old.

Soon after the car started the conductor came around to collect the fares.

Frank paid his, and the conductor held out his hand to the lady.

She put her hand into her pocket to draw out her purse, but her countenance changed as her hand failed to find it.

Probably no situation is more trying than to discover that you have lost or mislaid your purse, when you have an urgent use for it. The lady was evidently in that predicament. Once more she searched for her purse, but her search was unavailing.

"I am afraid I have lost my purse," she said, apologetically, to the conductor.

This official was an ill-mannered person, and answered, rudely:

"In that case, ma'am, you will have to get off."

"I will give you my card," said the lady, "and will send double the fare to the office."

"That won't do," said the man, rudely. "I am responsible for your fare, if you stay on the car, and I can't afford to lose the money."

"You shall not lose it, sir; but I cannot walk home."

"I think you will have to, madam."

Here Frank interposed. He had been trained to be polite and considerate to ladies, and he could not endure to see a lady treated with rudeness.

"Take the lady's fare out of this," he said.

"And the boy's, too?"

"Of course."

The lady smiled gratefully.

"I accept your kindness, my young friend," she said. "You have saved me much annoyance."

"I am very glad to have had the opportunity," said Frank, politely.

"Of course, I shall insist upon reimbursing you. Will you oblige me with your address, that I may send you the amount when I return home?"

A boy of less tact than Frank would have expostulated against repayment, but he knew that this would only embarrass the lady, and that he had no right, being a stranger, to force such a favor upon her. He answered, therefore:

"Certainly, I will do so, but it will be perfectly convenient for me to call upon you."

"If it will give you no trouble, I shall be glad to have you call any evening. I live at No.  --  --  Madison Avenue."

Now it was Frank's turn to be surprised. The number mentioned by the lady was that of the house in which Mr. Henry Percival lived.

"I thought Mr. Percival lived at that number?" said Frank.

"So he does. He is my father. Do you know him?"

"No; but I was about to call on him. This morning Mr. Robinson, a broker in Wall Street, told me that he wished to see me."

"You are not the boy who caused the capture of the bondholder?" asked the lady, quickly.

"Yes, I am the boy, but I am afraid I had less to do with it than has been represented."

"What is your name?"

"Frank Courtney."

"My father is very desirous of meeting you, and thanking you for what you have done. Why have you not called before?"

"I did not know till to-day that your father had returned. Besides, I did not like to go without an invitation."

"I will invite you," said the lady, with a pleasant smile, "and I, as well as my father, will be glad to see you. And now let me introduce you to my little son. Freddie, would you like to see the boy that caught the robber?"

"Yes, mamma."

"Here he is. His name is Frank."

The little boy immediately began to ask questions of Frank, and by the time they reached the Cooper Institute Frank and he were well acquainted.

"Don't get out, Frank," said Freddie.

"I am going home, Freddie."

"You must come and see me soon," said the little boy.

"Now you have three invitations," said the lady.

"I will accept them all," said Frank.

And, with a bow, he left the car.



Chapter XXVIII

Frank Makes An Evening Call


After supper Frank walked slowly up to Mr. Percival's residence. Now that he knew two members of the family, he looked forward with pleasure to the call he was about to make. His prospects seemed much brighter than when he woke up in the morning.

On reaching the house of Mr. Percival, he saw at a glance that it was the residence of a wealthy man, and the hall, into which he was first admitted, was luxurious in its appearance. But Frank had been brought up to the enjoyment of wealth, and he felt more at home here than in the rather shabby boarding house in Clinton Place.

A colored servant opened the door.

"Is Mr. Percival at home?" he asked.

"Yas, sah."

"I should like to see him."

"What name, sah?"

"Frank Courtney."

"Step in, sah, and I will 'form Mr. Percival," said the colored servant, in a consequential tone that amused Frank.

Frank stepped into the hall, but he was not left long without attention. Little Freddie ran downstairs, eagerly calling out:

"Did you come to see me, Frank?"

"Yes," answered Frank, smiling; "but I came to see your grandfather, too."

"Come, and I will show you where he is," said the little boy, taking Frank's hand.

The two went up the staircase and into a handsomely furnished room, made attractive by pictures and books.

In a large armchair sat a pleasant-looking elderly man, of about sixty.

"Grandpa," said the little boy, "this is Frank. He wants to see you."

Mr. Percival smiled.

"I am glad to see you, Frank," he said. "It seems, my boy, that you are already acquainted with my daughter and grandson."

"Yes, sir. I was fortunate enough to meet them to-day."

"You relieved my daughter from some embarrassment."

"I am glad to have had the opportunity, sir."

Frank's manner was easy and self-possessed, and it was evident that Mr. Percival was favorably impressed by him.

"Take a seat," he said, "while I ask you a few questions."

Frank bowed and obeyed.

"Let me sit in your lap, Frank," said Freddie.

Our hero took the little boy in his lap.

With Freddie, it was certainly a case of friendship at first sight.

"Won't he trouble you?" asked his grandfather.

"No, sir. I like young children."

Mr. Percival now proceeded to interrogate Frank.

"Your name is Frank Courtney. Have you been long in the city?"

"No, sir; only a few weeks."

"What led you to come here?"

"I wished to earn my living."

"What that necessary? You do not look like a poor boy."

"I was brought up to consider myself rich," said Frank.

"Indeed! Did you lose your property?"

"Perhaps I had better tell you how it happened, sir."

"If you don't object, I should be glad to hear."

Frank gave a brief statement of his position, and the circumstances that led him to leave his home and go out into the world.

Mr. Percival listened thoughtfully.

"It is a singular story," he said, after a pause. "Your stepfather's in Europe, then?"

"Yes, sir; at least he sailed for Europe."

"Have you heard from him?"

"No, sir."

"Do you expect to hear?"

"I think not."

"He can't feel much interest in you."

"I don't think he does," answered Frank. "Still, I can't say that he has treated me unkindly."

"Do you suspect that your stepfather has wronged you in the matter of the property?"

"I would rather not answer that question, sir. I might wrong Mr. Manning, and I have no proof to offer."

"I understand you, and I applaud your discretion. It does you credit. Some time or other the mystery may be cleared up, and the wrong, if there is one, may be righted. I can't understand, however, how this Mr. Manning should be willing to leave you dependent upon your own exertions with such a scanty provision as twenty-five dollars a quarter."

"I didn't ask for any more; and, besides, Mr. Manning offered to take me to Europe with his son Mark."

"Do you think that he was sincere in the offer?"

"I don't think he expected me to accept it, and I am sure that it would have been very disagreeable to Mark to have me in the party."

"Have you any objections to telling me how you have succeeded in your efforts to make a living?" asked the old gentleman, with a keen but kindly glance.

"I have been disappointed, sir," was the candid reply.

"I am not surprised to hear it. A boy brought up as you have been cannot rough it like a farmer's son or a street boy."

"I think I could, sir; but I should not like to."

"Precisely. Now, I am not sure that you acted wisely in undertaking a task so difficult, since it was not necessary, and your stepfather could hardly have refused to support you at home. However, as you have taken the decisive step, we must consider what is best to do under the circumstances. What work have you been doing?"

"I have been selling tea for the Great Pekin Tea Company."

"How have you succeeded?"

"I have not been able to pay expenses," Frank admitted.

"How have you made up the difference?"

"I brought about fifty dollars with me from home."

"Is it all used up?"

"I had thirty-five dollars left, sir, but a day or two since one of my fellow boarders opened my trunk and borrowed it without leave."

"Of course you won't recover it?"

"I don't think there is much chance of it, sir."

"Then probably your money is nearly exhausted?"

Frank did not like to admit his poverty, but owned up that he had less than two dollars.

"And yet you paid the car fares of this little boy and his mother?"

"I hope, sir, I would not refuse to assist a lady when in trouble."

Mr. Percival nodded two or three times, smiling as he did so. He was becoming more and more favorably impressed without young hero.

"Do you mean to continue this tea agency?" he asked.

"No, sir; I have already notified my employers that I do not care to continue it."

"Have you anything else in view?"

Frank felt that now was the time to speak.

"I came here this evening," he said, "intending to ask you if you knew of any situation I could fill, or could recommend me to employment of any kind by which I might make a living."

"I must consider that. Have you thought of any particular employment which you would like?"

"No, sir; I cannot afford to be particular. I will do anything that is honest, and at all suitable for me."

"What would you consider unsuitable?"

"I should not wish to black boots, for instance, sir. It is honest work, but I ought to be suited to something better."

"Of course; What education have you had? Good, I suppose?"

"I am nearly ready for college."

"Then you are already fairly well educated. I will put you to a test. Sit up to the table, and take paper and pen. I will dictate to you a paragraph from the evening paper, which I should like to have you write down."

Frank obeyed, though, in doing so, he was obliged to set Freddie down, rather to the little fellow's dissatisfaction.

Mr. Percival selected a short letter, written by some public man, which chanced to have found a place in the evening journal.

Frank wrote rapidly, and when his copy was finished submitted it to Mr. Percival.

The old gentleman took it, and, running his eye over it, noticed that it was plainly written, correctly spelled and properly punctuated. This discovery evidently gave him satisfaction.

"Very creditably written," he said. "I have known boys nearly ready for college who could not copy such a letter without blundering. I am glad that your English education has not been neglected while you have been studying the classics."

Frank was gratified by Mr. Percival's commendation, though he could not see in what manner his education was likely to bring him employment. It was desirable, however, to produce a favorable impression on Mr. Percival, and he could not help hoping something would result to his advantage.

At this moment Freddie's mother entered the room, and greeted Frank with a cordial smile.

"Freddie," she said, "it is time for you to go to bed."

"I don't want to leave Frank," said Freddie.

"Frank will come and see you again."

"Will you, Frank?"

Frank made the promise, and Mrs. Gordon -- for that was her name -- left the room, promising to return before Frank went away.

He was now left alone with the old gentleman.



Chapter XXIX

Frank Is Offered A Position


Mr. Percival engaged Frank in conversation on general topics while Mrs. Gordon was out of the room. His young visitor had been an extensive reader, and displayed a good deal of general information. Moreover, he expressed himself intelligently and modestly, and deepened the favorable impression which he had already succeeded in making.

I should like to call the attention of my young readers to the fact that Frank was now reaping the advantage of the time he had devoted to study and the cultivation of his mind.

A boy who starts in life with a fair education always stands a better chance than one who is poorly provided in that respect.

It is true that many of our prominent public men have started with a very scanty supply of book-learning, but in most cases it has only transferred the labor of study to their maturer years.

President Andrew Johnson did not learn to read and write until after he had attained his majority, but he made up his early deficiencies later.

Abraham Lincoln, when nearly thirty, devoted his leisure hours to mastering the problems in Euclid, and thus trained and strengthened his mental faculties so that he was enabled to grapple with the difficult problems of statesmanship in after years.

Henry Wilson commenced attending an academy after he had reached the age of twenty-one.

The fact is, no boy or man can be too well equipped for his life-work.

I hope my boy readers will not skip the paragraphs above, for they can learn from them a useful lesson.

When Mrs. Gordon returned, she placed in Frank's hands a small sum of money, saying:

"Allow me to repay my debt, with many thanks."

"You are quite welcome," answered our hero.

He had too much tact to refuse the money, but quietly put it into his pocket.

"Helen," said Mr. Percival, "I would like a word with you. We will leave our young friend here alone for five minutes."

"Certainly, father."

The two went into an adjoining room, and Mr. Percival commenced by asking:

"How do you like this boy, Helen?"

"Very much. He seems to have been brought up as a gentleman."

"He has. Till a short time since he supposed himself the heir to a fortune."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Gordon, with curiosity.

Briefly, Mr. Percival rehearsed the story which Frank had told him.

"What a shame!" exclaimed Mrs. Gordon, indignantly. "His stepfather ought to be punished:"

"That may come in time. Wickedness does not always prosper. But as regards our young friend, I have a plan in view."

"What is it, father?"

"I find he has an excellent education, having been nearly ready for college when the crisis in his fortunes came. I have been thinking whether we could not find a place for him in this house. My eyes, you know, are so weak that they are often strained by attention to my correspondence and reading. I have an idea of engaging Frank Courtney as a sort of private secretary, upon whom I can at any time call. Of course, he would have his home in the house."

"There will be no difficulty about that. Our family is small, and we have plenty of vacant rooms. But, father, will he be qualified to undertake the duties you have designed for him? He is very young."

"That is true, my dear; but he is remarkably well educated. I have tested his capacity by dictating a letter for him to copy."

"Did he do the work satisfactorily?" asked Mrs. Gordon.

"Without a single mistake."

"Then, father, I would not hesitate to engage him. Freddie likes him, and will be delighted to have him in the house."

"Another idea, Helen. It is time Freddie began to study. Suppose we make him Freddie's private tutor -- say for an hour daily?"

"That is really an excellent idea, father," said Mrs. Gordon, in a tone of satisfaction. "It will please and benefit Freddie, and be a relief to me. Do you think Frank will have patience enough?"

"I watched him with the little fellow, and I could see that he liked children. I am sure he will succeed in this as well as in the duties which he will undertake for me."

"I suppose he will have no objection to the plan?"

"I think he will accept gladly. He has had a hard struggle thus far in maintaining himself, and I can relieve him from all anxiety on that score. I am indebted to him for helping me to recover my bonds, and this will be an excuse for offering him a larger salary than the services of so young a secretary could be expected to command."

"Very well, father. Your plan pleases me very much, and I shall be glad to have Frank commence to-morrow, if he chooses. Now let us return to the library."

While father and daughter were absent Frank had taken from the table a volume of "Macaulay's History," and had become interested in it.

He laid it down upon their return.

Mr. Percival resumed his easy-chair, and said, with a smile.

"My daughter and I have been consulting about you."

Frank bowed, and his hopes rose.

"I suppose you are open to an offer of employment?"

"I am not only open to it, Mr. Percival, but I shall be grateful for it."

He could not help wondering what sort of employment Mr. Percival was about to offer him. He concluded that it might be a place in some business house.

"The fact is," said the old gentleman, "I have a great mind to offer you the situation of my private secretary."

Frank was astonished. This was something he had not thought of.

"Do you think I am qualified to fill such a position, Mr. Percival?" he asked, hesitatingly.

"The duties would not be difficult," returned the old gentleman. "Though not in active business, the care of my property, and looking after my scattered investments, involves me in considerable correspondence. My eyes are not as strong as they once were, and I find them at times taxed by letter-writing, not to mention reading. You can relieve me very materially."

"I shall be very glad to do so, sir. The duties will be very agreeable to me."

"But that is not all. My daughter proposes to employ you as private tutor for Freddie."

Frank smiled.

"I think my scholarship will be sufficient for that," he said.

Frank was to receive $50 a month and board. This was wonderful news to him. Mr. Percival with great forethought paid him a month's salary in advance. Frank went home happy.



Chapter XXX

Frank As Private Secretary


The next day Frank transferred his residence to Madison Avenue. He was assigned to a pleasant room, decidedly superior, it need hardly be said, to his room at Clinton Place. It seemed agreeable to him once more to enjoy the comforts of a liberal home.

Frank had had some doubts as to how he would satisfy Mr. Percival in his capacity of private secretary.

He was determined to do his best, but thought it possible that the old gentleman might require more than he could do well. He looked forward, therefore, with some apprehension to his first morning's work.

Mr. Percival, though not engaged in active business, was a wealthy man, and his capital was invested in a great variety of enterprises. Naturally, therefore, he received a large number of business letters, which required to be answered.

The first day he dictated several replies, which Frank put upon paper. He wished, however, to put Frank's ability to a severe test.

"Here are two letters," he said, "which you may answer. I have noted on each instructions which you will follow. The wording of the letters I leave to you."

"I will try to satisfy you sir," said Frank.

Our hero was a good writer for his age. Moreover, he had been well trained at school and did not shrink from the task assigned him.

He read carefully the instruction of his employer, and composed the letters in strict accordance with them.

Mr. Percival awaited with some interest the result of his experiment. If Frank proved competent to the task assigned him, his own daily labor would be considerably abridged.

"Here are the letters, sir," said our hero, passing the drafts to Mr. Percival.

The old gentleman examined them carefully. As he did so, his face expressed his satisfaction.

"Upon my word, Frank," he said, familiarly, "you have done your work exceedingly well. They are brief, concise and yet comprehensive. I feared that you would use too many words."

"I am glad you are pleased, sir. Dr. Brush trained us to write letters, and he cut down our essays when they were too diffuse."

"Then I feel indebted to Dr. Brush for providing me with so competent a young secretary. You will be able to assist me even more than I anticipated. I shall, of course, read over your letters before they are sent, to make sure that you have fully comprehended and carried out my instructions, but I don't expect they will need much correction."

Frank was much gratified by these words. This was the only point on which he had felt at all doubtful as to his ability to please his employer.

Sometimes, when his eyes pained him more than usual, Mr. Percival also employed him to read to him from the daily papers, or from some book in which he was interested, but this did not occur regularly.

Every day, however, Frank was occupied with Freddie. The little boy knew his alphabet, but nothing more, so that his young teacher had to begin with him at the beginning of the primer.

He succeeded in interesting his little pupil, and did not protract his term of study so as to weary him.

Finding that the little fellow was fond of hearing stories, he read to him every day a story or two from Hans Christian Andersen, or from a collection of German fairy stories, and sometimes went out to walk with him.

Freddie was delighted with his teacher, and freely expressed his approval to his mother and grandfather.

"Really, Frank," said Mrs. Gordon, "I shall begin to be jealous of your hold upon Freddie. I am not sure but he likes your company better than mine."

"I don't think Freddie will prefer anyone to his mother," said Frank; "but I am glad he likes to be with me."

"You have certainly proved very successful as a private tutor, Frank," said Mrs. Gordon, "and my father tells me you succeeded equally well as a secretary."

"It is partly because you both treat me so indulgently," answered Frank, gracefully.

This answer pleased Mr. Percival and Mrs. Gordon, who more than ever congratulated themselves upon the lucky chance that had thrown Frank in their way.

Assuredly he made himself very useful in the small household, contributing to the comfort and pleasure of Freddie, his mother and grandfather in nearly equal measure.

While Frank's monthly salary was of great value and importance to him, it was nothing to Mr. Percival in comparison with the pleasure and relief afforded by his presence in the house.

It must not be supposed, however, that Frank's time was wholly occupied by the duties of his two positions. Usually he had several hours daily at his disposal, and these he was allowed to spend as he pleased.

Part of this he occupied in visiting different localities of the city and points of interest in the neighborhood, and part in reading and study.

Mr. Percival had a large and well-selected library, which, to a boy of Frank's studious tastes, was a great attraction.

He entered upon a course of solid reading, embracing some of the standard histories, and devoted some hours every week to keeping up his acquaintance with the Greek and Latin authors which he had read at school.

In this way his time was well and usefully employed, and the weeks slipped by till almost before he was aware six months had passed.

One afternoon Frank walked down Broadway enjoying the bright sunshine. Just in front of the St. Nicholas Hotel he heard his name called and looking up he recognized with some surprise, Pliny Tarbox, his cousin from Newark.

Pliny asked many questions as to what Frank was doing and how much money he was making. Frank told him of his good fortune in obtaining the position he held with Mr. Percival and the two parted -- Frank the much happier of the two.

Pliny urgently invited Frank to visit them but Frank would rather remain in New York.

"I hope I shall never think so much of money as Pliny and his father," thought Frank. "Money is a good thing to have but there are some things that are better."



Chapter XXXI

A Letter From Mr. Tarbox


Frank did not speak to Mr. Percival's family of his meeting with Pliny. It was not pleasant to him to think that he was valued only for his good fortune. He had seen but little of the Tarbox family, but he understood very well what their professions of friendship amounted to, and that they were not to be relied upon in an emergency.

He was not much surprised on Monday afternoon to receive the following letter from Erastus Tarbox:

"My Dear Young Cousin: -- We have been wondering what has become of you, and Mrs. T. and myself have often wished to invite you to pass a Sabbath at our humble home. Not knowing your address, I could not write to you, or I should have done so. You can imagine, therefore, the pleasure we felt when Pliny told us that he had met you, and gave us tidings of your remarkable success, which I am sure does you great credit.

"He tells me that you fill a very responsible position, and receive a very liberal salary. I could wish that Pliny might be equally fortunate, and shall esteem it a great favor if you will mention him to your respected employer, and recommend him for any lucrative position which he may bestow upon him. Pliny is a very capable boy, and has been carefully trained to habits of frugality and industry.

"Can you not soon come out and pass a Sabbath with us? The esteem which we have for your late lamented mother alone would secure you a cordial welcome, not to speak of the friendship for yourself. Pliny often says that you seem to him like a brother, and he would truly enjoy your companionship.

"Your sincere friend and cousin, Erastus Tarbox."

The time was when Frank would have put confidence in the friendly expressions used by Mr. Tarbox, but his eyes had been opened, and he understood that if misfortune should come to him, it would not do to lean upon his cousins at Newark.

Frank wrote a civil reply to Mr. Tarbox, thanking him for his invitation, but saying that at present it would not be convenient for him to accept it. He added that should an opportunity offer he would be glad to assist Pliny to a better position than he now held.

In spite of his wish to be cordial, his letter was felt by the Tarbox family to be cold, and they regretted that they had not treated him better during his brief visit to them.

But then how could they suppose he would be so successful? If the time should ever come when he recovered his property, they would be prepared to make a determined effort to convince him that they had always been his affectionate friends.

About this time Frank received another letter, which afforded him greater satisfaction than the one from Newark.

This letter was from Col. Vincent, who, it will be remembered, had purchased Ajax when Mr. Manning persisted in selling him. It was as follows:

"My Dear Frank: I learned incidentally from one of our townsmen, who recently met you in New York, that you have been very successful in obtaining employment, and that of an honorable and responsible character. It relieved my mind, for, knowing how hard it is for a boy to make his own way in a large city, I feared that you might be suffering privation, or living poorly. I hope, however, you would in that case have applied to me for such help as your father's old friend would have been glad to offer.

"Your stepfather has not been heard from directly. I learn, however, from some friends who have met him abroad that he is having trouble with Mark, who is proving difficult to manage, and has contracted a dangerous taste for gaming. Mr. Manning was obliged to leave Baden-Baden on account of this unfortunate tendency, and is even thinking of returning to the Cedars, where his son will be removed from temptation. To this, however, Mark will be likely to make strenuous opposition. He will find it dull to settle down here after having tasted the gayety of Europe."

Here followed a little local gossip, which the writer thought might prove interesting to Frank, and the letter concluded with a cordial invitation to our hero to spend a Sunday with him, or a longer time, if he could be spared from his duties.

Frank was disposed to accept the invitation, but his acceptance was postponed by an unusual service which he was called upon to render to Mr. Percival.

Of this the reader will hear everything in the next chapter.



Chapter XXXII

Mr. Percival's Proposal


One morning, after writing several letters for his employer, the young secretary asked Mr. Percival if he had any further commands.

The old gentleman answered thoughtfully:

"I have been thinking of asking you to do me an unusual service."

"I shall be very glad to serve you in any way, Mr. Percival," said Frank, promptly.

"I have no doubt of it," said the old gentleman, kindly. "I have observed your willingness to undertake any duty, and, still more, your disposition to perform it thoroughly. In this particular case, however, I have been considering whether a boy of your age would be competent to do what I desire."

Frank was not self-distrustful, neither was he over-confident. He was naturally energetic and ambitious to distinguish himself, and not afraid to undertake any difficult task.

"Will you try me, Mr. Percival?" he said. "I will do my best to succeed."

"I am quite inclined to try you, Frank," said Mr. Percival; "the more so because I know of no one else in whom I could confide. But I must give you an idea of what I have in view. It would require you to make a journey."

Frank listened to this gladly. To a boy of his age, who had seen but little of the world, a journey offered attractions.

"I should like to travel," he said.

"I have no doubt about that," said Mr. Percival, smiling. "At your age I am sure I should have been equally willing to see something of the world, though traveling involved at that time far more hardships than at present. Now, however, I like best to stay by the fireside, and should dread very much a journey to Minnesota."

"To Minnesota!" exclaimed Frank, with sparkling eyes.

He had not thought of a journey so extended.

"Yes; it would be necessary for you to go out to Minnesota. Ordinarily, a man can best look after his own affairs; but in the present instance, I suspect that you could do better than myself. I don't mean this as a compliment, but a boy like you would not be suspected, and so could discover more than I, from whom facts would be studiously concealed. But, of course, you don't understand my meaning. I will explain, and then you can comprehend me."

Frank was all attention.

"You must know that I own a good deal of property in a certain township in Southern Minnesota. When a young man, I bought three hundred and twenty acres of land in the township of Jackson, obtaining it at a slight advance on government rates.

"Some improvements had been made, and I was induced to visit the place. I found but three families in residence, but I saw also that the place had large natural advantages, water-power, etc., and presented an unusually favorable site for a village. I had considerable means, and started the village by erecting a dozen houses, a store, a sawmill, gristmill, and so on.

"This formed a nucleus, and soon quite a village sprang up. The sawmill and gristmill proved profitable, all my houses were tenanted, and I erected more, securing also additional land. In course of time I was induced to sell some of my houses, but I still own two stores, a dozen houses, the saw and gristmills, besides two outlying farms.

"Living so far away, I could not attend personally to the business connected with my investment, and was compelled to appoint an agent. Up to four years since, I was fortunate enough to possess the services of a capable and trustworthy man, named Sampson. He died after a few weeks' illness, and I was compelled to look out for a successor.

"Now, I had a distant cousin, who had never succeeded very well in life, and was at that time seeking for employment of some kind. He heard of the vacancy, and importuned me to appoint him as my agent in Jackson. I had no reason to doubt his honesty, though his repeated failures might well have led me to suspect his capacity. I was weak enough, as I now consider it, to yield to his importunities and give him the post he sought.

"The result was that during the first year of his incumbency the amount turned over to me was only three-fourths as much as in the last year of his predecessor. The second year there was a further falling off. The same happened the third year, until at the present time my rents amount to less than half what they were in Mr. Sampson's time.

"Of course, my suspicions that my cousin was at least inefficient were aroused long since. I have repeatedly asked an explanation of the diminished revenues, and plenty of excuses have been made, but they do not seem to me satisfactory.

"Moreover, I have heard a rumor that Mr. Fairfield is intemperate in his habits, and I have considerable reason to believe that the story is correct. I have made up my mind that something must be done. A regard for my own interests requires that if my agent is unfaithful he should be displaced, and I wish to find out from some reliable source the true state of the case.

"Now I will tell you what I have in view. I propose to send you out to Jackson to investigate and report to me your impressions of the manner in which Mr. Fairfield discharges his duties, and whether you think a change should be made in the agency."

Frank listened to Mr. Percival with a flushed face and a feeling of gratification and pride that he should be thought of in connection with a responsible duty.

"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Percival," he said, "for thinking of me in such a connection. You may feel that I am presumptuous for thinking I have any chance of successfully accomplishing what you desire, but if you are willing to trust me, I am willing to undertake it, and by following your instructions closely, and doing my best, I think I can succeed."

"I am willing to trust you, Frank," said Mr. Percival. "You are a boy, to be sure, but you have unusually good judgment, and I know you will be faithful to my interests. I understand, then, that you are willing to go out as my accredited representative?"

"Yes, sir. When do you want me to start?" said Frank, promptly.

"As soon as you can get ready."

"I will start to-morrow, if you desire it, sir."

"Let it be to-morrow, then. We will now discuss some of the details connected with the mission."



Chapter XXXIII

Preparing For A Journey


After receiving certain instructions from Mr. Percival in regard to the manner of carrying on his inquiries, Frank said:

"There is one thing I have thought of, Mr. Percival, that may interfere with my success."

"What is it, Frank? I shall be glad to receive any suggestion from you."

"I have been thinking, sir, that it may excite surprise that I should come to Jackson, and remain there without any apparent motive. Perhaps Mr. Fairfield might suspect that I came from you."

"I hardly think so, Frank. He would not suppose that I would select so young a messenger. Still, it will be well to think of some pretext for your stay. Can you help me?"

"I have been thinking, sir, that I might fit myself out as an agent, or peddler, or something of the kind. It would not only give me an excuse for my journey, but enable me to call from house to house and pick up information about Mr. Fairfield."

"A capital idea, Frank. I see that you are better fitted for the task than I supposed. I give you authority to fit yourself out in any way you choose. I shall have to leave a great deal to your own judgment."

"Then, sir, I think I might lay in a stock of stationery, pens and articles of that nature. Probably this is so common that I would be thought to be nothing more than I seemed."

"That strikes me rather favorably, Frank."

"I could fit myself out in the city, and take the articles along with me in an extra valise or carpetbag."

"Let me suggest an amendment to your plan," said Mr. Percival. "Wait till you get to Chicago, and lay in your stock there. The advantage of that arrangement will be that you will be saved the care of your merchandise up to that point, and, as you may be asked where you obtained your stock, it will create less surprise if you mention Chicago than New York. It would be considered hardly worth while for a New York boy to go so far on such a business -- "

This seemed to Frank an excellent suggestion and he instantly adopted it.

The next day Frank started on his long journey. He carried with him a supply of money provided by Mr. Percival, and he was authorized to draw for more if he should require it.

He divided this money into two portions, keeping a small sum in his pocketbook, but the greater part of it in an inside vest pocket, where it would not be likely to be looked for by pickpockets.

This arrangement was suggested by Mr. Percival.

"I once experienced," he said, "the disadvantage of carrying all my money in one pocket. I was in a Southern city, or, rather, on my way to it, when an adroit pickpocket on the car relieved me of my wallet containing all my available funds. I did not find out my loss till I had arrived at the hotel and registered my name. You can imagine my embarrassment. It was my first visit to that particular city, and I had no acquaintances there, so far as I was aware. Had I mentioned my position to the landlord, he might very probably have taken me for an adventurer, traveling on false pretenses."

"What did you do, sir?" asked Frank, interested.

"I took a walk about the city, my thoughts occupied in devising a way out of my trouble. To my great relief, I had the good fortune, during the walk, to meet a New York acquaintance, who knew very well my financial standing. I told him of my difficulty, and he immediately introduced me at a bank, where I raised money on a New York draft. I resolved, however, at that time, never again to carry all my money in one pocketbook, as boats and railroad trains on the long routes are generally infested by pickpockets and sharpers."

Frank at once set about preparing for his journey.

He bought a ready-made suit of blue cloth, not unlike that worn by the district telegraph boys of to-day, which he judged would look more suitable than his ordinary attire for the character he was about to assume of a traveling peddler.

He bought a through ticket to the railroad point nearest Jackson, and then, bidding good-bye to Mr. Percival and his family, started on his trip.

Little Freddie made strenuous opposition to parting with his favorite, but Frank promised to bring him home a present, and this diverted the little fellow's thoughts.



Chapter XXXIV

Frank Reaches Jackson


It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Frank Courtney left the cars and set foot on the platform before the station at Prescott, five miles distant from the town of Jackson, in Southern Minnesota.

He looked about him, but could see no village.

Prescott was a stopping place for the cars, but there was no settlement of any account there, as he afterward found.

He had supposed he would find a stage in waiting to convey him to Jackson, but it was clear that the business was not large enough to warrant such a conveyance.

Looking about him, Frank saw a farm wagon, the driver of which had evidently come to receive some freight which had come by rail.

Approaching the driver, who seemed to be -- though roughly dressed -- an intelligent man, Frank inquired:

"How far is Jackson from here, sir?"

"Five miles," was the answer.

"Is there any stage running there from this depot?"

"Oh, no! If there were, it wouldn't average two passengers a day."

"Then I suppose I must walk," said Frank, looking rather doubtfully at the two heavy valises which constituted his baggage.

"Then you are going to Jackson?"

"Yes, sir."

"I come from Jackson myself, and in fifteen minutes shall start on my way back. You may ride and welcome."

"Thank you, sir!" said our hero, quite relieved. "I hope you will allow me to pay you as much as I should have to pay in a stage."

"No, no, my lad," said the farmer, heartily. "The horse can draw you as well as not, and I shall be glad to have your company."

"Thank you, sir!"

"Just climb up here, then. I'll take your baggage and put it on the wagon behind."

When the farmer had loaded up, he started up the team. Then, finding himself at leisure, he proceeded to satisfy his curiosity by cross-examining his young passenger.

"Do you come from the East?" he asked.

"I am last from Chicago," answered Frank, cautiously.

"I suppose you've got some friend in Jackson?" ventured the farmer, interrogatively.

Frank smiled.

"You are the only man living in Jackson that I ever met," he said.

"Indeed!" said the driver, puzzled. "Are you calculating to make a long stay in our village?" he asked again, after a minute's pause.

"That depends on business," answered the young traveler.

"Are you in business?"

"I have a stock of stationery which I shall offer for sale in Jackson," answered Frank.

"I am afraid you'll find it rather a poor market. If that's all you have to depend upon, I am afraid you'll get discouraged."

"I am also agent for an illustrated book," said Frank. "I may be able to dispose of a few."

"Perhaps so," answered the farmer, dubiously. "But our people haven't much money to spend on articles of luxury, and books are a luxury with us."

"I always heard that Jackson was a flourishing place," said Frank, who felt that now was his time to obtain a little information.

"It ought to be," said the farmer; "but there's one thing prevents."

"What is that?"

"A good deal of our village is owned by a New York man, to whom we have to pay rent. He has a rascally agent -- a Mr. Fairfield -- who grinds us down by his exactions, and does what he can to keep, us in debt."

"Has he always been agent?"

"No. Before he came there was an excellent man -- a Mr. Sampson -- who treated us fairly, contented himself with exacting rents which we could pay, and if a man were unlucky, would wait a reasonable time for him to pay. Then we got along comfortably. But he died, and this man was sent out in his place. Then commenced a new state of things. He immediately raised the rents; demanded that they should be paid on the day they were due, and made himself harsh and tyrannical."

"Do you think the man who employs him knows how he is conducting his agency?" Frank inquired.

"No; there is no one to tell him. I suppose Mr. Fairfield tells him a smooth story, and he believes it. I am afraid we can hope for no relief."

"What would he say," thought Frank, "if he knew I were a messenger from Mr. Percival?"

"What sort of a man is this Mr. Fairfield in private life?" he asked.

"He drinks like a fish," was the unexpected reply. "Frequently he appears on the street under the influence of liquor. He spends a good deal of money, lives in a large house, and his wife dresses expensively. He must get a much larger salary than Mr. Sampson did, or he could not spend money as he does."

Though Frank had not much worldly experience, he could not help coming to the conclusion that Mr. Fairfield was acting dishonestly. He put together the two circumstances that this new agent had increased the rents, and yet that he had returned to Mr. Percival only about half as much as his predecessor had done. Clearly, he must retain in his own hands much more than he had a right to do.

"I shall have to report unfavorably on this man," he thought.

One point must be considered -- where he was to find a boarding place on his arrival in Jackson.

"Is there a hotel in Jackson?" he asked.

"There is a tavern, but it's a low place," answered the farmer. "A good deal of liquor is sold there, and Mr. Fairfield, our agent, is one of the most constant patrons of the bar."

"I don't think I should like to stop there," said Frank. "Isn't there any private family where I can get board for a week or two?"

"If you don't object to plain fare," said the farmer, "I might agree to board you myself."

This was precisely what Frank wanted, and he replied that nothing would suit him better.

"We live humbly," continued Mr. Hamlin -- for this, Frank learned, was his driver's name -- "but we will try to make you comfortable."

"I feel sure of that, sir, and I am much obliged to you for receiving me."

"As to terms, you can pay whatever you can afford. My wife and children will be glad to see you. It's pretty quiet out here, and it breaks the monotony to meet any person from the East."

"How long have you lived in Jackson, Mr. Hamlin?"

"About eight years. I was not brought up as a farmer, but became one from necessity. I was a bookkeeper in Chicago for a good many years, until I found the confinement and close work were injuring my health. Then I came here and set up as a farmer. I got along pretty well, at first; at any rate, I made a living for my family; but when Mr. Fairfield became agent, he raised my rent, and, in other ways, made it hard for me. Now I have a hard struggle."

"I thought you were not always a farmer," said Frank.

"What made you think so?"

"You don't talk like a farmer. You have the appearance of a man who has lived in cities."

"Seems to me you are a close observer, for a boy of your years," said Mr. Hamlin, shrewdly.

Frank smiled.

"I should be glad if your compliment were deserved," he answered. "It's a pity you were not agent, instead of Mr. Fairfield," suggested Frank, pointedly.

"I wish I were," answered Hamlin. "I believe I should make a good one, though I might not turn over as much money to my employer. I should, first of all, lower the rents and make it as easy for the tenants as I could in justice to my New York principal."

"Do you know how much Mr. Fairfield receives -- how large a salary, I mean?"

"I know what Mr. Sampson got -- twelve hundred dollars a year; but Mr. Fairfield lives at the rate of more than twice that sum, if I can judge from appearances."

"I suppose you would be contented with the salary which Mr. Sampson received?"

"Contented! I should feel like a rich man. It would not interfere with my carrying on my farm, and I should be able to make something from that. Why, it is as much as I received as a bookkeeper, and here the expenses of living are small, compared with what they were in Chicago. I could save money and educate my children, as I cannot do now. I have a boy who wants a classical education, but of course there are no schools here which can afford it, and I am too poor to send him away from home. I suppose I shall have to bring him up as a farmer, though it is a great pity, for he is not fitted for it."

Mr. Hamlin sighed, but Frank felt in unusually good spirits. He saw his way clear already, not only to recommend Mr. Fairfield's displacement, but to urge Mr. Hamlin's appointment in his stead; that is, if his favorable impressions were confirmed on further acquaintance.

"It seems to me," said the driver, changing the subject, "you might find something better to do than to peddle stationery."

"I don't mean to follow the business long," answered Frank.

"It can't pay much."

"I am not wholly dependent upon it," said our hero. "There is one advantage about it. It enables me to travel about and pay my expenses, and you know traveling is agreeable to a boy of my age."

"That is true. Well, your expenses won't amount to much while you are in Jackson. I shall only charge you just enough to cover expenses -- say three dollars a week."

Frank was about to insist on paying a larger sum, but it occurred to him that he must keep up appearances, and he therefore only thanked his kind acquaintance.

By this time they had entered the village of Jackson.

"There's Mr. Fairfield now!" said Mr. Hamlin, suddenly, pointing with his whip to a rather tall, stout man, with a red nose and inflamed countenance, who was walking unsteadily along the sidewalk.

Frank carefully scrutinized the agent, and mentally decided that such a man was unfit for the responsible position he held.



Chapter XXXV

Dick Hamlin


Mr. Hamlin stopped his horse a quarter of a mile from the village in front of a plain farmhouse.

An intelligent-looking boy, of perhaps fifteen, coarsely but neatly dressed, approached and greeted his father, not without a glance of surprise and curiosity at Frank.

"You may unharness the horses, Dick," said Mr. Hamlin. "When you come back, I will introduce you to a boy friend who will stay with us a while."

Dick obeyed, and Frank followed his host into the house.

Here he was introduced to Mrs. Hamlin, a motherly-looking woman, and Annie and Grace, younger sisters of Dick.

"I am glad to see you," said Mrs. Hamlin, to our hero, after a brief explanation from her husband. "We will try to make you comfortable."

"Thank you!" said Frank. "I am sure I shall feel at home."

The house was better furnished than might have been anticipated. When Mr. Hamlin left Chicago, he had some money saved up, and he furnished his house in a comfortable manner.

It was not, however, the furniture that attracted Frank's attention so much as the books, papers and pictures that gave the rooms a homelike appearance.

"I shall be much better off here than I would have been at the tavern," he thought. "This seems like home."

"I see," said Mr. Hamlin, "that you are surprised to see so many books and pictures. I admit that my house does not look like the house of a poor man, who has to struggle for the mere necessaries of life. But books and periodicals we have always classed among the necessities, and I am sure we would all rather limit ourselves to dry bread for two out of the three meals than to give up this food for the mind."

"I think you are a very sensible man, Mr. Hamlin," said Frank. "I couldn't get along without something to read."

"Not in this out-of-the-way place, at any rate," said Mr. Hamlin. "Nothing can be more dismal than the homes of some of my neighbors, who spend as much, or more, than I do every year. Yet, they consider me extravagant because I buy books and subscribe for periodicals."

By this time, Dick came in from the barn.

"Dick," said his father, "this is Frank Courtney, who comes from Chicago on a business errand. He is a traveling merchant -- "

"In other words, a peddler," said Frank, with a smile, "ready to give the good people in Jackson a chance to buy stationery at reasonable prices."

"He will board with us while he is canvassing the neighborhood, and I expect you and he will become great friends."

"I think we shall," said Frank.

Dick was a little shy, but a few minutes set him quite at ease with his new acquaintance.

After supper, Frank said:

"Dick, if you are at leisure, I wish you would take a walk about the village with me. I want to see how it looks."

"All right," said Dick.

When the two left the house, the country boy began to ask questions.

"How do you like your business?" he asked.

"Not very well," answered Frank. "I do not think I shall stay in it very long."

"Do you sell enough to make your expenses?" asked Dick.

"No; but I am not wholly dependent on my sales. I have a little income -- a hundred dollars a year -- paid me by my stepfather."

"I wish I had as much. It seems a good deal to me."

"It doesn't go very far. What are you intending to be, Dick?"

"I suppose I shall have to be a farmer, though I don't like it."

"What would you like to be?"

"I should like to get an education," said Dick, his eyes lighting up. "I should like to study Latin and Greek, and go to college. Then I could be a teacher or a lawyer. But there is no chance of that," he added, his voice falling.

"Don't be too sure of that, Dick," said Frank Frank, hopefully. "Something may turn up in your favor."

"Nothing ever does turn up in Jackson," said the boy, in a tone of discouragement. "Father is a poor man, and has hard work to get along. He can give me no help."

"Isn't the farm productive?"

"There is no trouble about that, but he has to pay too high a rent. It's all the fault of Fairfield."

"The agent?"

"Yes."

"Your father was telling me about him. Now, if your father were in his place, I suppose he could give you the advantages you wish."

"Oh, yes! There would be no trouble then. I am sure he would make a better and more popular agent than Mr. Fairfield; but there is no use thinking about that."

"I expected myself to go to college," said Frank. "In fact, I have studied Latin and Greek, and in less than a year I could be ready to enter."

"Why don't you?" asked Dick.

"You forget that I am a poor peddler."

"Then how were you able to get so good an education?" asked Dick, in surprise.

"Because I was once better off than I am now. The fact is, Dick," he added, "I have seen better days. But when I was reduced to poverty, I gave up hopes of college education and became what I am."

"Wasn't it hard?"

"Not so much as you might suppose. My home was not happy. I have a stepfather and stepbrother, neither of whom I like. In fact, there is no love lost between us. I was not obliged to leave home, but under the circumstances I preferred to."

"Where are your stepfather and your stepbrother now?"

"They are traveling in Europe."

"While you are working hard for a living! That does not seem to be just."

"We must make the best of circumstances, Dick. Whose is that large house on the left?"

"That belongs to Mr. Fairfield.

"He seems to live nicely."

"Yes, he has improved and enlarged the house a good deal since he moved into it -- at Mrs. Percival's expense, I suppose."

"He seems to have pretty much his own way here," said Frank.

"Yes. Mr. Percival never comes to Jackson, and I suppose he believes all that the agent tells him."

"He may get found out some time."

"I wish he might. It would be a great blessing to Jackson if he were removed and a good man were put in his place."

"That may happen some day."

"Not very likely, I am afraid."

At this moment Mr. Fairfield himself came out of his front gate.

"Hello, Hamlin!" he said, roughly, to Dick. "Is your father at home?"

"Yes, sir."

"I have something to say to him. I think I will call round."

"You will find him at home, sir."

"Dick," said Frank, when the agent had passed on, "do you mind going back? What you tell me makes me rather curious about Mr. Fairfield. At your house I may get a chance to see something of him."

"Let us go back, then," said Dick; "but I don't think, Frank, that you will care much about keeping up the acquaintance."

"Perhaps not; but I shall gratify my curiosity."

The two boys turned and followed the agent closely. They reached the house about five minutes after Mr. Fairfield.



Chapter XXXVI

Mr. Fairfield, The Agent


The two boys found Mr. Fairfield already seated in the most comfortable chair in the sitting room.

He looked inquiringly at Frank when he entered with Dick.

"Who is that boy, Hamlin?" inquired the agent. "Nephew of yours?"

"No, sir. It is a young man who has come to Jackson on business."

"What kind of business?'

"I sell stationery," Frank answered for himself.

"Oh, a peddler!" said the agent, contemptuously.

"Many of our most successful men began in that way," said Mr. Hamlin, fearing lest Frank's feelings might be hurt.

"I never encourage peddlers myself," said Mr. Fairfield, pompously.

"Then I suppose it will be of no use for me to call at your door," said Frank, who, in place of being mortified, was amused by the agent's arrogance.

"I should say not, unless your back is proof against a broomstick," answered Fairfield, coarsely. "I tell my servant to treat all who call in that way."

"I won't put her to the trouble of using it," said Frank, disgusted at the man's ill manners.

"That's where you are wise -- yes, wise and prudent -- young man."

"And now, Hamlin," said the agent, "I may as well come to business."

"To business!" repeated the farmer, rather surprised, for there was no rent due for a month.

"Yes, to business," said Fairfield. "I came to give you notice that after the next payment I shall feel obliged to raise your rent."

"Raise my rent!" exclaimed the farmer, in genuine dismay. "I am already paying a considerably higher rent than I paid to your predecessor."

"Can't help it. Old Sampson was a slow-going old fogy. He didn't do his duty by his employer. When I came in, I turned over a new leaf."

"I certainly got along better in his time."

"No doubt. He was a great deal too easy with you. Didn't do his duty, sir. Wasn't sharp enough. That's all."

"You certainly cannot be in earnest in raising my rent, Mr. Fairfield," said the farmer, uneasily.

"I certainly am."

"I can't live at all if you increase my rent, which is already larger than I can afford to pay, Mr. Fairfield."

"Then I must find a tenant who can and will," said the agent, emphatically.

"I am sure Mr. Percival can't understand the true state of the case, or the circumstances of his tenants. Will you give me his address, and I will take the liberty of writing to him and respectfully remonstrate against any increase?"

Mr. Fairfield looked uneasy.

This appeal would not at all suit him. Yet how could he object without leading to the suspicion that he was acting in this matter wholly on his own responsibility, and not by the express orders of his principal? How could he refuse to furnish Mr. Percival's address?

A middle course occurred to him.

"You may write your appeal, if you like, Hamlin," he said, "and hand it to me. I will forward it; though I don't believe it will do any good. The fact is that Mr. Percival has made up his mind to have more income from his property in Jackson."



Chapter XXXVII

Frank Receives A Letter From Mr. Percival


While Frank was waiting for an answer to a letter to Mr. Percival he devoted part of his time to the business which was supposed to be his only reason for remaining in Jackson.

I am bound to say that as regards this business his trip might be pronounced a failure. There was little ready money in Jackson. Many of the people were tenants of Mr. Percival, and found it difficult to pay the excessive rents demanded by his agent. Of course, they had no money to spare for extras. Even if they had been better off, there was little demand for stationery in the village. The people were chiefly farmers, and did not indulge in much correspondence.

When Frank returned to his boarding place on the afternoon of the first day, Mr. Hamlin asked him, not without solicitude, with what luck he had met.

"I have sold twenty-five cents' worth of note paper," answered Frank, with a smile.

Mr. Hamlin looked troubled.

"How many places did you call at?" he inquired.

"About a dozen."

"I am afraid you will get discouraged."

"If you don't do better, you won't begin to pay expenses."

"That is true."

"But perhaps you may do better to-morrow."

"I hope so."

"I wish you could find something in Jackson that would induce you to remain here permanently, and make your home with us. I would charge you only the bare cost of board."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Hamlin. I should enjoy being with you, but I don't believe I shall find any opening here. Besides, I like a more stirring life."

"No doubt -- no doubt! Boys like a lively place. Well, I am glad you feel independent of your business."

"For a little time. I am afraid it wouldn't do for me to earn so little for any length of time."

Frank enjoyed the society of Dick Hamlin. Together they went fishing and hunting, and a mutual liking sprang up between them.

"I wish you were going to stay longer, Frank," said Dick. "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone."

"We may meet again under different circumstances," said Frank. "While I am here, we will enjoy ourselves as well as we can."

So the days passed, and at length a letter came from Mr. Percival. I append the most important passages:

"Your report is clear, and I have perfect confidence in your statement. Mr. Fairfield has abused my confidence and oppressed my tenants, and I shall dismiss him. I am glad you have found in Jackson a man who is capable of succeeding him. Solely upon your recommendation, I shall appoint Mr. Hamlin my resident agent and representative for the term of six months. Should he acquit himself to my satisfaction, he will be continued in the position. I am prepared to offer him one hundred dollars a month, if that will content him.

"Upon receipt of this letter, and the accompanying legal authority, you may call upon Mr. Fairfield and require him to transfer his office, and the papers and accounts connected with it, to Mr. Hamlin. I inclose a check for three hundred dollars, payable to your order, which you may make payable to him, in lieu of three months' notice, provided he immediately surrenders his office. Should he not, I shall dismiss him summarily, and proceed against him for the moneys he has misappropriated to his own use, and you may so inform him."

With this letter was a letter to Mr. Fairfield, of the same purport, and a paper appointing Mr. Hamlin agent.

When this letter was received, Frank was overjoyed, knowing how much pleasure he was about to give his new friends.

With this appointment and salary, Mr. Hamlin would consider himself a rich man, and Dick's hope for a liberal education might be realized.

The letter came just before supper, and, at the close of the evening meal, Frank determined to inform his friends of their good fortune.

"Mr. Hamlin," said he, "I have some good news for you."

"Indeed!" said the farmer, surprised.

"Your rent will not be increased."

"But how do you know this! Has Mr. Fairfield told you so?"

"No," answered Frank. "I have a question to ask. Would you be willing to take Mr. Fairfield's place at a hundred dollars a month?"

"Willing? I should be delighted to do so. But why do you say this?"

"Because," answered Frank, quietly, "I am authorized to offer it to you at that salary."

The whole family looked at Frank in bewildered surprise. It occurred to them that he might have become crazy.

"You!" exclaimed the farmer. "What can you have to do with the agency?"

Frank explained to a very happy family group and then he and Mr. Hamlin set out for the house of the agent.



Chapter XXXVIII

The Agent Is Notified


It was still early in the evening when Frank and Mr. Hamlin reached the house of the agent. Had they come five minutes later, they would have found him absent. Usually, soon after supper, he made his way to the tavern, where he spent his time and money in a very unprofitable way.

The agent was surprised when his two visitors made their appearance.

"What brings you here, Hamlin?" he asked, with scant ceremony.

"I come on a little matter of business," answered Mr. Hamlin, gravely.

Mr. Fairfield concluded that the farmer had come to make an appeal to have his rent continued at the old rates, and answered, impatiently:

"I don't think it will be of much use. My mind is made up. Have you come on business, also?" he asked, turning to Frank, with a sneer.

"Yes, sir," answered our hero, quietly.

"That will be of no use, either," said the agent. "I am not in want of stationery, and, if I were, I should not buy of a peddler."

"I have not come here to sell stationery, Mr. Fairfield," said Frank.

"Then, may I take the liberty of asking what is your business here?"

"I come on the same business as Mr. Hamlin," answered Frank, who preferred that his companion should introduce the subject.

"Look here, I have no time for trifling," said Mr. Fairfield, angrily. "I am going out and can only spare you five minutes."

"Mr. Fairfield, I would advise you not to go out till you have heard what I have to say," said the farmer in a meaning tone.

"I certainly shall. You can call some other time."

"Another time will not do."

"Look here, sir! Do you know to whom you are talking? How dare you use such a tone to Mr. Percival's representative?"

"I suppose you don't always expect to be Mr. Percival's representative?"

"I suppose I shall die sometime, if that's what you mean; but I am not dead yet, as you will find. To pay you for your impertinence, I shall increase your rent more than I intended. I'll drive you out of town -- that's what I'll do."

This was accompanied by an angry stamp of the foot, which, however, did not frighten Mr. Hamlin much.

"I shall not pay a dollar more rent, nor shall I leave the farm I occupy," returned Mr. Hamlin, whose patience was exhausted by the rough insolence of the man before him.

"So you defy me, do you?" demanded Fairfield, furiously.

"I shall resist your injustice, sir, or rather I would do so if you were able to carry out your threat. Luckily you have not the power."

"Have not the power? You will see if I have not the power!" roared the angry agent. "I give you notice that at the end of the quarter you must go, at any rate. After your insolence, I won't let you stay on any terms. I wouldn't let you stay if you would pay double the rent. Do you hear me, Hamlin?"

"Yes, I hear you."

Mr. Fairfield looked at the farmer in surprise. The latter seemed perfectly calm and undisturbed by his threat, though it was of the most serious nature. He had expected to see him humbled, and to hear him entreat a reversal of the sentence; but his tenant was thoroughly self-possessed, and appeared to care nothing for the agent's threats.

"You need not expect that I will change my mind," he added. "Out of Jackson you must go. I know there is no other farm which you can hire, and while I am Mr. Percival's agent, you need expect no favors from me."

"I don't expect any while you are Mr. Percival's agent," said Mr. Hamlin.

There was something in the farmer's tone that arrested the agent's attention and excited his curiosity, though it did not awaken his alarm, and he could not help saying:

"Then what do you expect? Do you think I am going to die?"

"I don't expect that you will die or resign, Mr. Fairfield. You may be removed."

"Have you been writing to Mr. Percival?" exclaimed Fairfield, in mingled anger and apprehension.

"No, sir; I have not communicated with him in any way. You would not give me his address."

"Of course I would not," said the agent, feeling relieved. "It would be mere impertinence for you to write to him."

"Fortunately there is no immediate occasion for me to do so, as he has sent a representative here to investigate your official conduct."

"A representative!" exclaimed Fairfield, now thoroughly startled. "Where is he? I have not seen him."

"He is present," said Mr. Hamlin, indicating Frank.

The agent broke into a scornful laugh.

"You? Why, you are a peddler!"

"Only in appearance, Mr. Fairfield. I assumed that business in order not to attract attention or excite suspicion. I am really Mr. Percival's private secretary, as I can prove to your satisfaction."

"Is this true?" he asked, in a changed voice.

"Yes, sir; quite true."

"Have you written to Mr. Percival?"

"Yes, sir; and this afternoon I received a letter from him."

"What did he write?" asked Fairfield, in a husky voice; for he was convinced now that Frank spoke the truth.

"He removes you, inclosing a check of three hundred dollars in place of notice, and appoints Mr. Hamlin in your place."

"Will you read this letter, sir?"

It was enough. Fairfield knew that his management would not stand investigation, and he yielded with a bad grace.

Mr. Hamlin, the next day, to the great joy of the villagers, made known his appointment.

Fairfield left town and drifted to California, where he became an adventurer, living in a miserable and precarious manner. Mr. Hamlin moved into his fine house, and Dick was sent to a school to prepare for college.

The next day Frank started on his return to New York.



Chapter XXXIX

An Important Discovery


On his return to New York, Frank had no reason to be dissatisfied with his reception. From Mr. Percival to Freddie, all the family seemed delighted to see him.

"You mustn't go away again, Frank," said little Freddie. "I wanted to see you ever so much."

"And I wanted to see you, Freddie," said our hero, his heart warming to the little boy.

"You won't go away again, will you, Frank?"

"Not if I can help it, Freddie."

"We are all glad to see you back Frank," said his employer. "But you have justified my opinion of you by your success. Some of my friends ridiculed me for sending a boy on such an important mission, but I don't believe any of them would have succeeded any better than you, if as well."

"I am glad you are satisfied with me, sir," said Frank, very much gratified by the commendation of his employer.

"I feel that you have done a great service, and indeed I don't know whom I could have sent in your place. However, I am glad to see you back again. I have missed you about my letters, and have postponed answering some till my young secretary returned."

Frank resumed his regular employment, and three months passed without anything that needs to be recorded.

At the end of that time, Frank received an important letter from Col. Vincent, which gave him much food for thought.

The letter was as follows:

"Dear Frank: For some time past I have been intending to write to you, but I have delayed for no good reason. Now, however, I am led to write by a surprising discovery which has just been made in your old home, which may be of material importance to you.

"When your stepfather went away, he requested me to have an eye to the estate, and order whatever I might think necessary to be done. I am not, as you know, a very cordial friend of Mr. Manning's, but I have always regarded the property as of right belonging to you -- that is, since your mother's death -- and so accepted the commission.

"A few days since I went over the house and found that it was quite dirty. Where the dirt could come from in an unoccupied house I can't tell, but, at all events, I felt justified in engaging a woman to clean the paint, so, if any of you should return unexpectedly, you would find the house fit to receive you. This was a very simple matter, you will think, and scarcely needs mentioning. But, my dear Frank, events of importance often hinge on trifles, and so it has proved in the present instance.

"On the evening of the second day I received a call from Mrs. Noonan, whom I had employed to scrub the house. She had in her hand a folded paper, which she gave to me.

"'Here is something I found, sir, while I was scrubbing,' she said.

"I opened it indifferently, but conceive of my amazement when I found it to be your mother's will, properly signed, sealed and witnessed.

"Of course it was not the will which Mr. Manning presented for probate. This will gave Mr. Manning ten thousand dollars, and the residue of the property to you, except a small amount bestowed upon Richard Green, the coachman, and Deborah -- sums larger, by the way, than those mentioned in the will which was read after your mother's death."

There was more to Colonel Vincent's letter.

Frank showed it to Mr. Percival, and readily obtained permission to take a few days vacation.

"I hope you will get back the estate, Frank," said Mr. Percival, "though I don't know what I shall do without my secretary."

"That need not separate us, Mr. Percival," said our hero. "I have no home but this."



Chapter XL

Jonas Barton


Frank started for his old home on Saturday afternoon. He would arrive in time for supper, at the house of his father's friend. The train was well filled, and he was obliged to share his seat with a shabbily dressed young man with whom, a single glance showed him, he was not likely to sympathize.

The shabby suit did not repel him at all -- he was too sensible for that; but there was a furtive look in the man's face, which seemed to indicate that he was not frank and straightforward, but had something to conceal.

Half the journey passed without a word between the two. Then his companion, glancing at Frank, opened a conversation by remarking that it was a fine day.

"Very," answered Frank, laconically.

"A pleasant day to travel."

"Yes."

"Do you go far?"

Frank mentioned his destination. His companion seemed to have his interest awakened.

"Do you know a Mr. Manning, living in your town?" he asked.

"He is my stepfather," said Frank.

"Then you are Frank Courtney?" said his new acquaintance, quickly.

"I am."

"Pardon me, but I think your mother died recently?"

"Yes."

"And the property was left chiefly to Mr. Manning?"

"Yes."

"Of course, you were surprised, and probably very disappointed?"

"Excuse me," said Frank, coldly; "but I am not in the habit of discussing my affairs with strangers."

"Quite right, but I think you will find it for your interest to discuss them with me. Not in a public car, of course; but I have something of importance to communicate. Where can I have a private interview with you?"

It at once occurred to Frank that there was an opportunity, perhaps, to solve the mystery concerning the will. This man might know nothing about it; but, on the other hand, he might know everything. It would be foolish to repulse him.

"If you have anything important to tell me, I shall be glad to hear it," he said. "I am going to the house of my friend, Col. Vincent, to pass a few days. Do you know where he lives?"

"Yes, I know."

"If you will call this evening, after supper, I shall be glad to see you."

"I will do so. I will be there at eight o'clock, sharp."

On arriving at his destination, Frank found the colonel's carriage waiting for him at the station.

Col. Vincent was inside.

"Welcome, Frank!" he said, grasping heartily the hand of our young hero. "I am delighted to see you. You are looking well, and, bless me, how you have grown!"

"Thank you, Col. Vincent. Do you expect me to return the compliment?"

"About having grown? No, Frank, I hope not. I am six feet one, and don't care to grow any taller. Well, what do you think of the news?"

"I have some for you, colonel;" and Frank mentioned what his new acquaintance had told him.

"The missing link!" exclaimed the colonel, excited. "Do you know what I think?"

"What?"

"That this man either forged the will which gives the property to your stepfather, or is cognizant of it!"

"I thought of that."

"I shall be impatient to see him."

At eight o'clock the man called and gave his name as Jonas Barton. Whether it was the right name might be a question; but this did not matter.

"I understand," said Col. Vincent, "that you have some information to give us."

"I have; and that of a very important nature."

"Is it of a nature to restore to my young friend here his property now in the possession of Mr. Manning?"

"If it were," said Jonas Barton with a cunning glance of his left eye "how much would it be worth?"

"I supposed it was for sale," said the colonel, quietly. "What is your own idea?"

"I will take two thousand dollars."

"Suppose we say one thousand?"

"It is not enough."

"Were you aware that the genuine will had been found?" asked the colonel, quietly.

Jonas Barton started.

"I thought Mr. Manning destroyed it," he said, hastily.

"No; he concealed it."

"Is this true?"

"Yes. You see that a part of your information has been forestalled."

"He was a fool, then, and still more a fool to refuse my last demand for money. I accept your offer of a thousand dollars, and will tell all."

"Go on."

"I wrote the will which Mr. Manning presented for probate. It was copied in part from the genuine will."

"Good! And you betray him because he will not pay what you consider the service worth?"

"Yes, sir."

Jonas Barton here gave a full account of Mr. Manning, whom he had formerly known in New York, seeking him out and proposing to him a job for which he was willing to pay five hundred dollars. Barton was not scrupulous, and readily agreed to do the work. He was skillful with the pen, and did his work so well that all were deceived.

"You will be willing to swear to this in court?"

"Yes, sir, if you will guarantee the sum you proposed."

"I will. I shall wish you to find a boarding place in the village, and remain here for the present, so as to be ready when needed. I will be responsible for your board."

As Jonas Barton was leaving the house, one of the servants came in with important news, in which Frank was strongly interested.



Chapter XLI

Conclusion


The news was that Mr. Manning and Mark had just arrived at the Cedars. They had come by the last evening train. Why they had come back so unexpectedly no one knew, but the servant had heard that Mark was in poor health. This was true.

Mark, in Europe, had proved uncontrollable. He had given way to his natural love of drink, had kept late hours, and had seriously injured his constitution. In consequence of these excesses, he had contracted a fever, which alarmed him father and induced him to take the first steamer home.

"We won't call upon your stepfather this evening, Frank," said Col. Vincent; "but early Monday morning we will bring matters to a crisis."

Mr. Manning did not hear of Frank's presence in the village. He was fatigued with his rapid travel and kept at home. Besides, Mark was prostrated by his journey and didn't wish to be left alone.

It was, therefore, a surprise to Mr. Manning when on Monday morning, Col. Vincent was ushered into his presence, accompanied by Frank.

"Really, colonel," he said, recovering his composure, "you are very kind to call so soon. I hope you are well, Frank? Are you staying with the colonel? You must come back to your old home."

"Thank you, Mr. Manning, but I am living in New York. I am only passing a day or two with the colonel."

"It is very friendly in you to call, Col. Vincent."

"Mr. Manning," said Col. Vincent, gravely, "I am not willing to receive undeserved credit. Let me say, therefore, that this is a business, not a friendly, call."

"Indeed," said Manning, uneasily.

"The business is connected with my young friend Frank."

"I am ready to listen," said Mr. Manning. "If Frank wants a larger allowance, I am ready to give it."

"I venture to say for him that he will not be satisfied with that. Let me come to the point at once, Mr. Manning. Mrs. Manning's will has been found."

Mr. Manning started perceptibly, and his glance involuntarily wandered to that part of the wall behind which the will was discovered, for they were sitting in the very apartment where Mrs. Noonan had stumbled upon it.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"A will has been found, leaving the bulk of the property to Frank."

"Indeed! I am surprised. Is it a later will than the one which bequeathed the estate to me?" asked Mr. Manning, pointedly.

"It is Mrs. Manning's latest genuine will," said Col. Vincent, emphatically.

Mr. Manning started to his feet. He could not help understanding the colonel's meaning. It would have been idle to pretend it.

"What do you mean, Col. Vincent?" he asked, in a tone which he tried to make one of dignified resentment.

"I mean that Mrs. Manning made but one will, and that this bequeaths the property to Frank."

"How, then, do you account for the later will which was admitted to probate?"

"In this way. It was not what it purported to be."

Mr. Manning's sallow face flushed.

"What do you mean to insinuate?" he asked.

"That the last will was forged!" said Col. Vincent, bluntly.

"This is a very serious charge," said Mr. Manning, unable to repress his agitation. "You must allow me to say that I shall pay no attention to it. When you furnish proof of what you assert, it will be time enough to meet it. And now, gentlemen, if you have nothing further to say, I will bid you good-morning."

"I think you will find it best not to be in a hurry, Mr. Manning," said Col. Vincent. "The charge must be met here and now. I charge you with instigating and being cognizant of the fraud that has been perpetrated!"

"On what grounds, sir? Do you know I can sue you for libel?"

"You are welcome to do so, Mr. Manning. I have a witness who will clear me."

"Who is he?"

"Jonas Barton!"

If a bombshell had exploded in the room, Mr. Manning could not have looked paler or more thoroughly dismayed. Yet he tried to keep up a little longer.

"I don't know any man of that name," he answered, faintly.

"Your looks show that you do. I may as well tell you, Mr. Manning, that resistance is useless. We can overwhelm you with proof if we take the matter before the courts. But we do not care to do so. We have something to propose."

"What is it?" said Mr. Manning, faintly.

"The genuine will must be substituted for the fraudulent one. By it you will receive ten thousand dollars, and Frank will consent that you shall receive it. He will not ask you to account for the sums you have wrongfully spent during the last year, and will promise not to prosecute you, provided you leave this neighborhood and never return to it, or in any way interfere with him. To insure this, we shall have Jonas Barton's written confession, attested before a justice of the peace, ready for use, if needful. Do you accept?"

"I must," said Mr. Manning, despondently. "But I shall be a poor man."

"No man who has health and the use of his facilities is poor with ten thousand dollars," answered the colonel.

"Mark alone will spend more than the interest of this sum."

"Then you must prevent him. He will be better off if he has to earn his living, as Frank has done for the last year."

In less than a week the transfer was made, and Frank recovered his patrimony.

Mr. Manning and Mark went to Chicago, and perhaps further West; but nothing has been heard from them for years.

Frank didn't return to the Cedars. The place was let until he should wish to return to it.

By the advice of Col. Vincent, he resumed his preparation for college, and, graduating in due time, commenced the study of law.

Though rich enough to do without a profession, he felt that he should not be content to lead an aimless life.

He obtained for his school friend, Herbert Grant, the post of private secretary to Mr. Percival, and Herbert became nearly as great a favorite as himself.

Through Mr. Percival's kindness, Herbert was enabled, while still living at his house and attending to his duties as secretary, to enter Columbia College, and complete his course there, graduating with honor.

Herbert selected the medical profession, and, when he has completed his studies, will go abroad for a year with Frank, at the latter's expense, and, returning, open an office in New York.

While he is waiting for the patients and Frank for clients, the two will live together, and their common expenses will be defrayed by Frank.

"If I didn't like you so well, Frank," said Herbert, "I would not accept this great favor at your hands -- "

"But since we are dear friends," interrupts Frank, with a smile.

"I know that you enjoy giving even more than I do the receiving."

"Enough, Herbert. We understand each other. I have no brother, Herbert, and if I had, I could not care more for him than I do for you. Without you, I should feel alone in the world."

Frank does not regret the year in which he was thrown upon his own resources. It gave him strength and self-reliance; and however long he may live, he will not cease to remember with pleasure the year in which he was "Making His Way."

<eob>

The Hilltop Boys On Lost Island

By

Cyril Burleigh



Chapter I

The Floating Academy


"Well, if this is a life on the ocean wave or anything like it, I am satisfied to remain on shore."

"I knew that the Hudson river could cut up pretty lively at times, but the frolics of the Hudson are not a patch on this."

"They said we would not be seasick, but if I am not I don't know what you call it. I don't want it any worse, at any rate."

"They said it wouldn't hurt any if you were sick, but I wonder if they ever tried it themselves?"

"No, they are like the old bachelors who write about how to bring up children. They never had any, so they don't know anything about them."

"Well, if we get much more of this I shall get out and walk."

"And I'll go with you, my boy."

There were three boys on the deck of a large steam yacht, now about two days out from New York, bound to the West Indies on a voyage combining pleasure and education.

The boys belonged to the Hilltop Academy, situated in the Highlands of the Hudson, and their names were Billy Manners, Harry Dickson, and Arthur Warren, all being close chums, and ready to share any adventure except that of being seasick.

They were none of them sick, but they were all afraid they would be, hence their remarks upon the subject.

There were close upon a hundred of the Hilltop Boys, and they were now on a tour of the islands of the Spanish Main, having been invited by the father of one of them, a man largely interested in the shipping business, who had put at their service a commodious steam yacht large enough to hold them all.

Besides the boys there were Dr. Theophilus Wise, the principal, and a number of his instructors, the negro coachman at the Academy, who was now serving in the capacity of cook and general handy man to the doctor and the boys, and the captain and crew, a considerable party all told.

The sky was bright, there was none too much motion, and there was really no reason why a lot of healthy boys should be seasick, and perhaps they only feared they would be, and were just a little uncomfortable.

They were to spend the Easter vacation and a few weeks longer among the islands, continuing their studies as usual, and getting a knowledge of geography and of many other things, which they could not get by merely studying books, Dr. Wise having practical ideas on these points, and having now a chance to carry them out through the generosity of Mr. Smith, the shipping merchant, who had furnished the yacht.

His son, Jesse W., one of the youngest boys at the Academy, had been found and brought home when lost on the mountains by one of the Hilltop boys by the name of Jack Sheldon, a general favorite at the Academy, and it was in recognition of this act that he had decided to give the boys this glorious vacation.

As the three boys were complaining about the rough seas, and the chance of becoming seasick, they were joined by two others, one of whom said in a breezy voice and with a lively air:

"Well, boys, how are you enjoying yourselves? Glorious weather, isn't it? Fine breeze, just the thing to send us along, although we do not need it, going under steam."

"I'm glad you like it, Jack!" said Harry with a wry face, "but I can't say that I do. You may be used to the water, but I am not."

"I have never been at sea before," laughed Jack, "so I cannot be any more used to it than you are. Perhaps you have been eating too much, that might make you sick. You don't look it, at any rate."

"I don't know how I look," muttered Billy Manners, stopping suddenly in his walking, "but I know how I feel," and he made a dash for the cabin, and was gone for some time, the others continuing their walk on deck.

In a few minutes a smiling negro in a white jacket and cap came out of the cabin carrying a tray containing cups of beef tea, which he offered to the boys, saying with a grin:

"Dis ain't like de beef soup yo' get at de 'cademy, sah, but mebby yo' would like a bite or two dis mon'in' to sha'pen yo' appetite fo' dinnah?"

"No, thanks, Bucephalus," said one of the boys, Dick Percival by name, who was walking arm in arm with Jack. "I don't need anything to sharpen my appetite, which is always good on sea or land."

"The idea of offering a fellow anything to eat when he feels as I do," growled Harry. "Take it away, Buck, or I'll throw you overboard."

The high sounding name of the negro was often contracted to Buck by the Hilltop boys, as in the present instance, but he was used to both, and answered as readily to one as to the other, now saying with a broad grin:

"Dat am a mistake, Mistah Harry. De worser yo' feel, de mo' yo' should put in yo' stomach, dat is to say when yo' get good nourishmental food like dis yer. Of co'se dey is detrimental substances which --  -- "

"That sort of talk will make me sick if nothing else will," said Harry, hurrying away, while Jack and Dick sat down, and gazed out upon the horizon, while sipping their bouillon and nibbling at their biscuits.

"We will be in summer seas, as the advertisements call them, before long," said Jack. "The air is pleasant enough as it is. Down here in the summer it is pretty hot I take it, but in April it will be all right."

"Think of us cruising around the Spanish main where the old buccaneers used to roam," laughed Dick. "Perhaps we will dig up a pot of gold buried on one of the islands by some of them."

"If Captain Kidd had buried all the gold that folks said he did," replied Jack, "he would have been kept busy till now. If people would work instead of trying to find gold that was never buried, they would accomplish something. The only treasure you dig out of the earth is the good crop you get by working at your corn and potatoes."

"That's true philosophy, Jack. I have never had to dig anything for myself, having rich folks who always looked after me. Perhaps it would have been better for me if I had had to do more for myself."

"Well, you are not a spoiled child, Dick," said Jack, "as some sons of rich parents are. You are not idle nor vicious, and you know the value of money. You will do for yourself when you leave school. You are going through a training now, that will do you good later."

"Yes, I suppose so, but your having to do for yourself has made you a stronger, more self-reliant fellow than I will ever be."

"Oh, I don't know," returned Jack, half laughing, half seriously. "I am not patting myself on the back, Dick."

"No, you never would."

The two boys were great friends, and were the leading spirits in the Academy, having a great many friends, and being looked up to by the greater part of the boys, and especially by the younger ones, who took them as models.

Dick was somewhat older than Jack, and was farther along in his classes, having had more advantages, but Jack was studious and ambitious, and bade fair to catch up with his older companion and schoolmate before many months had passed, having already in the few months he had been at the Academy greatly shortened the lead which Percival had in the beginning.

Two days later the yacht was in much pleasanter waters, and the air was quite warm and balmy, the boys going around in lighter clothing than before, wearing mostly white flannel or duck, canvas shoes and caps, and no waistcoats, some wearing only white trousers and shirts, and belts around their waists, so as to get the most comfort they could.

They were among the islands now, and expected to make a landing in a day or so, when they were farther down the Spanish main than they were at that time, the islands in the lower latitudes being more interesting in the doctor's opinion than the larger and better known ones.

It was a pleasant afternoon; none of the boys felt any touches of seasickness now, and many of them were walking up and down the deck, some taking their comfort under awnings spread aft near the cabin companion, and some being on the bridge watching the steersman or looking out to sea in search of sails or noting the flight of the gulls and other seabirds or studying the movements of the dolphins playing around the bow, there being many of these lively creatures about.

Dick and Jack were on the bridge whence they could obtain a full view of the deck and look all about them, ahead and astern, and on all sides, Jack greatly enjoying gazing out upon the wide expanse and searching the horizon for sails or a hazy view of some distant island.

Below, on the quarter deck, which was guarded by a low rail only, was young Jesse W. Smith, who took great pride in his full name and always insisted upon being called by it, for whom primarily this expedition had been gotten up, strutting up and down in sailor's trousers and shirt, seeming to feel as if he were the commander of the entire southern fleet.

"There's young Jesse, enjoying himself and seeming ready to say with the fellow in the poem that he is monarch of all he sees," laughed Dick.

"That was supposed to be Alexander Selkirk, the original Robinson Crusoe, Dick," said Jack. "The line is 'I am monarch of all I survey.' You must have recited it more than once in your younger days. That is not altogether a safe place for young Jesse W., though. That rail is not very high, and if we should happen to give a roll --  -- "

"You don't think there is any danger, Jack! Hadn't you better warn him!"

"No, but I will go down and --  -- " and Jack started to go to the main deck and speak quietly to the boy. But before he had hardly said the words there was a sudden startled cry and Jack, looking down quickly, saw that the very thing he had feared had taken place.

How it came about no one knew, but all of a sudden there was a loud cry of "man overboard!" and Jack saw the boy just going down in the water.

He was on the lower deck in a moment, and in another had thrown aside his coat and kicked off his shoes, running to the rail as he did so.

The cook had just been killing chickens on the forward deck, and was going aft with two or three fowls in one hand, a knife in the other.

As Jack reached the rail he saw something out on the water, just where the boy had gone down that made him turn icy cold in a moment.

Snatching the knife from the cook's hand, he sprang to the rail and leaped overboard, taking neither rope nor life preserver with him.

"By George! that's just what Jack feared, and there he is going to the rescue before any one has shouted, almost!" exclaimed Percival, as he hurried below.

"H'm! pretty clever of Sheldon," sneered a stout, unprepossessing boy, who seemed to be always scowling. "Knocks the kid overboard, and then goes to his rescue to make himself solid with the father. Very clever stroke, that, and just like him!"

"If you say anything like that of Jack Sheldon, Pete Herring," stormed Dick, who had heard the ill-natured remark, "I'll knock you overboard!"

Herring, who was by no means a favorite in the Academy, quite the reverse, in fact, had not supposed that Percival had heard his uncalled for and utterly false assertion, and now hurried away with a snarl, evidently fearing that Dick would carry out his threat.

The captain, as soon as possible, gave orders to stop the engines, and to hold the yacht near to the place where the boys had gone down, being ready to turn and go to their assistance when they should appear again.

All was excitement on board, for, until now, nothing had happened out of the ordinary, and no one thought of being seasick or of complaining of the monotony of the voyage.

Jack came to the surface, looked around him, saw young Jesse W. just coming up and shouting for help while he swam, and then, not far behind, what had caused him to take the knife with him, the sharp dorsal fin of a good-sized shark moving rapidly through the water.



Chapter II

Jack's Daring Rescue


Straight toward the swimming boy swam Jack, rapidly estimating the distance between them and the distance to be covered by the shark, the presence of which was not yet known by the younger boy.

He could swim, but he was more or less encumbered by his clothes, wide bottomed trousers and full shirt, and could not make as good progress as Jack in any event.

Then, as he was only a little fellow, and probably not accustomed to swimming very far out of his depth, Jack looked for his strength giving out at any moment.

"Keep up, J.W., you are doing fine!" he shouted, swimming straight on with a long, even stroke, which carried him rapidly toward the struggling boy.

Then some one on the yacht, with more anxiety than good judgment, shouted out so that all could hear him:

"Look out for the shark, look out!"

The instant that the younger boy heard this, he turned his head and cast a frightened look behind him, seeing the sharp fin just beginning to turn over in the water.

"Don't look, Jesse W., don't look, swim straight ahead!" cried Jack, who had come up with the boy.

Then he dove deep down so as to come up under the shark before he could turn and rush at the boy so near him.

Down went Jack, and presently began to rise, seeing the white belly of the man eater just above him.

With a fierce upward thrust of his right arm, which held the knife he had taken from the cook, he plunged the blade into the creature's vitals, drawing it downward and toward him, and turning his hand as he drew, thus making a jagged cut, and fairly laying open the shark's belly.

Young Smith, encouraged by Jack's shout, had darted ahead with his little remaining strength, not again looking back, and knowing too well what was about to happen when Jack dove.

As the shark, mortally wounded, floated away, to be eaten by others of his kind, Jesse W. suddenly became faint and felt himself giving out.

Jack arose in a moment, however, and called out cheerily:

"Hold on a moment, young fellow, and I'll be there. You mustn't give out yet, because they haven't put about to take us aboard."

The younger boy held out till Jack reached him, but seemed about to go under again when Jack said quickly:

"Here, get on my back and you won't have to swim. I'll tow you all right, and you can get rested."

"Did you kill him, Jack?" gasped the younger boy, as he obeyed the older one's instructions.

"Yes, yes, but never mind about that. Don't look behind you, just look straight ahead. I don't know that there's anything there anyhow, but it is always a good plan to look the way you're going to avoid accidents."

"You're a funny fellow, Jack," said the other. "You don't want me to see the sharks and be frightened."

"That's all right, old man, but there are no sharks at present, and if any come they will be too busy taking bites out of the other to bother me for a time. H'm! they are putting about. That's all right."

"You can carry me and swim yourself all right, Jack?" asked Jesse W. "Maybe I can swim a bit myself now."

"Never you mind about that," said Jack. "You just stay on my back till I tell you to get off," and the boy swam with a good, steady stroke toward the approaching yacht, keeping a lookout for sharks, as he knew they would be sure to appear soon, seeming to scent blood for miles.

Without letting the younger boy know that he was on the lookout he kept a strict watch on all sides for more of the rapacious creatures, and at length discovered two making for him in different directions, one of them suddenly appearing between him and the yacht, which was rapidly approaching.

"That fellow will be frightened off or perhaps go under the vessel," he thought, "but the other one is coming on pretty fast. I hope he won't get to the yacht before me."

The people on the yacht saw the shark between them and Jack, and Dick Percival seized a gun from the captain, aimed at the creature and fired, doing no great damage, but causing the voracious monster to rush off to one side, and out of his direct course.

Sharks have other fish to guide them, and without these they are helpless, which was the case with this one, who, in his sudden change of course, got away from his pilots, and had to be hunted up by them before he could get his bearings on the boys in the water.

This created a diversion in Jack's favor, and he swam on sturdily, splashing and kicking, and making a great disturbance to frighten away the second shark, which was coming alarmingly close to him.

The yacht was coming on, however, and now they bore down toward him, slackening speed a bit, one of the sailors throwing the boy a line.

Jack caught it with one hand, as it settled over his head, and said to the boy on his back:

"Hang on, young fellow, and they'll haul us both up together. You are no sort of weight, but just hang on."

Jesse W. did as he was told, and both boys were hauled on board the yacht, Dick, Harry, Arthur, Billy Manners and half a dozen others pulling in heartily on the line.

They were drawn on board just in time, for the baffled shark made one terrific jump out of water as they reached the deck, the gangway having been opened, and banged his nose against the plankshire, falling back into the sea with a great splash.

Bucephalus was at the gangway, an axe in his hand, and as the shark gave his jump he aimed a swinging blow at the monster, but failed to hit him.

"Go back dere, yo' sassy feller," he sputtered. "Ah jus' like to get one good crack at yo' an' Ah rip yo' side open. Don' yo' perambulate dis yer way again if yo' know what am salubrious fo' yo', yo'heah?"

Bucephalus was fond of using big words, but did not always use them in the most appropriate manner, so that the boys were always kept guessing as to what he was next going to say when excited.

The boys nearest the rail seized Jack and young Smith as they came on deck, and bore them in triumph to the cabin.

"Bully for Jack Sheldon!" shouted Harry, and fifty boys gave him the heartiest kind of a cheer.

"That's some nerve he showed," declared Arthur Warren, "but then, he always did have nerve, Jack did. If he didn't he wouldn't have done the things he has."

"H'm! anybody could do that," said Herring with a snarl. "The yacht was close to him all the time. You fellows are all the time cracking up Jack Sheldon, but I don't see that he is any great shakes."

"No, you wouldn't," said Billy Manners, with an emphasis on the pronoun, "but decent fellows can see it. Would you have gone over after young Smith?"

"There wasn't any need to do it," growled Herring. "If I'd seen him first I'd have done it."

"You saw it as soon as any one except Jack himself, and you were nearer the deck," said Percival, who came up in time to hear what Herring had said. "I heard you say that Jack pushed the boy overboard so as to get the name of rescuing him. You know that this is a lie, because Jack was on the bridge at that time, and could not have done it. Jack and I both saw young Jesse W. go overboard. Jack feared he might, and had started to go to the deck when the thing happened."

Herring did not care to get into a quarrel with Percival, who was much stronger and better built than himself, and he, therefore, went away muttering something which the boys could not make out.

"He is always saying something nasty against Jack," declared Arthur. "He hates Jack because Jack is smarter, and a general favorite. I wish he had stayed on shore, but as Mr. Smith invited the whole Academy he could not very well be left behind."

"He ought to be marooned on some solitary, uninhabited island, and left there to hate himself," chuckled Billy Manners.

"They don't do those things nowadays, Billy," said Percival. "You have been reading the lives of the pirates, and are full of that sort of romantic stuff."

"Maybe I am," chuckled Billy good naturedly, "but here come Jack and young Jesse W., looking as fine as fiddles, and not a bit worse for their baths. Whoop it up for them, boys!"

Every boy in sight responded to the summons, and gave both boys the heartiest cheers, both Jack and his young companion being favorites.



Chapter III

The Unexpected Happens


Neither Jack nor young Smith felt any the worse for his tumble into the warm waters of the Caribbean, and after they had changed their clothes they went on deck to assure their schoolmates that they were all right, and suffering no inconvenience from their trip overboard.

"Jack is a great sport," declared Jesse W., "but somebody called out 'shark!' a little too quick, for I nearly went to pieces. It may Have been kind in him, but it was injudicious, to say the least."

The boys smiled at the young fellow's wisdom, and Billy Manners replied:

"Well, it wasn't me, J.W., although I know I do a good many fool things. You can't lay that at my door, however."

"Oh, you are a facetious fellow, and keep us amused, but you do think of things," replied the younger boy. "The person who shouted 'shark,' is one of the sort who yell 'fire' at the first sign of smoke, and raise a panic in a crowded hall. They should be suppressed."

"Very true, J.W., you have the right of it," said Billy, smiling. "You get the right idea under your bonnet now and then."

Young Smith had always been fond of Jack, but he was more so now and stuck close to the older boy on all occasions, saying the next day to Jack as they were walking on deck:

"Do you know, Jack, you have done a lot for me, and it is time I did something for you. I am going to speak to my father about you. It is a bit of a job for you to get your schooling and your living and everything, isn't it?"

"Well, it is not so easy, Jesse W., and I do have a tussle now and then," returned Jack, smiling at the other boy's earnestness. "Still, one has to work for what he gets in this world."

"Unless he steals it, and there is no satisfaction in that," said the smaller boy wisely. "And later he has to work -- in jail. What I wanted to say was that now you have done this last thing for me, saving my life, that's what it was, I think my father would like to do something for you, help you through your schooling or something like that. Of course you would not want him to give you money, for he does not put a commercial value on my life, but he could help you to get ahead and so help yourself, couldn't he now, Jack?"

"I suppose he could," Jack laughed, "and you are a thoughtful young fellow, J.W., but never mind about that. One of the sailors, Bucephalus, any one, in fact, could have done what I did. In fact, it is all in the day's work at sea, and nothing is thought of it."

"No, but no one else did it, Jack. Any one might, but no one did. Only you. Any one else could have done it, but they did not all the same. That's nonsense about your pitching me overboard. I heard some of them talking of it. Why, you were not there. I was on the quarter deck, where I had no business to be, I suppose, with just a little bit of a low rail, and when the vessel took a sudden roll I went overboard."

"Jack saw you up there," said Percival, who was walking with the others, "and spoke about warning you that it was dangerous. In fact, he was on the way to tell you when you got ahead of him and rolled overboard."

"Jack is all the time thinking of some one," said young Smith. "That's what makes him different from the other Hilltop boys."

"Oh, then you don't think I think of others, eh? That's one on me."

"Oh, you haven't had to, Dick, you have always had some one to think for you," said Jesse W. wisely, and both Dick and Jack laughed.

"That young fellow will be doing something for you, Jack," said Percival a few minutes later when the two happened to be alone. "He is thinking of it now, and later you will hear from it."

"I suppose he will," said Jack thoughtfully, "and I don't know how I can stop him. I could not help doing what I did, but you would have done the same if you had seen the danger before I did."

"But I did not," returned Dick, "and that is just young Smith's line of argument. It is nothing that you could have done something if you don't do it. Well, you deserve all that can be done for you, and that is all there is about it, old chap."

Two days later in the middle of the afternoon, the day having been warm with very little air stirring so that the boys were glad to seek the shelter of the awnings spread across the decks, the breeze suddenly fell away and the air became fairly stifling.

The captain looked anxious, and ordered the awnings taken down, and told the boys that they had better go below.

Dr. Wise and the professors got the boys below, and none too soon, for all of a sudden a funnel-shaped cloud appeared on the horizon, spread with startling rapidity until it covered the entire heavens, and then from it shot out a fierce flash of lightning, while the wind which had died out now blew from an unexpected quarter with the greatest fury.

Being under their own steam they, of course, had no use for sails, which would have been blown away.

For all that the waves dashed them ahead with great rapidity and the propellers were now high out of water and now buried deep in the sea, the yacht being almost unmanageable.

The wind was behind them, and there was no chance of going about in such a blow and with such great waves dashing against them, so in pitch darkness they sped on, no one knew where.

The electric lights in the cabin and the saloons were turned on so that the boys were not in darkness, and some of the officers moved about among them telling them that this was simply a squall, and would soon blow itself out, and that there was nothing to be feared.

The howling of the gale, the creaking and straining of the shrouds, the thumping and pounding and groaning of the machinery, and the tramping of men overhead made a combination of sounds that might well terrify anyone, and the older boys tried to reassure the younger ones that it would be over in a short time, and that they would soon be sailing on smooth seas again, and be laughing at their former terrors, but it took a great deal of faith to make all this believed, and some of those who urged it had very little confidence in its truth.

Herring, Merritt, and others of the same class were really terrified, and took on dreadfully, predicting all sorts of dreadful things, and declared that they were fools to have taken this voyage, and that they would never undertake another.

Jack Sheldon, Dick Percival, Harry Dickson, and even mercurial Billy Manners were quite different, however, and young Jesse W. Smith acted like a man, and although he was frightened, as any one might be, and no shame to him, did not give way to his fright, but said very wisely that he guessed the storm had been gotten up for their especial benefit so that they might know what sort of things they could do in these latitudes.

How long they were rushing before wind and sea they did not know, for it seemed ages, where they were going they could not guess either as they had come from an unexpected quarter, and so suddenly that they had not noticed its direction, and were not where they could look at the compass.

All was bright and cheerful in the cabins, but through the portholes they could see that all was dark outside with an occasional vivid flash of lightning, these coming less and less frequent at length till they ceased, and then the skies began to brighten.

Suddenly, however, before it was yet bright enough outside to make out any objects, there was a sudden rush forward as if they had been struck by a great wave, then a sudden upheaving as if they were mounting to the sky, then another long rush forward, and then a shock as if they had struck something, and for a few moments the lights went out.

When they flared up again the vessel seemed to be at anchor, and the boys said to each other:

"What is the matter, have we struck on a rock, are we sinking, what is the matter anyhow?"

There was no confusion on deck, as there would have been if what the boys feared had really happened, and presently one of the officers came below and said reassuringly:

"Well, we are all right as far as I can see, but where we are is another story. In some landlocked bay, apparently, but where it is or how we reached it I can't tell."

"We were struck by a cyclone, weren't we, Officer?" asked young Smith, with a wise air.

"That's just what it was, and when those things strike you they strike hard. Lucky for us that we happened to be going ahead of it, for if we had been head on to it we might not have survived."

"But there is no danger, we have not struck a rock or anything, we have no holes in our hull?"

"None that we can see. We are beached somewhere, and we may slide into deeper water, but as far as we can tell now we are safe enough. Where we are, however, will have to be determined when the sun comes out."

The boys were reassured by this news, and after a time some of them went out on deck, the yacht being now almost motionless, the waves just lapping their sides, and running lazily up a beach, which they could now just make out at a little distance.

It grew lighter and lighter quite rapidly, and at length the sun appeared, and they found themselves in a landlocked bay with a white beach in front of them, beyond that a thick grove of palms of various kinds, green hills on all sides and in the distance, straight ahead, a hill of considerable size crowned with a thick growth of trees.

As the sun grew brighter the scene increased in attractiveness, and the greater part of the boys were charmed by it, making many exclamations of delight, as they turned from one object to another.

"It's a fine place wherever it is," said Jack. "I suppose they will locate it to-morrow, and perhaps some one will come out to the yacht, and tell us where we are."

"I don't see any sign of dwellings," murmured Percival. "Perhaps there are no people on it. Not all of these little islands are inhabited, and I suppose it is an island?"

"Probably, for I do not think we are near the South American coast. Some one will know after a bit, doubtless. At any rate, we are safe and that is a good deal."

One of the officers came along where the two boys were standing, and Jack asked him if he knew where they were.

"No, I don't," was the answer. "We have not been able to get an observation yet, and we started off at such a gait that it was impossible to tell where we were going or at what rate. We will probably locate ourselves in the morning, but there is no danger so you can make your minds easy on that point, young gentlemen."

"There is a good deal in that, sir," said both boys.



Chapter IV

Caught On Lost Island


The sun set gloriously, and after a short twilight common to those latitudes the full moon arose over the hills, and all the stars came out little by little till the heavens were full of them.

The moon dimmed their brightness somewhat, but they were still very brilliant, and the night was a glorious one, the air warm and balmy, the breeze just enough to temper the heat of the air, and all around them sea and shore bathed in moonlight.

After dinner, which was served in the saloon as usual, the boys went out on deck for the most part, and enjoyed the beautiful evening, being dispersed in little groups here and there, some seated and some walking the decks.

"We are safe enough, anyhow," observed Jack to Percival and a few of the boys who were seated on deck with him, "and I suppose we will not leave here till the morning at any rate."

"We are sheltered in this bay, and even if there should be a storm outside we will not feel it," returned Percival. "I hardly think there is one, and it seems strange that we should have caught that cyclone at this time of the year. Isn't it unusual?"

"You can't call anything unusual in the tropics," laughed Jack. "I believe you are liable to catch anything at any time here from yellow fever to a tornado. They seem to have them always on hand."

"Well, we are safe now, at any rate, and I am glad for that much. We will make the best of this fine night, and take other things as they come."

It was late when the last of the boys went to bed, for they all wanted to make the most of the fine night, but they were all up early the next morning, anxious to learn where they were, and if they would stay at the island or put to sea again.

Jack was the first of the boys on deck, and when he reached there he saw Dr. Wise talking to the captain and the first officer, there being a grizzled old seaman conversing with Bucephalus at a short distance.

The doctor and the officers seemed to be carrying on a very earnest conversation, and Jack heard a little of it as he came forward, and then suddenly stopped, fearing that he might be intruding.

"We are on the bottom, sir, and I don't know how long we may be there," said Captain Storms. "The next high tide may raise us, and it may not. It is my opinion that we have been on the bottom ever since we came into the bay, and how we are going to lighten her I don't know."

"But there are no holes, we have opened no seams, we have not taken in any water?" asked the doctor, looking fixedly at the captain through his big black-rimmed spectacles.

"No, there are no open seams and no water. The bottom is sandy, too, I think, and not the sharp coral rock you find in these parts that will cut a hole in anything that touches it. No, it is simply a case of too little water to float us, but that, as I may say, may be remedied. Time will tell."

"Then you do not think there is any cause for alarm, sir?"

"Not any great amount, no, sir. The moon is not quite full, although it looked so last night, and when it fills we may get higher water. We can tell to-night. Meanwhile, there are the boats, and your young gentlemen may go on shore and explore the island. I don't think there are any people on it, as it seems very small. Many of the islands hereabouts have no one on them."

"You don't know which one it is as yet?"

"No, I don't."

The doctor walked forward, and looked over the rail, and Jack went up to Bucephalus, and the old sailor and said:

"You don't know where we are, either of you, I suppose?"

"Ah haven't de remotest ideah, sah," replied the negro, "an' far as Ah can make o't dis gentleman am in de same predicament. He says we am in de tropics at a island ob not werry big size an' importance, but Ah was aware of dese fac's mahself befo' Ah interrogated him, sah, so dat Ah am no furder dan Ah was befo', sah."

"This here is an island in the Spanish Main, the place where the old pirates and buccaneers used to roam," said the old sailor whose name Jack learned later was Ben Bowline, "and that's all I know about it. You didn't come lookin' fur Cap'n Kidd's treasure, did you?"

"No, we did not, and I don't believe we would find it if we had. Men are foolish that go looking for such things. I don't believe that Captain Kidd buried the hundredth part of the gold that he is reputed to have buried. I have other things to do besides looking for buried gold."

"You're about right," said Ben, "but there's plenty who do look for it, and spend their lives at it and don't get nothing. This here is one of them islands, and I thought mebby you boys had come a-lookin' for something like that. Boys haven't anymore sense."

"Thank you, but you'll find that the Hilltop boys have a good deal more sense than that."

After breakfast two of the yacht's boats were lowered, and some of the boys went ashore to explore the island and amuse themselves in various ways while the captain sent a party to find the outlet of the bay, and see what their chances for leaving the island might be.

Jack, Percival, Harry, Arthur and young Smith went on one boat, and were the first to land, walking up the beach and into the woods as the other boat came ashore.

Picking a path as they went on Jack and his companions pushed into the deep everglade, the lush undergrowth sometimes quite impeding their progress, and making their advance very slow.

"If we were going to be here any time," said Percival, "we should have to make a path so that we could get about with greater rapidity. If we had thought to bring an axe it would have been better."

After a time their progress was more rapid, as the undergrowth was less rank, and they went on with more comfort.

Many varieties of cactus, prickly pears, plums and plants with the most gorgeous flowers lined their path, and gave constant delight to young Smith and some of the others, but Jack and Percival were more intent on seeing where they would come out than in looking at plants and flowers, and they gave the latter little attention.

"There is certainly no one on the island," said Jack at length when they came out upon an upland glade more open to the sky than the parts already traversed, "or we should have seen them by this time. I think we have been going in the same general direction, Dick, so suppose we push on in the same line, and see where we come out."

"All right, but there are hills, which we may have to climb if we keep straight on. There they are ahead of us."

"Yes, I see them, but they do not seem to be very high nor far away. If they want us back at the yacht they will probably blow the bugle."

They pushed on across the open space, and then through a wood where it was not so easy to advance and at length, without noticing it, began to descend, the way being good at times and at others very difficult so that they were frequently obliged to halt and get breath.

"I shouldn't wonder if we were the pioneers of this island," said Harry, "for no one seems to have been through here before. How do you stand it, young Smith, all right?"

"Well, it is not so easy as walking along Broadway in New York," rejoined Jesse W., "but I can manage it, I guess."

"It strikes me that we are going down instead of up," observed Arthur, "and we thought we would have to climb the hills we saw."

"You often have to go up and down two or three times in climbing a mountain," said Jack. "It looks all up from a distance, but there are often intervening valleys, which have to be crossed, and then you go up again."

"This must be a pretty deep one, then," said Harry, "for we are going down at a pretty steep incline now."

They pushed on, passing through many great masses of rock, and still going down at a decided angle until at length they came out upon a bare, rocky shore with huge masses of rock to the right and left, and beyond a line of reefs over which the surf was dashing, all being white both beyond and inside the reefs.

"We are on the other side of the island!" exclaimed Jack, "and we have not climbed our hills at all or else they were so slight that we did not notice them."

"I would not like to be in a vessel driven on this side of the island," said Percival. "See how the surf dashes over those reefs. You would go to pieces in a short time."

"That may be the reason why there are no people on it," said Jack. "It is not very big, I take it, and is probably difficult of access. We seem to have come to it without knowing it, and if we had I don't believe we would have gone near it."

They stood watching the surf, and taking in various parts of the shore, seeing a great mass of rocks higher than those at hand, to the east of the larger mass close in to land, and at length Jack suggested that they return to the other side.

"We ought to be able to follow the path we made coming across," he said, "and in any event, we know the general direction, and if we do go astray a bit it won't matter."

They set out upon their return, and came out not far from where they had started, finding Billy Manners and three or four of the boys on shore waiting for them.

"We thought you might be along soon," said Billy. "Would you believe it, they don't know what this island is after all, don't know the name of it, I mean."

"How is that?" asked Harry. "Isn't it charted?"

"Yes, it is charted all right, but there is no name given to it. The captain says it is a sort of lost island, and they never thought enough of it to give it a name or if it had one they didn't think it was good enough to put on the chart."

"Lost Island is a good enough name for us," observed Jack. "Suppose we call it that while we are here. That will not be long, I suppose."

"H'm! I don't know about that," Billy returned. "They have the yacht afloat all right. They started the engines, and backed her off a sand bank or whatever it was we were on, and are now in fairly deep water, but as to leaving the island that is another matter."

"How is it?" asked all the boys in a breath.

"Because there is a line of reefs stretching right across the mouth of the bay, and there seems to be no way of getting beyond them. There seem to be openings here and there, but they are so narrow that the captain does not think it wise to try to go through them."

"Then we are lost on Lost Island, and are lost ourselves," said Jack.



Chapter V

Exploring The Island


The boys returned to the yacht in time for dinner, and here their situation was talked over by the doctor and the captain, the former assuring the boys that there was no great danger, for the yacht was equipped with a wireless service, and the captain could easily make his predicament known, and vessels would doubtless be sent to his relief.

"We may pursue our studies as usual," the doctor continued, whereupon there were wry looks upon the faces of many of the boys, "and as soon as we get away from here we will pursue our voyage. It is simply an incident, not an accident in our plans as arranged."

After dinner Jack got one of the yacht's boats, and took Dick and young Smith with him to the mouth of the bay to get a view of the reefs.

For some little distance they could not see the opening of the bay on account of its windings, the hills preventing them from getting a view of the sea, but at length in rounding a wooded point they came in sight of it.

There were reefs in front of them, at some little distance, and points of rocks on both sides, the outer bay being of considerable size, but generally exposed to the weather, which they were not in the inner bay.

They pushed on for some little distance, but not too near the reefs, where they would be exposed to the force of the surf that dashed over the latter and Jack presently pointed out a strange looking object on his right and at some little distance.

"I should say that that was a flagstaff sticking out of the rocks," he said, "if it were not the most unlikely thing in the world that there should be one there. If any one wanted to plant a flag-pole they would go up higher on the rocks, I should think."

"See if you can get a little nearer to it, Jack," said Dick. "It looks too big for a flagstaff, but it might be the stump of a mast."

"Which is much more likely," replied Jack. "A vessel might have gone ashore there, and show the stump of a mast above water. It is a wonder to me that we were not in the same predicament."

"The only way that I account for it is that we were hit by a tidal wave or the end of one, and carried right over the reefs without scratching, and then the force of the water carried us to the inner bay where it left us stranded for a time."

"That sounds reasonable, and in the absence of any other explanation may as well be received as the right one. I think you are correct about its being the stump of a mast, Dick."

Jack rowed as close to the point of rocks as he dared, not caring to be dashed upon them, the landing being bad, and the boys got a better view of the object that Jack had noticed.

It was out in the water, and projected about five feet, and, being broken off apparently about half way to the crosstrees, should be at least that distance under water.

"I should say there was five or six feet of water there," said Jack, "and you can see from the marks on it that this broken end is still below high water mark. I don't see any sign of a bowsprit but maybe that was broken off when she struck."

"And we can't tell whether this is the fore, main or mizzen," observed Dick; "or whether she had more than two masts. There must be some of her hull left, but it is all under water and maybe deeper than you think."

"Yes," said Jack musingly, "and I am very glad that we are above it and safe, even if we are on a lost island. The tide is coming in steadily now, and there will be more surf, so I think it just as well not to be too near the reefs."

"We might get ashore at some other point farther back, and examine this part of the coast," suggested Percival.

"That woody point which we rounded and so came in sight of the outer bay might be a good place," added young Smith, who seemed a boy of ideas, although he was a little fellow and younger than the others. "We could go ashore there, I think, Jack."

"Yes, so we might," said Jack, as he began to row back. "There is time now, I think. We have not got to go right back."

He pulled on till he reached the point of woods and then looked for a good place to land, finally finding one where there was a narrow white beach and a bank which sloped gradually up to a distance of twenty feet to a ledge whence there was another rise of about twenty feet to another grassy bank.

"This seems to be a good place," he said, as he pulled in to the little beach. "Here is an old stump to which we can tie the boat so that it may not drift away from us when the tide comes in if it reaches this point."

Making the boat fast with plenty of slack to the rope in case the tide should rise high, he got out and then he and Percival ascended the first slope, helping Jesse W. between them.

There was room enough for all of them on the bank, but it did not appear to extend very far, and after taking a rest of a few minutes they set out to ascend to the next landing place where they again rested.

Here there was more room than before, but it was farther to the next stopping place, and there was still more room when that would be reached.

From this point they could see much of the inner bay, and make out the yacht at anchor, but could not see much beyond that, and Jack suggested that they go to a still higher point, and get another observation.

There were trees, big and little, and rough rocks here and there, which would aid them in making the ascent, and they kept on till they reached another good stopping place of greater extent whence they could see much more than before.

Jack and Dick helped young Jesse W. up the bank, as, otherwise, it would have been hard for the little fellow, who was under the average size for boys of his age, and he felt quite proud of being with the older boys, and said as he looked around on the water and the island and the yacht lying at anchor:

"When I tell the other fellows that I came up here they won't believe me. I tell you, it is something to have two such big fellows to look after a little shrimp like me."

"Never mind, J.W., you will grow if you will only wait," laughed Jack. "We were all little fellows once."

"What sort of place is this, anyhow?" asked the smaller boy, looking about him. "There are woods and rocks, and down there I can see that stump of a mast. I wonder if we could see more of her by --  -- "

He was walking on, looking at the mast sticking out of water more than at the ground at his feet when suddenly Jack noticed that he was right on the edge of a hole just discernible in the tall grass.

He darted forward, and caught the boy's arm just as he was about to step into this hole without seeing it, and pulled him back.

"Look out, Jesse W., or you'll go in!" he cried. "You don't know how deep that place is nor where it will land you."

"H'm! I never noticed it. It does seem deep, doesn't it? I wonder how far down it goes, and what's at the end? Water, do you suppose?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," said Jack, "but you might have had a bad fall, my boy. You don't want to go star-gazing like that in strange places. You never know what may be in the way. Always look where you are going."

"Yes, that's good advice, but I wonder if there is anything down there anyhow? Do you suppose we could get down?"

"Possibly," returned Jack thoughtfully, "but I imagine it is a pretty good job to get down there and a bigger one to get back, and nothing down there anyhow."

"You can't tell without going down," said the younger boy wisely, as he knelt on the edge of the hole, and looked down. "Have you got a pocket light with you? We might tell something with that."

Jack parted the tall grass, and just then the sun shone out brightly, as the breeze blew aside the branches, and a broad track of sunlight was let into the hole.

"It does not go straight down," said Dick, who was now at Jack's side. "In fact, I don't think it is as steep as the path we came up. We might go down and investigate."

"Yes, but what would there be there when we got down?" asked the other half impatiently. "We ran the risk of breaking a leg or an arm just for the sake of exploring a hole in the ground, and get nothing out of it. If there was anything there, now --  -- "

"Yon don't know till you look, as Jesse W. just remarked, and there might be something there after all. Some of Captain Kidd's treasure, for instance."

"Nonsense! You are full of Captain Kidd's treasure, and so are half the boys. You won't find anything down there, and you will have your trouble for your pains."

"I'm going to look just for the fun of it, anyhow," said Dick, "although it would be very convenient to have a light as J.W. suggests. Another time we can bring one."

The sun shone more strongly into the hole, and Dick began to descend, using a stout stick, which he had broken from a tree near at hand, to assist him in going down.

The smaller boy looked rather wistfully into the hole as Dick went down, and Jack, breaking another stout stick, asked:

"Do you want to go down there, young fellow, and follow Dick Percival on a fool's errand?"

"It might not be that," said the other, "and I would like to go."

"All right, then, come along. Here is a staff for you. I can do without one, I think. Keep close to me. Can you walk upright, Dick?"

"Yes, generally," came back the answer in a muffled voice. "My! but the place is filled with echoes, Jack. It goes down quite a distance I should say. The light is a big help. Funny, but there seems to be a light down here, although where it comes from I can't say."

The boys kept going down and at length Jack said, pausing and trying to pierce the darkness, the light that Percival had spoken of not being visible at that moment:

"I think we would better get a light, Dick. We don't know where we are going, and it is dark. It is never safe to go anywhere in the dark unless one is familiar with his surroundings."

"That's true enough, Jack. Have you any matches? The next time we come this way, if we do, we had better take a flashlight along."

"I have matches," said Jack, and in a moment a tiny blaze shot up, increasing till it enabled them to see to some extent where they were.

They were still descending, but in a short time were on more level ground or rock, whatever it was, proceeding till the match went out, and a few steps farther when Dick suddenly brought up against something and exclaimed in surprise:

"Hello! we cannot go any farther, Jack. Strike another match, and let us see where we are."

Jack lighted two or three matches at once, and held them just above his head so as to obtain a good view of his surroundings.

"Hello! what is this?" exclaimed Percival. "A cave, or what?"

Just before them was a jagged opening into some region beyond, but whether it was a cave or not puzzled them.

Jack went closer, and held his light in the jagged opening.

"It's a hole in the side of a vessel, Dick!" he cried in amazement.



Chapter VI

A Walk Under Water


"That's what it is, Jack," said Dick, after the first sensation of astonishment had passed. "It is more in the bow than on the side, however. You can see how she narrows a little farther on. This hole is pretty well forward. I tell you what! This is the vessel we saw under water, or the one that stump of a mast belongs to, at any rate."

"I believe it is, Dick. Probably she drove in here, had a hole smashed in her bow, and then sank. The earth has settled in between the masses of rock above and around her, and hidden her, but there is still the fissure down which we have just come."

"This is as good as finding Captain Kidd's treasure, isn't it?" exclaimed young Smith. "We never expected to find anything. Shall we go in and see what more there is, Jack?"

"We may find ourselves in the water before we know it," murmured Jack. "No, I think we would better stay where we are. It is the safest plan by long odds. It looks like taking too many chances to go into a place like that. Better wait till another time."

"Give me a match or two, Jack," said Percival. "I'll promise not to take too great a risk."

Jack handed him the matches, and he struck them, and advanced a step or two into the opening.

"It is plenty wide enough," Percival said. "Yes, these are ship's timbers, all right. She must have struck hard to make such a gash. We are on a level with the lower deck. I can't see much cargo around, but there is a way aft. This must be a sort of steerage, and the lower hold where the cargo is stored is below us. I believe we could walk right ahead to the after bulkhead, and if there happens to be a door in it, as is often the case, straight into the after cabin."

"If there were anything to make a torch of, Dick, I'd go with you," said Jack, "for I am as much interested as you are in this strange find, but we don't know what we might stumble against or into what hole we might fall. Wait, Dick. We shall not probably leave the island for some time, and there will be opportunities to find out more about it."

"Yes, I suppose so, but I would like to find them out now. However, you have the right of it, and it is just as well to be cautious."

"Besides, I have only a few more matches left, and we must get back to where we started. If you and I were alone --  -- "

"Yes, quite right," and Dick came out, as his matches were extinguished, and they started back.

A match or two gave them all the light they wanted till they began to ascend, the way up being more difficult than coming down, and both older boys being obliged to assist the younger one.

However, they reached the top at last, the light seeming to be almost dazzling after they had been used to the darkness for even the short time they were down in the strange place.

"I never knew the sun to be so bright," said Jesse W. "It's like what men say coming up out of a deep well is."

"We'll go there again," said Percival. "I want to know more about the place. Better not say anything to the other fellows. We'll have them swarming over the place if we do, and then there is more or less danger in going down there."

"I believe you want to keep the discovery all to yourself in case we did find treasure there," said Jack. "Probably there is nothing more than a lot of spoiled beef and some old clothes."

"Oh, after we have seen all there is to be seen I don't care, but I do want to have it to ourselves until we have had a chance to see all there is to be seen. Think of going into a vessel through a hole in the side. Very few people can say they have done that."

"There'll be no getting the vessel out of that now," said young Smith. "I wonder how old it is!"

"It cannot be so very old," replied Jack. "If she were, the moss and slime on that stump of a mast would be thicker, and there would not be so much of the stump. Probably she is filled with water in any event."

"There was none in the part we saw."

"No, as that was above water, but the lower part undoubtedly is. I do not believe we could go all the way through as Dick suggests."

They went back to the place where they had left the boat, made their way down and rowed back to the yacht, where they went on board, and saw some of the boys, telling them of visiting the reefs, but saying nothing of the strange discovery of the vessel among the rocks.

There was a very high tide that night, but Captain Storms decided that it would be very unwise to try to pass beyond the reefs, none of the openings being wide enough and the surf very heavy.

"There is no use, young gentlemen," he said to Jack and Dick and a few others. "We will have to stay here for a time until I can get in connection with the outside world. Then, perhaps, some one may know about this place, and a way out of it. One vessel has gone down here, and I don't care to be the next, and leave my mainmast sticking up out of the water to show folks the way to destruction."

"We saw that stump ourselves," said Jack. "Was that wreck long ago, do you think?"

"Not so many years, twenty, perhaps, or maybe less. The rocks would hold her tight, but I don't believe there's much left of her. Nothing worth taking away, I guess."

Jack gave Dick a peculiar look, and neither of the boys told what they had seen.

The boys had lessons and a lecture that afternoon, and again the next morning and in the afternoon were free to go about as they pleased, explore the island or go out on the water with some of the sailors.

"I want to take another look at that old vessel," said Percival to Jack after dinner. "I have borrowed a stout rope and an axe, and I have my pocket light with me. Will you go along, Jack? I suppose we should take J.W. with us, but he is a little fellow, and there might be danger."

"If we find anything whatever we can take him another time," said Jack. "I don't want anything to happen to the young fellow. Some of the boys may be saying that I took him to a dangerous place just to have the name of rescuing him again."

"You don't mind what such fellows as Herring and some of the rest say, I hope?" sputtered Percival.

"Not altogether, but it is annoying all the same."

"What those fellows need is a good thrashing."

"Well, I don't like this constant wrangling, and I keep away from them as much as possible and don't give any cause for talk."

"Which is the cheapest kind of goods dealt in. Never mind them, but come along and make another investigation of the wreck. I believe we may find something in it."

"Spoiled beef and rotten clothes," laughed Jack. "However, I will go with you, Dick."

They took the boat and rowed to the woody point where they made fast, and climbed to the top as before, having much less trouble on account of not having the younger boy to assist.

They made their rope fast to a tree near the edge of the hole among the rocks, and by its help descended to the bottom, then lighting their way to the hole in the side of the vessel.

With the axe Percival cut away the jagged edges of the timbers at the opening, and then he and Jack pushed forward, using the axe now and again as rubbish of various kinds came in their way.

They could see boxes and bales and casks on either side as they went on, there being a passage-way between the tiers of the cargo, and here and there a post or stanchion had half fallen and impeded their progress, obliging them to cut it.

As Percival had predicted, there was a door at the end of the bulkhead, dividing the hold from the cabin, but this was fast.

"It is not very thick," said Percival. "I believe I can break it in with a blow of the axe."

"Wait a moment, Dick," said Jack cautiously. "Listen! It strikes me I hear the sound of water. We don't want to let a flood in on us. It is likely that the after hold and cabin are full of water, and we don't want to be swamped."

Percival put his ear to the door, and then flashed his light through the keyhole.

"There's nothing there, Jack," he said. "If there were water it would come through here. We have gone so far, and I'd like to go the rest of the way and get to the cabin. I believe we can. There is probably a passage on one side of the companion leading to the after cabin."

"Yes, and the companion is open, and the place full of water."

"There is none here, at any rate, and it will be time enough to look for trouble when it comes," returned Percival impatiently. "Stand aside, old man, and throw the light on the door so that I can give a good blow."

Jack did as requested, and Percival raised the axe and dealt the door a sturdy blow, which took it off its hinges and sent it crashing into a narrow passage beyond.

"There is no water there!" he exclaimed in triumph. "Come on, Jack."

The two boys went into the passage, stepping over the fallen door, Jack showing the way with the pocket electric light, which was great use to them in the strange place.

The passage was narrow, not wide enough for the two boys to walk side by side, and was about two fathoms in length, leading to another door which was fast like the first.

In many vessels there is a passage like this leading from the after cabin to the steerage, where the entire hold is not open from the hatches to the keel, as in big ships, which the captain may use in reaching certain portions of the cargo with less trouble than in the case of its being stored in a solid bulk.

"Here is another door, Jack," said Percival. "I don't see any sign of a companionway from the deck."

"No," said Jack, putting his ear to the door and listening intently. "I can hear the swash of water just the same, Dick. We had better be a bit careful."

"We would hear it here, anyhow, Jack. There is water outside, and I don't suppose there is much depth here. You would be very likely to hear it the same as you hear water dashing against the side of a vessel when you are in the hold. It doesn't follow that the water is beyond there."

"No, I guess not. Well, give it a smash, and be ready to run in case there is water there."

Percival took as much room as he could in the narrow passage, swung the axe, and sent the door crashing into the space beyond.

Instead of a flood of water breaking in upon the boys, as Jack more than half expected, there was considerably more light while the sound of water was more distinguishable than before.

"Well! I declare!" exclaimed Percival, pressing forward.

The boys found themselves in the after cabin of a vessel, which was as dry as if she had been in her dock, a soft light from overhead showing them the details of the place perfectly, even without the light of the torch.

"We are under water, Jack!" cried Percival.

"So it seems."

"That light comes from the bull's-eye overhead. The water over it softens the light. Otherwise, the sun would pour right into the place."

"That would be better than having the water pouring in on us, Dick. The flashings of that skylight are tighter than most of them, however, or the water would have gotten in here long before now."

"It is just possible that the glass has been covered with sand which has been lately washed away. That would fill all the cracks around the flashings and make them tight. Very likely the wave that sent us in here has uncovered the skylight, and that is how it is light in here. It is dry, too, Jack. Why, this is like being in one of the submarines we have read of."

"Where you slide back a panel and look at the fishes in procession, through a plate-glass port," laughed Jack. "That always seemed absurd to me, but there are lots of things that Verne wrote about which have been more than realized."

"I should say so! Why, his balloons and his submersibles would not be a patch upon what are actually in use these days."

"Well, now that we know it is safe here, and the water is not going to pour in upon us, let us have a look at the place," said Jack.



Chapter VII

A Remarkable Find


The cabin where the boys now found themselves, so strangely lighted and so marvelously discovered, was not of any great size and was evidently the stateroom of the late commander of the vessel, which itself was not of any great size so far as the boys could determine.

It was furnished with a standing bed fixed against the side, a table and two chairs, all fixed to keep them from moving about when there was any commotion outside.

The skylight was just above the table, which could be used in writing or to have a meal served upon, there being evidences of its having been used for both purposes at the time of the wreck, for there were papers and writing materials scattered about, and a plate and a wine glass just under it, having fallen off during the commotion of the wreck.

There were lockers along the floor under the bed, and along the sides of the cabin, and in one corner a heavy chest such as seamen often use to contain their valuables, this being brassbound and padlocked.

There was a small door forward and another aft, but the boys did not attempt to see what was beyond either of them, being satisfied with what they saw, and not knowing what dangers they might bring upon themselves by doing so.

"It's a bit uncanny, Jack," murmured Percival, "having the water so near to us and not knowing at what moment it may come in upon us. One of those doors probably leads to the companionway going on deck, and the other to the cockpit, but I don't think it would be wise to open either."

"No," said Jack, picking up a bit of writing from the floor.

"There may be, and probably is, another door beyond this after one leading into the cockpit," pursued Percival, "but we don't know if we would let the water in upon us, and it is just as well to leave it alone for the present. The other doubtless leads to the companionway, and there may be another one beyond at the top or perhaps at the bottom. I don't see how the water has not made its way in here, but --  -- "

"Both doors are of iron," said Jack. "Probably the skipper wanted privacy, and -- do you read Spanish, Dick! You know a number of modern languages, more or less."

"No, not very well, but what made you ask me?" replied Percival in some surprise. "What have you got there, Jack?"

"A letter addressed to some official in Mexico, but whether of the provisional or rebel government I cannot make out."

"H'm! you are always picking up strange letters."

"Yes, it seems so. You are thinking of the one I found in the flying machine. We never settled whether that was really genuine or not, Dick, but this seems to be so. As far as I can make out it refers to a shipment of some sort, arms or gold or -- why, Dick, this wreck cannot be so old, after all. The date of this is only that of last year and late at that."

"Then that knocks the Captain Kidd idea silly!"

"Never mind Captain Kidd. Let us see if we can open this chest. Do you know, I am a bit nervous about staying down here too long. You said it was uncanny, and so it is. I'll save these letters," picking up another from the floor. "Suppose we try the chest, Dick."

"The only reason that the water did not come in through that hole forward is that it was probably made by the rocks when she struck and this after part is much lower. She was caught fast and could not fall back. Well, what about the chest, can you open it?" for Jack was kneeling before it, and trying the fastenings.

"I don't know. The lock is closed, but it is only an ordinary iron one, and perhaps you might break it with the axe. There is no other lock that I can see. Try breaking it open, Dick."

Percival struck the padlock a terrific blow with the axe, and broke it in half, it being just a cast-iron affair and easily broken.

"It seems funny to put a lock like that upon a chest supposed to contain something worth while," remarked Jack, as he removed the pieces of the lock, pulled aside the hasp and opened the chest. "That is the way some persons do, however."

Throwing back the lid of the chest he found a tray containing some papers, a pair of pistols and a knife, a few odd trinkets of very little value, some loose cigarettes, two or three dozen in number, a cheap photograph, and a purse made of silver mesh containing a few gold coins.

"Whose picture is that, Dick?" he asked, handing the photograph to Percival, who took it and examined it carefully.

"Why, that's Villa or some of those rebel Mexicans," Dick answered. "I have seen it in the papers often. What's in the body of the chest?"

Jack removed the tray and set it on the floor, opening his eyes with astonishment, and giving vent to a startled exclamation at the same time.

"Well, it is not Captain Kidd, Dick," he cried, "but it is money, just the same, bags of it, and gold," untying the cord around one of the bags, and showing it to be full of gold pieces.

"Not pieces of eight, Jack?" asked Percival with a broad grin.

"No, American twenties and tens, and a few English sovereigns," said Jack, taking out a handful of the coins. "Why, there's more than a hundred dollars right in my fist."

"And a lot of bags, too, Jack," and Percival bent over and looked into the chest. "There must be thousands of dollars there, Jack."

"Yes, if they all contain gold. Take care of this one, Dick, while --  -- "

At that moment there was a sudden heavy sound outside, and both boys started up in surprise.

"What's that, Dick?"

"I don't know, but I don't like it."

"There is no water coming in?"

"Not that I can see."

The sound was repeated, louder than before, and Percival said nervously, while his cheek was noticed to have perceptibly paled:

"Let us get out of here, Jack. I am frightened, I admit. If anything should happen to you I would never forgive myself."

He closed the lid of the chest with his foot, caught Jack by the arm, and said as he hurried away:

"I don't know what it is, but I am not taking any risks."

They hurried along the passage by which they had entered the cabin, reached the hole in the bow by which they had entered and then, as Percival turned on his flashlight, which he had extinguished after entering the cabin aft, they hurried forward toward the hole in the rocks.

"There is no water here, Dick, at any rate," said Jack.

"No, there is not, but I can't think what made -- hello!"

"What's the matter, Dick?"

"Where is the way up? I can't find it. The passage was not a wide one, was it? We cannot have gone astray?"

"No, I don't see how we could," muttered Jack, as he looked around him, the place being well lighted by Dick's flash. "Hello! I see what the trouble is, and now I know what the noise was."

"Well?" asked Percival.

"Some of the rocks have fallen in, Dick. That was what made the noise. Here is our rope. We are in the right place, therefore. The way up is closed, however. Or, at any rate, it is closed here, but I don't believe --  -- "

"The rocks were not loose, were they, Jack?"

"I did not notice that they were, and there has been no rain to send them down. They must have been loose, however. How else could they have tumbled in?"

"I don't know, unless some one took a bar or a pole, and sent them down that way."

"Nonsense, Dick! Who would do that?"

"I know plenty who would do it. Who pushed you into the ravine, back at Hilltop at the risk of your life?"

"Yes, but there is no one around, and no one knew where we were going. You don't suspect little Jesse W., do you?"

"No, indeed," said Percival, with a hearty laugh, "but some one has seen us go down here, and they have thrown down the rocks to make it harder for us to get out."

"It does not seem likely, Dick," said Jack in a doubting tone. "There was no one about, and we are the only ones who know the place. We said nothing about it, and young Smith will keep quiet. Come, that is hardly worth thinking of. Let us see how we can get out. There must be some way."

Dick turned his light this way and that, and Jack lighted a match, saying with a significant chuckle:

"That is all very well, but this is better for our purpose. Watch!"

The flame presently began to flicker, and indicated the presence of a draught of air, Jack noticing the direction whence it came, said:

"Try this way, Dick. There is a draught which makes the flame flicker. Try the axe on the rocks and see if you can loosen them, or, better yet, see if there isn't a fissure somewhere."

"Yes, there is," said Percival, climbing a mass of rock somewhat to one side of where the others had fallen. "Yes, I see it, Jack."

Between them, working with the axe and their hands, the boys opened up a passage between the rocks wide enough for them to crawl through, and in a few minutes were on the top of the wooded point only a few yards from where they had entered the strange place.

"The boat's gone, Jack!" exclaimed Percival.



Chapter VIII

Discussing The Find


The boys could see the water and the bank from where they stood, and Dick had been the first to notice that the boat was not where they had left it before going down into the buried wreck.

"I suppose it might have drifted away," said Jack. "The warp could have become loosened."

"Yes, it could have done so," sputtered Percival, "but it did not do so without help. The same fellows who tumbled the rocks into the hole took away the boat. I have an idea who they were. I spoke pretty sharp to Herring the other day, and he has probably been nursing his wrath ever since."

"You are too suspicious, Dick, and -- hello! did you bring that bag with you?" for the first time noticing that Percival had the bag of coin which he himself had handed to his friend.

"Yes, you told me to take care of it, and I did," and Percival put the bag in the outside pocket of his jacket. "Well have to hail the yacht, old chap. We can make our way in that direction along the top of the bank. It is not such bad going, and then we have the axe if it is necessary to cut our way through the undergrowth."

They set out along the top of the bank, keeping a lookout for the vessel, now and then having to cut their way on account of the thickness of the growth, which was often as high as their waists.

"The rocks could not have fallen in by themselves, and the boat gotten adrift at the same time," muttered Percival as they went on. "Both of these things were done by some one who wished to annoy us. Watch and see how some of the fellows look when we get back."

"Very well, I will, but I don't see why any one should have done it, perhaps both of these things were accidents."

"Either one of them might have been, but is it likely that both were, and that they happened at the same time? Of course not. You will find that Herring or Merritt, or perhaps both, have had a hand in it. They don't like you, and do everything to hurt you, and they don't care any more for me than they do for you. Bother this tangle! It keeps you busy every moment. I believe things grow up here in a night. There will be bare rocks one day and a regular forest on them the next. It beats all how things do grow in these tropical islands!"

Keeping on, now in sight of the water, and then having to leave it on account of the thickness of the jungle, they pushed on till they saw the yacht lying at anchor.

Descending to the shore at the risk of a bad fall, they hailed the vessel, and presently some one put out in a boat and came toward them.

Bucephalus and old Ben Bowline were in the boat, the old sailor hailing them when he neared the shore.

"Well, mateys, did you think you'd walk out to the yacht?" he asked. "The old man was afraid you'd fallen in, and been gobbled up by sharks. Some of the boys found the boat adrift, and brought it in. Don't you know how to tie up a boat yet? I'll show you some knots if you don't know them."

"We know all the knots you can show us, Ben, and perhaps a good many more," grunted Percival. "The boat was tied all right, but --  -- "

"Wha' was yo' goin' to say, sah?" asked Bucephalus.

"Some one untied it," said Percival. "Who brought it back, Buck?"

"Ah donno, sah, Ah didn' saw dem, othahwise Ah could identify de pussons. Have yo' any ideah as to deir pussonality you'se'f, sah?"

"I have an idea, but ideas can't hang a man. Anyhow, I don't want it to get abroad that Jack Sheldon and I do not know how to tie up a boat or tie any ordinary kind of knot. The whole Academy would laugh at us if that notion got around."

"Ah reckon de 'cademy knows all abo't yo' an' Mistah Jack a'ready an' wha' yo' done befo' dis," said the negro with a broad grin. "Ah reckon, too, dat de story was a fabrication puah an' simple. Fact am, if Ah done tol' a story lak dat folks would call it a lie witho't mincin' wo'ds."

"That's about what it was," said Percival, as he and Jack got into the boat, and Bucephalus and Ben Bowline started to row them to the yacht.

"I had a comical adventure with a boat myself once, mateys, if you care to hear it," said old Ben as he bent leisurely upon his oar, "but maybe the young gentleman won't believe it."

"Go ahead, Ben, let's have it," spoke up Jack. "Never mind whether we believe it or not. It will amuse us at any rate."

"A sailor man is a mo' pribileged pusson dan one what resides on sho', Ah've noticed," observed Bucephalus. "Folks lak to listen to dem an' dey don' call it lyin', whereas an' on de oder han', ef Ah indulge in any picturesque adaptations o' de trufe dey say Ah'm lyin' right away."

"Never mind that," chuckled Percival. "There is no hurry and Ben wants to spin his yarn, so you might as well let him. Take it easy. There is no hurry. Go ahead, Ben."

The old sailor was a good deal mollified by Dick's present attitude, and taking an easy stroke with his oar, he began his more or less veracious narrative.

"It was down on the coast o' South Ameriky that this here thing happened, but I never had it put in the log 'cause the old man wasn't along an' nothin' went into it that he didn't see hisself; but it's just as true, I'm giving you my word --  -- "

"As the one about the whale!" roared Dick. "Go on, Ben."

"We was sailin' along the coast o' South Ameriky," Ben went on, "when one day as I was cleanin' out one o' the boats to have ready when we went ashore, which we judged would be in a little while, there come up a sudden squall an' I was chucked clean overboard, boat and all.

"Davits, falls, blocks and everything went, and me too, striking the water kerplump. Then it got so dark that I couldn't see nothin', and where I was I had no idee, no more'n nothin', 'cause I couldn't see a thing and there was such a noise all around that I couldn't hear a thing. Then it come on to rain for further orders and I was just drenched to the skin and had all I could do to keep the boat bailed out.

"I couldn't see nor hear anything of the old hooker and I just drifted without knowin' where I was goin' and not carin' much nuther, bein' wet to the hide an' tired out with bailin' an' just ready to flop down an' quit.

"Well, I drifted an' drifted without knowin' where I was driftin', till finally I seen a shore at some distance off an' took the oars an' pulled for it, havin' somethin' to think of now.

"It was still a-rainin', but I didn't care for that now, but just pulled for shore till it got dark again and stopped rainin', which was a comfort. I pulled on till it was too dark to see anythin', and then I come to a stake stickin' out of the water and hitched my boat to it and lay in the bottom an' went right to sleep.

"As long as I was tethered to the stake or bush or whatever it was I reckoned I was all right, an' so I slep' on without feelin' a bit alarmed, knowin' that I wouldn't drift no more an' in the mornin' I could go on an' reach the shore.

"When I woke up in the mornin' I was mightily astonished to find myself lyin' on the ground at the foot of a big tree and to find the boat hangin' to the topmost limb. Ye see, the rainwater had run off an' left the ground bare again, and as the boat slipped down to the perpendickalar I was dropped out an' went from branch to branch till --  -- "

Percival let out a hearty laugh and fairly shook himself, saying at last when he could find breath:

"Baron Munchausen with variations. I've heard that story before, Ben, but the rain was snow and the twig was a church steeple. Still, it's a good story and will bear a bit of a change."

"H'm! I knowed you'd say I was lyin'!" grunted Ben, pulling heartily on his oar and cutting his story short.

Dick put the bag of gold and the letters Jack had picked up in his trunk under his berth and locked it, saying nothing at that time to any one, but resolving to go again with Jack, and bring away the chest if they could manage it.

He meant to tell the doctor about their wonderful find when they had all of it safely in their possession, and to have the letters translated so as to learn definitely all about the wrecked vessel and its mission, but just now he thought it wise to say nothing and Jack agreed with him.

Not all of the boys were on the yacht when the two young adventurers returned, and nothing was said about their having to hail the yacht, but as the others began to arrive, some time later, Percival watched them in turn to see if he could distinguish guilty looks on the faces of any.

When Herring and Merritt came on board he suddenly stepped out from behind a funnel, which had hidden him so that the two bullies did not see him till just as he faced them.

Both of them showed surprise, and Percival said to himself:

"They are the ones, just as I supposed. When anything happens to me or Jack and especially to Jack, look out for Pete Herring."

The two bullies passed him as quickly as they could, and had nothing to say, being evidently much astonished at seeing him on the yacht, but fearing to say anything lest they should betray themselves.

Passing Percival they came suddenly upon Jack, not having time to prepare for a meeting with him, and both of them flushed crimson.

"Oh, then it was you who found the boat afloat and brought it back?" Jack said carelessly. "Very kind of you, I am sure."

"What boat, what are you talking about?" growled Herring, turning redder than ever. "I don't know nothing about no boats."

"No, I suppose not," laughed Jack carelessly, and then going on to join Percival, who said:

"Herring and Merritt are the fellows."

"Yes, so I supposed. They don't know anything about it. They never know anything about things that happen to me, and generally you cannot prove it on them."

"We can't now, but I am satisfied that they were in it just the same."

"Well, we got out of it all right, so there is no need of accusing them. The next time we go there we will be on the watch."

"I suppose they saw the boat, and then came up to see what we were doing, saw the rope and knew we were down in the hole, and closed it upon us."

"They might have drawn up the rope, but they don't think of everything, fellows like that."

"No, they do not, and that's how you can catch them."

Later Dick and Jack saw the captain and Dr. Wise in the cabin, and told about the wrecked schooner, as she probably was, and of the visit to the cabin under water, and the finding of the gold.

Dick exhibited the bag Jack had given him, and showed the letters found on the floor, the captain being able to read them.

"There were money and supplies shipped to the Mexican rebel leader," he said, "and probably the vessel may have been chased, and put in among the islands of the Caribbean to get away, and was wrecked here. There is quite a lot of money in this bag, about a thousand dollars, and if there are many of the bags and they are all as full as this, you will have a pretty good sum to dispose of."

"The money belongs to Jack," said Percival. "He discovered the wreck and it should be his. He needs the money, and I do not."

"You worked with me," put in Jack, "and if I have any of it you should have a share. Does it belong to us, however?"

"Of course it does," said Captain Storms. "You found it and that's the law of treasure trove. It isn't likely that the Mexican rebels or their agents will put in a claim for it, and it is yours all right."

"But we have not got the rest of it," said Jack, "and the hold might be flooded before we go there again. It is a wonder that the water has kept out as long as it has."

"The iron doors have done a lot to keep it out; they are probably watertight. That cabin you were in was like a strong room, and maybe the skipper had it built that way a purpose. You don't know what sort of crew you may get when you are on a lay of this sort, and I guess he wasn't taking chances, having a lot of money on board."

"That may account for it, but it made me feel a little creepy being in there, and knowing that the water was just above me, and perhaps on the other side of those doors."

"I don't wonder. They say divers get afraid when they see all sorts of fishes swimming around them under water. I'd like to go to the place with you. I've had some queer adventures, but nothing so queer as that."

"I should be very glad to have you, sir, and if you want a share of the money in the chest --  -- "

"No, that's all right. It belongs to you and your friend and the little fellow, too, I suppose."

"Why, of course, they must have their share of it."

"I don't think Jesse W. will take it, and, anyhow, he was not with us when we went into the cabin, and I certainly don't want it," said Percival. "It all belongs to you, Jack."

"Not if I don't want to take it," Jack replied with a laugh. "How are you going to make me take it, Dick?"

"I'm sure I don't know, but it ought to be yours, just the same. I'd like to get the rest of it, and suppose we go after it to-morrow?"

"That will be all right."

"And I'll go along to help you," said the captain. "There's no getting out of here right away, and we may as well do something. I can't get any answer to my wireless messages yet, and maybe folks think they're only a joke, and don't pay any attention."

"You have tried to get New York?" asked Jack.

"Yes, and Havana and any place I can, but I can't do anything. I don't know if I am tuned up with those fellows or whether they think it is only a joke or what. I've tried American and International, wired S.O.S. and all the different distress signals, but could not seem to make connection."

"Why don't you try Mr. Smith in New York? He would be interested on account of his boy. Try a plain commercial message. That ought to go. You can at least try it."

"That is very sensible advice," said the doctor. "I suppose you have been sending out distress signals, and the wireless people, if they have caught you up simply regard it as a hoax."

"Well, I'll try again, and do as the young man suggests. In the meantime I'd like to visit this wreck. I never was in a ship's cabin under water when it was safe, and I'd like to try it."

"We will go to-morrow," said Jack.



Chapter IX

The Last Visit To The Wreck


The next day, as agreed upon, they went to the old wreck on the rocks to get more of the treasure in the hold, and to satisfy the captain's curiosity about the place.

It had gotten around among the boys that Jack and Dick had found a sunken treasure, and there were stories of fabulous wealth afloat in a short time, all the boys, with a few exceptions, wishing to visit the place and gaze upon the buried gold with their own eyes.

"We cannot have all those boys visiting the place and getting in our way," sputtered Percival when it was suggested by Harry that he and one or two others go with the party.

"But we would not be in the way," said young Dickson, "and we might be of assistance."

"How did you find it out anyhow?" asked Percival. "We did not say anything about it."

"I don't know, but, at any rate, it is all around, and everybody knows about it. I heard Herring talking about it. He seems to think it is a big hoax, and that you did not find anything."

"Well, we did, all the same, but we don't want a lot of fellows with us, and, besides, it is dangerous. Never mind, Hal. You are in with us on the most of our adventures, but I don't think you had better go this time. We have promised to take young Jesse W. with us, as he was there the first time, but not the second, and he has never seen the cabin with its strange lights, the swash of water outside, the chest of gold and all that."

"H'm! you make me want to go with you all the more," said Harry, half laughing, half impatient. "You should not appeal to a boy's imagination like that, Dick. I want to go with you now the worst way."

"Well, I suppose you do, but you'll have to be satisfied with what I tell you about it. I'll write a composition about it, and you will think you are reading Jules Verne and the Arabian Nights all over again."

"You be smothered!" sputtered Harry, half cross and half good natured. "As if that would satisfy me."

"It will have to, Hal," laughed Percival. "Never mind, I'll give you a ten-dollar gold piece to hang on your watch chain as a charm. You can say it was one that Captain Kidd had."

"Yes, and they were not made at that time, two hundred years ago," said Harry in disgust. "Well, never mind. Billy Manners and I will find a buried treasure, and never let you have a smell of it"

"All right, Harry," and Dick went away to get Jack, young Smith and the captain, and start on their visit to the point.

The captain had a rope and an axe, and Jack took his pocket flash along with him, having found it very useful on the second visit to the submerged vessel.

They climbed up the rocks, and found the place where they had gone down, but now the opening was so small, more rocks having fallen in, apparently, since their last visit, that they doubted if they could get down.

"I am afraid we shall have to give it up," said Jack in some disappointment. "The last time Dick and I were here we had to squeeze through to get out, but now it seems worse than before."

"Let me try, Jack," said young Smith eagerly. "I am only a little fellow, and can get through where big fellows like you and Dick could not. Don't you remember how you put me through the little window at the Academy, that time of the rebellion in the school? Well, you can use me now in the same way. I want to see that place down there. You know I did not see it the last time, and I want to see it very much. Try, Jack. I am not so big, and can squeeze through almost anywhere."

Jack found a place where it would be quite possible for Jesse W. to get down, but not for himself or Percival, and, of course, out of the question for the captain, who was nearly as big as both of the latter combined, and he said:

"Here is a place, J.W., which, I think, will fit. It does seem too bad that you should not see the place, having been with us on our first trip, and we will give you a chance."

"I can bring away a bagful of the gold, anyhow, Jack, and perhaps go for another one after that. I should like to see the place, anyhow."

"All right, you shall do so, old man, but don't load yourself down with gold. That has drowned many a man before now. Get the rope, Dick. We will lower him into the place. Take a light, Jesse W., for you will need it. You know just how to find everything?"

"Yes, I go into the hole in the bow of the vessel which we saw, follow along till I come to a door, and then go along a passage till I come to another door and there I am, right in the cabin with a light overhead, shining through the water."

"That's it. Don't stay too long, and don't load yourself down with bags of gold. I'd rather not have it than have you take any risks."

"But you don't think there is any danger, Jack?" asked the younger boy, as they prepared to lower him.

"No, if I did I would not let you go."

The boy got down safely enough, and called to Jack and Dick when he had reached the bottom that he was all right, and then threw off the rope, which had been put around him under his arms.

He called to them from time to time, his voice growing fainter every time he called, and at last they could not hear him at all.

"I hope it is all right," murmured Jack when the boy had been gone a few minutes. "I thought it would be when I let him go, but now --  -- "

"It is all right," said the captain. "He is a plucky little fellow, and there isn't anything that can happen to him. The rocks hold the vessel as tight as a vise and there is no chance of her slipping back into the water or anything of that sort."

"Well, I hope so, but somehow I begin to feel nervous, and wish that I had not let him go down."

"Young Smith is all right, Jack," said Percival reassuringly. "He is not afraid of anything, and really I don't believe there is anything to be afraid of. There was not when we went down."

"No, but we are a couple of big boys, and he is only a midget. If anything happened to him I should never forgive -- listen, and see if you can hear him coming."

"No, I cannot, but he has had hardly time to get there yet. Give him a chance. He will want to see all there is, boy-like. Let him have a good long look at the wonders of the place. He has never seen anything like it before, and never will again."

Jack was very anxious in spite of Dick's cheering words, and the minutes seemed like hours till at last, holding the rope in his hand he felt a tug at, and then heard:

"Hello! Are you up there?"

"Yes!" shouted Jack. "Are you all right?"

"Sure I am. Wait till I get the rope under my arms. I've got a bag of the stuff, as I said I would, but I don't think --  -- "

"You don't think what?" asked Jack, thinking that he detected something in the tone of the boy's voice that indicated danger of some sort.

"Nothing, wait till I get the rope fast."

"Very good. Take your time."

"All right," the boy called in a few moments. "I have got it. Haul away!"

They saw the light of the electric torch flashing upon them, as the boy came nearer and nearer to them, and at last drew him out of the hole, Jack noticing that he seemed quite pale, and then suddenly noticing that he was wet up to his knees.

"Hello! what is this, Jesse W., how do you happen to be so wet?" he asked. "There was no water in --  -- "

"Yes, some," answered the boy quietly. "It had worked in under the door or at the side somewhere. Maybe they had settled. Anyhow, I got the bag and here it --  -- " and then the boy sank limp and helpless into Jack's arms and fainted away.

"By George! he was a plucky little fellow and no mistake!" exclaimed Jack. "He said that he would get the bag and he did, and standing in water up to his knees, and not knowing at what time he might have the whole Caribbean sea tumbling in upon him. Get some water, Dick!"

The boy presently came around, however, and said faintly, but with a half laugh:

"I told you I'd bring it, didn't I, Jack? Well, I did, and I hope it will be enough to keep you at the Academy for the rest of the course. If it isn't, my father --  -- "

"You are a brave young fellow, Jesse W., but you don't go back for another, I tell you that!"

"You bet he does not!" echoed Percival. "So the water had made its way in, had it? That's the last we will see of the place, then."

"Yes, it had come in somewhere, at the bottom, I guess. Still, it was not coming in all the time nor fast, and I wanted to see the place, and I had promised to fetch a bag of gold to Jack and --  -- "

"And you wanted to keep your word even if you were drowned," sputtered Percival. "Much you could have kept it in that case. You are a young brick, J.W., but don't you do anything like that again."

"Well, I won't, if you say so, Dick," answered the little fellow.

"That's a brave little chap," said the captain. "He said he'd do a thing, and he did it. There's lots who wouldn't."

They returned to the boat, and the captain told Percival to row toward the reefs and as close to the stump of a mast as it was safe to go, as he wanted to observe the wreck again.

Nearing the wreck they noticed that the water was swirling and eddying very violently at a point where they judged the cabin to be, and the captain said, after looking at the boiling waters for a short time:

"The water is making its way in and will run forward as far as its level. She'll break up with all that water in her, and I wouldn't be surprised to see her go any time."

In fact as they lay there watching the boiling waters over the sunken vessel, they saw them become more greatly agitated and Percival pulled away to a safer distance as the agitation increased.

Then of a sudden the stump of a mast sank into the water, there was a still greater agitation and a mass of broken timbers shot up into the air and then fell back, and went floating away on the tide.

"That's about the last of her," said Captain Storms, "or, at any rate, you won't go into the cabin again. You've made your last visit to the wreck, and if any one ever gets that money he'll have to dive for it. You can be thankful that you went there when you did."

"So I am," said Jack. "Come on, Dick, pull away from here."



Chapter X

A Thrilling Encounter


Returning to the yacht first for the captain to get aboard, Jack and Percival then took the boat and went to the outer bay on a little exploring trip of their own, the rest not caring to make any more explorations at that time.

The boys guided the boat along shore not too near the rocks, both keeping watch for any nook which might prove of interest or afford an opportunity for an adventure of any sort.

There was a short, keen-bladed hatchet to cut their way through the thicket if necessary when they went ashore, and Percival had a rifle with which to shoot any game they might come across, both being placed on one of the forward thwarts.

Jack was provided with his pocket flashlight in case they went into dark places, and Dick had a revolver in his pocket, declaring that this might be of as much use as the torch in case they came to close quarters with an enemy, no matter of what sort.

As they were rowing at a lazy rate, keeping up a slow, even stroke, Jack, who was keeping a lookout on the shore and steering at the same time, suddenly said, looking toward a mass of rocks which they had just come abreast:

"There looks to be a sort of cave in there, Dick. At any rate, there is a hole which seems to run in to some little distance. Suppose we explore it and see how far we can go."

"I'm in for anything that you are, Jack," replied Dick.

"All right, pull ahead, not too fast, and we'll have a look at the place."

"Pull ahead it is, Jack."

Jack was in the bow and he now steered the boat toward the opening in the rocks, which was quite big enough for them to enter, and they went on at a slow, steady gait, presently gliding into the water cave, for such it seemed, with plenty of room above and on both sides.

Jack turned his head now and then to see how they were progressing and if there were any obstructions in the way, and presently said:

"A little slower, Dick. It is getting darker in here now and I do not want to run into anything."

"Slower it is, Jack. It would not be any fun to stave a hole in the bottom of the boat. It doesn't belong to us."

"That would be reason enough for not daring, with some persons," said Jack with a low laugh. "They will take care of their own things, but are careless with those belonging to others."

"The woods are full of such, Jack."

Jack rowed with one hand, drawing in his other oar so that it might not strike the rocks in case the passage narrowed, and then got out his pocket flash and shot a strong ray ahead of him.

"Good gracious! what's that?" suddenly exclaimed Percival in accents of terror. "Back water, Jack, for heaven's sake!"

"What is it, Dick?" asked Jack, turning his head and sending the light directly in front of him. "I don't see anything."

"It's gone, Jack, or the light does not strike it now, but it was something awful. It fairly gave me the creeps to look at it."

"But what was it, Dick?" and Jack slowly turned the light this way and that so as to get a sight at the object which had so terrified Percival.

"I don't know. It had two awful eyes and a beak and a lot of legs, or arms, or whatever they were, and a fat body which -- there it is, Jack!"

Jack saw it and shuddered.

"It's a devil fish, an octopus, Dick," he muttered, turning the light now full upon the grisly object squatting on a rock at the farther end of the water cave and glaring balefully at the boys through his blood-red eyes, like some demon of the deep, the very mention of which might send terror to the bravest hearts.

"We'd better get out quick, Jack!" gasped Percival. "If that fellow --  -- "

What he might have said was cut short by a sudden splash in the water which caused the boat to rock violently and dashed the spray in their faces.

Then there was a whip-like sound and Jack felt himself struck by something which quickly wound itself about one arm and a part of his body and swiftly pulled him out of the boat.

He dropped his flashlight, but as he left the boat his free arm swung out and his hand touched something which he seized in an instant.

It was the short hatchet on the thwart and he had seized it by the helve, well up toward the top.

With the swiftness of thought itself he realized what had happened.

The octopus had wound one of its tentacles about his arm and body and, clinging to them with a tenacity which he could not overcome, had pulled him out of the boat.

Percival gave a scream of fright as Jack went overboard, although he was usually a very self-contained young fellow and not apt to give way to hysterical outbreaks.

It was dark in the cave, but he quickly groped for the torch which Jack had dropped, and cried out:

"Where are you, Jack? What has happened?"

Jack went under water and felt himself being drawn toward the end of the water cave where he had seen the octopus squatting on the rock.

His thoughts flew like lightning and, being a resourceful boy, he instantly decided what to do.

He had kept his breath from a natural instinct and now with his free arm he dealt a swinging blow with the little axe in a direction which would not cause him to injure himself but might strike the clinging tentacle.

His one hope was that another of the flying arms might not reach him and secure his other arm, which fortunately was his right.

He suddenly felt a resistance and realized that he had struck something and hoped that it might be the tentacle of the octopus.

In another moment he felt the pressure on his arm and body relax and then realized that something had fallen from them.

He struck out vigorously with both arms, the pressure upon his lungs from having held his breath so long beginning to be unbearable.

Then he felt his right arm seized, the suckers on the tentacle pressing strong upon his muscles and seeming to draw the blood even under his clothing, and he knew that the baleful creature had again gotten a hold upon him.

He was able to clutch the hatchet in his left hand as the power gave out in his right, and at that moment he arose to the surface and drew a succession of deep breaths before another of those terrible arms seized him by the leg and drew him again under water.

In another instant, as he struck wildly at the eldritch creature that held him and felt the tension on his arm relax, everything became suddenly black.

The octopus had resorted to one of its natural tricks and had ejected a dense black fluid into the water which made it impossible for him to see anything.

The creature was drawing him toward some hole in the cave, probably under water, and he realized most poignantly that something must be done shortly or he would be sacrificed to the pitiless water devil.

He felt himself rising and in a moment, when he most needed it, was able to get his breath.

The devil fish, even with the loss of two of its arms, was still powerful enough to make all his efforts futile, and he felt himself being drawn into some recess beyond where he had first seen the octopus squatting on the rock and glaring at them with its horrible eyes.

Percival, having found Jack's electric torch and searching the cave below and above water for a sign of his friend, suddenly saw the devil fish rise to the ledge where he had first seen it.

Jack was now caught in two of its remaining arms and was being drawn toward some deep recess whence there would be no rescuing him.

Transferring the light to his left hand, Percival whipped out the revolver from his hip pocket with his right and took rapid aim.

"I'm afraid it will be like trying to pierce an elephant's hide," he muttered, "but I'm going to try it for all that."

Luckily he caught sight of the creature's eyes at the moment and took aim straight for one of them.

Jack was being drawn toward the horrible beak and the sight nearly unnerved Dick.

Fortunately he had aimed and pressed the trigger before he saw this ghastly sight.

He fired three or four shots in quick succession and then heard the sound of a plunge in the water.

Jamming his torch into the clutch of one of the tholepins, he seized the rifle and shot a quick glance ahead of him.

Jack was not to be seen, but he did see the octopus writhing and waving its frightful arms on the ledge.

"Where are you, Jack?" he shouted.

"All right!" cried Jack himself, rising just alongside the boat and holding on to the gunwale with one hand.

"I'll finish that demon before he can do any more mischief!" hissed Dick.

It was Jack falling into the water that had caused the plunge he had heard and not the return of the octopus to its element.

Now, taking quick but careful aim, Percival fired half a dozen shots from the repeating rifle he had seized and with deadly effect.

The revolver shots had wounded the octopus, but not fatally, and he might at any moment plunge into the water and seize Jack.

The heavier caliber weapon did the work.

As Jack climbed into the boat there was a great plunge into the water which caused the light craft to rock again and the spray to fly.

"That settles him!" gasped Percival, and then he dropped his weapon and drew Jack into the boat, where he promptly sank limp and helpless under the thwarts, all his strength having seemingly left him.

"All right, Jack?" asked Percival.

"Yes, but get away," answered Jack feebly.

Percival was not slow to obey the injunction.

Seizing the oars, he quickly backed water and then turned the head of the boat toward the entrance of the cave, whence he shortly saw the light streaming in as he pulled a quick, powerful stroke.

"I'm glad that's over!" he said with a sigh of deep relief as he neared the opening. "No more exploring queer places like this again!"

When he was outside the cave he rested on his oars and said:

"You are all right again, Jack?"

"Yes," said Jack, getting up and seating himself on a thwart, "but I don't want another such an experience. I feel as if all the blood had been drawn out of me by that horrible thing in there."

Out in the bright sunlight, away from the gruesome cave and its dreadful tenant, Jack seemed to recover his spirits quickly, however, and he presently took one of the oars and then another, and said:

"It's all right, Dick. We are away from the horrible thing and I thank heaven I am still alive to tell of it. Let us go somewhere else."

"Right you are, I will," echoed Percival heartily. "If I had had any idea that there was such a thing in that place you could not have hired me to go into it or to have let you ventured there. I am glad enough that I was around to be of assistance."

"So am I, Dick, but suppose we say no more about it. I hate to even think of the horrible object and I only hope that I will not dream of it these nights."

Then the boys rowed swiftly away from the place where they had had such a thrilling encounter and never once looked back at it.



Chapter XI

The Voices In The Woods


After the boys had gone some little distance from the water cave they pulled at a more easy stroke and began to talk again, their thrilling experience with the devil fish having made them silent for a time.

They did not allude to it again, but talked of other matters, Percival saying as they neared a green, shady wood where the trees grew thick and cast a deep shade on the white sands and showed a more than twilight darkness in their farther recesses, everything being quiet and peaceful within those heavy shadows:

"That's a place where everything seems to be asleep even at midday, Jack. It looks like the cave of the seven sleepers that we used to read about in mythology."

"It seems quiet enough for a fact," said Jack with a smile, "but it is hot outside and the birds are probably all taking a rest. Probably just before dawn or at sunset you would hear them making noise enough."

"It is a thick wood all right, just the place to get lost in. If the African jungle is any worse than this I don't care to enter it."

"The trouble is you can't see far ahead and then there are briars and brambles and a lot of spiky plants, prickly pears and Spanish bayonets and cactus to run against and get scratched and cut with. Our own woods are good enough for me, or bad enough, I might say."

"I wonder if we could find anything if we did go in there?" said Percival musingly as they rowed along shore, fascinated by the bright glare of the sands, the dense green of the woods and the dear blue of the skies. "We might have a try at it, Jack."

"Yes, I suppose we might if we did not go too --  -- " And then Jack suddenly paused and a look of alarm came across his face.

A harsh voice from the wood suddenly interrupted him and he glanced here and there to see whence it came.

The words he heard were in Spanish, as far as he could judge, but he could see no one.

Other voices quickly joined the first and the boys rowed out somewhat from shore and looked closely at the woods, expecting to see some one.

"There are people on the island after all, Jack."

"Yes, Spaniards, I think. Sailors, I guess. At any rate they are not using the choicest language from what little I know of the language; Jack. I do not see any one. Do you?"

There were loud and angry voices in the woods, but the boys could see no one and went on slowly, farther out from shore so as to be out of danger in case any one appeared.

"A lot of drunken sailors would not be good company," declared Jack. "I would rather be alone."

"It can't be any one from the yacht, can it?"

"No, I don't think so. We have no Spaniards and Captain Storms brings his men up better than that. Besides, if it were some of our men we would see a boat, and there is nothing."

They still heard the voices at intervals as they rowed on and had no desire to enter the woods as long as the men were there.

"That's a nuisance," said Percival with a half-growl as they rowed on. "I would have liked to go ashore there, but of course if there are a lot of swearing Spaniards hanging about it wouldn't do."

"I'd like to know what brought them here," remarked Jack. "We got in by the sheerest good luck and it does not seem possible that another vessel could have done the same. Those things don't happen twice."

"Well, they are here, at all events, and it stops our going ashore. I'd like to know if they saw us in the boat?"

"I don't suppose so. They did not show themselves and they would not have made so much noise if they had --  -- "

Just then the voices were heard again and the boys stopped rowing.

"There they are again!" muttered Percival. "We may have trouble, Jack."

The voices were very loud and the language used was not of the choicest, although, being in Spanish, it was not as offensive as it would have been in English, the boys not understanding much of what was said.

"Are they quarreling, do you suppose?" asked Percival.

"No, I don't think so," and Jack suddenly laughed.

"What are you laughing at?" asked Percival, somewhat impatiently.

"Listen a minute, Dick," said Jack.

The voices had ceased, but presently they were heard again, closer than before, and then a big, gorgeously feathered parrot flew out of a clump of trees not ten feet from shore.

"There are your quarrelsome Spaniards, Dick," laughed Jack, as another parrot joined the first.

"Well, I declare!" laughed Dick. "Are you sure, Jack?"

"Yes. The first time I heard them I was deceived, but just now I fancied there was something queer about those voices and I decided that there were parrots in the woods."

"Yes, but Jack, Spanish is not the natural language of parrots and they must have heard it from men. That proves that there are men on the island."

"Or that there have been, at any rate, but we don't know that there are any here at present."

"Well, as long as we know that there is nothing more dangerous than a lot of parrots, suppose we go ashore and look about a bit."

They found a good landing place where there was a shelving beach extending for some distance in either direction, and a clump of trees close to the water, where they tied the warp of the boat to keep it from floating away.

They saw more of the parrots, but not all of them imitated the human talk, chattering and making harsh sounds after their own fashion and making the glades bright with their gorgeous plumage.

Both boys laughed at the recollection of their first fright when they heard the birds and thought that there were men on the island, and then, taking their bearings, set out to explore the island for a short distance.

As Jack had a good idea of direction, they were not likely to get lost, although in the jungle they were often in a twilight shade and could not see the sun, which might have told them which way they were going.

"It gave me something of a start when I thought there were other people on the island besides ourselves," remarked Percival as they went on through a semi-darkness, the vegetation being thick above and around them so that they could see nothing of the sky. "It's pretty dark here."

"Yes," agreed Jack, turning on his pocket flash. "Hello!"

"What's the matter?" asked Percival, Jack's tone being one of alarm.

A shot rang out, and then Jack jumped back, exclaiming:

"I guess I've settled him, Dick!"

"What have you settled, Jack?"

"That fellow there," and Jack turned the light upon something at his feet and then pushed it aside.

"A snake!" exclaimed Percival. "You blew his head off. Is he very dangerous, Jack?"

"Well, not now," said the other with a dry laugh.

"No, I should say not. Would he have been?"

"He belongs to the family of dangerous snakes, one of the most dangerous, in fact. He is either a fer de lance or a first cousin to it, and either is a sort of creature to keep away from. The bite is nearly always fatal, as the virus acts so rapidly upon the system. It was lucky I turned on the light when I did. These creatures inhabit the dark places and are always ready for an unwary traveler."

"H'm! I think we had better keep in the light, Jack. We go into a dark water cave and run across a devil fish. Then we go into the dark woods and meet with this poison gentleman. Let's go back to the light!"

"I think we had better," returned Jack. "We are strangers here and the residents seem to resent our coming. I am sure I'll be glad enough to leave the place for good."

It did not seem to be such an easy matter, however, for difficulties beset them on every side as soon as they started to leave the jungle, as though there were some malign influence in those gloomy shades which was endeavoring to hold them captive.

There were morasses which they had to avoid, there were bramble thickets which barred their way, and Percival questioned whether Jack was going in the right direction and asked him to try another.

"We are going toward the shore, Dick," said Jack, "and if we keep on you will see that I am right."

"I don't doubt that we were going that way in the beginning, Jack, but we were thrown out of our path by the brambles and again by the swamp, not to mention the snake, and I don't believe we are going that way now. Don't the trees give you any idea?"

"Yes, and I am sure we are going toward the water. If we had a bit of daylight I could convince you, but it is as dark as a pocket here. I never saw trees grow so thick."

Jack had his way, for Percival had confidence in him and at length the boy paused and said:

"Listen, Dick! There are the parrots again. They won't talk if it is dark and all we have to do is to follow the sound and we will shortly come out into the light."

"I guess you're right," laughed the other. "I know we always used to cover our bird with a dark cloth when it got to chattering too much, and it stopped in an instant. But I don't hear them."

"Listen!" said Jack, pressing forward by the light of his pocket torch.

"I hear them now," said Percival. "They are using as bad language as ever. Those are educated parrots, although their education has not been of the best."

In a short time they heard the parrots much plainer than before and then it grew lighter and still lighter till at length they were able to see the sky overhead through the branches and finally the sun itself, by which time they were right among the parrots, who were making a tremendous chattering.

"Well, we are obliged to you at any rate, even if you are a noisy lot," laughed Percival. "You frightened us first and then you showed us the way to the light. Still, are we in the right direction, Jack?"

"Certainly," and pushing on, Jack led the way into more open ground and in a short time they came in sight of the inner bay where the vessel lay at anchor.

"We are not so far out of our way, Dick," said Jack. "The boat lies just on the other side of that clump of trees and we can reach it in a few minutes."

He proved to be correct and, getting in, the boys rowed back to the yacht, where they amused and interested a party of their companions by telling of their adventures.

"Well, it is certainly not safe to go far away from the vessel," declared Billy Manners, "and I think if I do I will be sure to take Jack along as a guide."

"Not very complimentary to me," said Percival dryly.

"Oh, you want your own way too much."

"H'm! if I had had it we would have been lost yet, so I guess you are out there, William."

"Well, that only proves what I said in the first place," said Billy with a chuckle.



Chapter XII

Adventures In The Woods


One day not so long afterwards the boys returned to shore, but at a different place than they had been before, and set out on a walk through the woods toward the hill, which they had never managed to get to before, although they had tried it more than once.

They took the axe along, not knowing but they might want it, and set out in high spirits.

Hearing voices ahead of them they pushed on, and soon came across the old sailor, Ben Bowline, and the acting head cook, Bucephalus, discussing some knotty point.

"Ah tell yo' dis am not de way," said the negro in a very positive tone, "an' any one what has any perspicuity in his haid will tell yo' so."

"I don't know what that 'ere is, and I don't believe I ever had any, but it ain't the right road 'cordin' to the course," returned the sailor. "We sot out nothe-nothe-east, and this here course is due nothe, which ain't at all proper."

"Which way yo' wan' to go, Sailorman?" asked Buck.

"This here way, of course," said Ben, pointing.

"Huh! an' there ain't no path there, nothin' but briahs an' big rocks an' swamp. How yo' goin' to get through there? This here way is the right way, because it am plain to be seen that it am a thoroughfare, and has been promenaded by pedestrians before now."

"I don't care what has happened to it, and it may be a good road all the same, but it ain't the course we sot out on, and so it's the wrong one to take, and I ain't going to take it."

At this point Jack, Dick and Jesse W. came along, being much amused at the arguments offered by the disputants.

"How are you heading, Ben?" asked Jack in the soberest fashion.

"Nothe-nothe-east, sir," said the old seaman, saluting.

"Change your course to north."

"Aye-aye, sir, north it is," said Ben.

"And follow in our wake in case you are needed."

"Aye-aye, sir, follow in your wake it is, yes, sir."

"You could not have persuaded that grizzled old tar that there was any course but the one he started on, no matter what the difficulties of his course were, but give him a new one, and he will take it without the least question. That's the sailor of it."

"And they would have stood there arguing till the cows came home," said Dick. "You settled it in a moment."

"And if we need them they are there."

They kept on, now in the open and now in deep shade, having occasionally to cut their way, pushing on toward the hill, which Jack had determined to get to the top of, and now and then seeing it when they reached higher and more open ground.

They reached the top at length, and had a fine view of the island and of the sea, but could not see any other islands in the distance.

"We are on a lost island and no mistake," said Percival. "There is not another one in sight. I wish I could make out a passage through the reefs, but there does not seem to be any."

"We may find one unexpectedly," said Jack. "That often happens. You hunt and hunt for a thing and don't find it, and then you give up hunting and the first thing you know you find what you have been looking for without looking for it."

"That sounds like a contradiction," laughed Percival, "but I know what you mean."

Leaving the hill after getting a good view of the surrounding sea and the island, the boys took a course which would lead them to the part of the reefs, which they had not before visited.

They were pushing on leisurely when they suddenly stopped and listened, having heard what seemed to be a cry for help.

"Somebody is in trouble," said Jack. "Where is it, straight ahead?"

"It sounds like it, and that sounds like the voice of Billy Manners."

"Maybe he is joking," said young Smith. "He always is."

Just now came a lusty cry for help in so serious and agonized a tone that Jack said with a smile:

"Billy is not joking now, that is certain. He is in real trouble. Come on and let us see what it is."

They pushed on rapidly, the call being presently repeated, and at the same time they heard a bellowing sound, which they could not make out.

"Come on!" cried Percival. "Billy is in trouble, and that sounds like the bellow of a wild beast."

"I should say it was a calf," remarked Jesse W., "if you were to ask me about it, but what a calf is doing here --  -- "

He hurried on to keep up with Jack and Dick, Buck and Ben following quickly, having evidently heard the noises.

Coming in a short time into an open space the boys paused and then began to laugh heartily, something they would certainly not have done if Billy had been in danger.

There, in the crotch of a little tree about six feet from the ground, was Billy Manners, while at the foot of the tree was a calf a few months' old bellowing lustily and evidently calling for food.

"I told you it was a calf!" laughed young Smith.

"Help!" roared Billy, seeing the boys. "Here is a wild bull, and I am treed. Shoot him, boys, drive him away, anything!"

Instead of doing anything the boys only stood there and laughed, and when Bucephalus and Ben Bowline came up in great haste they did the same, all joining in a full-voiced laughing chorus.

"Why don't you help a fellow?" wailed Billy. "There you all are, laughing to beat the band, and I can't get down on account of this wild bull at the foot of the tree."

"Wild bull nothing!" exclaimed Percival. "It is a three months' old calf, and you're another, only you are a bit older than that. Can't you tell a calf when you see one, or have you been brought up in the city where they don't have them except in the way of veal cutlets?"

"That a calf?" asked Billy in disgust. "I thought it was a wild bull. He makes noise enough."

"Probably calling for its mother," laughed young Smith. "I said it was a calf right along."

"Shoo!" said Buck, advancing on the terrible wild bull, which had so frightened Billy. "Get o't o' dat or Ah cut yo' up fo' de young ge'men's dinnah. Shoo!"

The calf let out a tremendous bellow, and scampered off into the woods, whereat the boys laughed harder than ever till the tears fairly ran down their cheeks.

"That's a good one on Billy who is all the time getting off jokes on other folks," said Percival. "That is too good to keep."

"Dick Percival," said Billy, laughing in spite of himself, "if you say a word about it I'll cut you dead."

"I can't help it," chuckled Dick; "it's too good to keep, and I won't keep it, no matter what are the consequences. Think of a boy who has spent the biggest part of his life in the country not knowing the difference between a little three months' old heifer calf and a wild bull. Billy, my boy, you have neglected your opportunities."

Billy got down from the tree, and all hands laughed again, but Jack said thoughtfully:

"That was not a wild calf, and the question naturally arises, what is a domesticated calf doing on a supposedly uninhabited island? If there is a calf there must be a cow and if a cow, then people who own and take care of her. There must be people on the island after all, although we have never seen them."

"We have not been all over the island," said Percival, "and it is likely that in the very parts where we have not been we shall find the people who own the calf."

"They are probably negroes or halfbreeds," added Jack, "and seldom visit the shore. Suppose we keep on. We may find a village, or, at any rate, one or two houses occupied by them. Come on, Billy, you are safer with us in case we come across another wild bull."

"Get out!" said Billy, half laughing, half in disgust. "How much will you take to keep quiet on that subject?"

"I could not think of making a bargain, Billy," chuckled Jack, "and then I am afraid it would cost you too much. Remember, there are myself and Dick, Jesse W. Smith, Bucephalus Johnson and Ben Bowline to be bought off, and the prices might go up."

"All right," muttered Billy with a wry face, "but don't rub it in too much, that's all."

"All right, I won't, but remember when you feel like playing jokes on the boys that I may say something about it."

"All right, but I say, what about it, that calf is not wild?"

"Not a bit of it, she is just as tame as any barn-yard calf along the Hudson valley. Calves are the same the world over."

"And Billy was one not to know it," said Percival with a grin. "Remember, William, you have not bought me off yet. I have made no promises, and neither has Jesse W. Smith."

"Oh, I don't care anything about it," said the smaller boy. "I won't say anything about it no matter how much Billy jokes, I am interested in the other matter. If there are tame calves here there must be more or less civilized people living on the island."

"Well, we have made two or three very good discoveries on our island," observed Percival. "We have found treasure, and we have found calves, and probably inhabitants."

"And the next thing is to find a way through the reefs," said Jack.

"If we found the others why should we not find that?" asked Percival. "We did not expect to find anything, and we have found a lot."

"But we won't find our way home," said Billy, "if we don't start pretty soon, for it will be dark in a little while."

"The funny fellow grows serious once in a while," chuckled Dick, "but I think he is right for all that."

"I think we had better be going myself," said Jack. "Ben Bowline?"

"Sir to you, sir," said the seaman.

"Steer south, and go on a free wind at four miles."

"Aye-aye, sir!" said Ben, and they all set out for home, as they called the yacht.

"Talkin' about calves," said Ben Bowline as they were walking on in a body through the woods, "there was another adventure of mine which --  -- "

"You're a liar!" suddenly interrupted a strident voice speaking in Spanish and then some bad language in the same tongue followed.

"Mah goodness, dat am fightin' talk!" exclaimed Bucephalus. "Ah wouldn' stan' dat, Sailorman."

"Jus' wait till I get my mudhooks onto him," growled Ben, "an' I'll let Trim know whether I'll stan' it or not."

"There are people on the island besides ourselves," muttered young Smith, getting close to Jack and Dick. "Maybe they own the calf."

"If you tell them anything about me," sputtered Billy, "I won't speak to you again in a week."

Then there was more talk in Spanish and Bucephalus put his hands over his ears and whistled.

"Mah wo'd! Ah done hear disreputable language in mah days, but nothin' to compaiah with that!" he declared emphatically. "It ain't respectable. Ef Ah meet de fellah wha' talk lak dat Ah's gwan to tell him wha' Ah done thought ob him."

There was still more of the talk, and Ben Bowline doubled his fists and said angrily:

"It's as bad to be told you're a liar in Spanish as it is in English or French or Dutch or any other lingo, an' I'm not goin' to take it from nobody. Just wait till I get hold --  -- "

Dick and Jack were both laughing heartily now, much to young Smith's amazement, Billy's surprise and the disgust of Ben Bowline, Bucephalus looking on and wondering what had come over his "young gentlemen" as he was accustomed to call them.

"What are you two fellows laughing at?" asked Billy.

"I don't see anything funny in it!" sputtered Ben.

"I think it's awful!" murmured Jesse W.

"Why, those are not men talking," laughed Dick.

"They aren't!" exclaimed Billy.

"Mebby dat am all imagination, sah!" added Bucephalus.

"What is it if it isn't men!" asked Ben.

"Parrots!" laughed Jack. "Don't you remember, you fellows, what we told you happened to us the other day when we were ashore together, Dick and I?"

"H'm! and I forgot all about it," chuckled Billy.

"Oh, that's different!" said J.W., greatly relieved.

"Parrots?" asked Ben. "Poll parrots? Well, I'll be keelhauled!"

"Mah we 'd! Ah knowed parrots could talk an' use de mos' obstreperous vocabulary at dat," declared the negro cook, "but Ah done suspected dat dey was men, fo' shuah Ah did."

The parrots, for such indeed they were, as all the party now realized, continued to talk and scream and chatter, and in a short time the boys and their companions caught sight of a number of them as they came out into a more open bit of woods.

"We were a bit alarmed ourselves, as you may remember," said Jack, "when we first heard them, and it was some little time before we realized that they were not men."

"They have caught the talk of men who have been to the island," added Percival, "and probably that of men who are here now. That calf is a tame creature and is probably owned by some one now on the island. The parrots may have heard them."

"If that is the sort of talk they heard, the birds were not in very good company," remarked Billy, "and it is just as well that we did not meet them this time. In fact, I hope we won't."

"Well, I'm glad it was only Poll parrots!" grunted Ben, "for I was ready for a fight."

"I'm glad myself," echoed Jesse W., greatly relieved, "for I don't want to get into a fight at all."

"That accounts for the milk in the cocoanut," laughed Billy. "I wondered what you two fellows were laughing at. If it had been Dick alone I would not have thought so much of it, but Jack has more sense."

"Thank you," said Dick dryly. "I know a tame calf from a wild bull, however, if I haven't much sense."

"Come ahead, boys," said Jack. "We must get back to the yacht. If there are other men on the island besides ourselves we do not want to meet them just now. They are not a desirable lot, most likely."

The entire party then pushed on, and in a short time reached the shore, got their boat and returned to the yacht.



Chapter XIII

A Strange Light At Sea


The captain and Dr. Wise were very much interested in the report that the boys brought back from their walk through the woods, and to the top of the hill in the interior of the island.

"If there are people here they know how to get out through the reefs," observed the principal, "for they must have come here once, and no doubt are in communication with the people outside."

"They may have lived here all their lives," returned the captain. "I never saw any one on these islands, natives, I mean, that knew very much. We can't tell how long they have lived here, they and their ancestors, of course, and these fellows probably don't know when they came, and don't suppose there is any other place in the world."

"H'm! that does not speak for a very high state of intelligence," remarked the doctor with a grunt.

"You won't find it in these natives nor even in the half breeds, sir," the captain returned. "The rating is pretty low. It'll be interesting to see these people, but I don't think that you will find them very intelligent. You'd better not expect too much."

The next day there was nothing to be seen of the wreck, and when Jack and Percival went to the wooded point to look for the place where they had descended when they first found it, there was nothing but a great hole into which the sea poured, and made a great disturbance at every tide.

"That's the last of that," said Jack. "No one would believe us if we told them we had gone down there and found a vessel fast in the rocks."

"But we know we did, for we have the evidences of it, and you are at least a couple of thousand dollars richer by it. That will help you a lot in getting your education, my boy, and give your mother something as well."

"Yes, and she is the first one to be considered," said Jack.

There had been no answers as yet to the captain's wireless messages, and that day he sent out another one, this time to the owners of the vessel in New York, addressing Mr. Smith in particular, thereby hoping to receive attention.

Meantime, the boys went on with recitations, wrote descriptions of the different parts of the island they had seen, took excursions on the bay and through the woods, and got up little entertainments to pass away the evenings so that altogether they were kept quite busy, and, as a consequence, were very well content with their situation, although it was not just what they had expected when they left home.

The day after sending out the personal message to Mr. Smith the captain of the yacht picked up a message which, although not addressed to him, was the first he had been able to pick up, and was of some interest on that account if on no other.

The message was to some government official in Florida, and related to a certain smuggler who had been defrauding the government by sending shipments of tobacco without paying the duty thereon.

"Are on track of Rollins and smuggler crew. Sighted them near Isle of Pines. Will keep on watch there and in Caribbean."

Such was the message and the captain, although not especially interested in Rollins, whoever he might be, was glad to get any information from the outside world which seemed so far away, although almost at their very doors.

He sent a wireless to the sender of the message, and asked if information of their situation could be sent to the government, and help despatched to them, hoping by this means to receive some recognition at last.

"If I get other folks' messages some one will probably get mine," said the captain, "and by communicating with these people I may finally get attention. Rollins? Don't remember to have heard of him. There's probably a gang of them working between our border, Cuba and the South American ports. Whistling cyclones! they might be working among some of these little islands. A man who would defraud his government is no better than a pirate and pirates used to hang around these waters a lot. It isn't such an unlikely thing that these new pirates should do it now."

The next day quite unexpectedly the captain got a call and at once sent for the doctor and said:

"I've had word at last. From our owners. From Mr. Smith himself. He has just heard from us, and is going to send out a vessel to get us away from here. It seems that one of our smaller vessels, a steamer, has been captured by some smugglers working around Cuba, Porto Rico and the neighborhood, who are using it in their trade. Some of the men got away, and took the news to Havana. The name of the vessel is a good deal like our own, and Smith thought that we had been taken at first, and began a lot of investigating. Then he got our messages, which had been held up by some one else, thinking they were fakes, or some boys' play. These young wireless operators make a lot of trouble now and then."

"Well, as long as we know that help is being sent to us we can feel relieved," said the doctor. "That is something, at any rate, but --  -- "

"But you don't think that it will do any good, Doctor?"

"Well, if you cannot get out how is any one else going to get in?" the doctor asked, as if merely seeking for information, and not being especially interested in the matter.

"There's something in that, sir," replied Captain Storms musingly, "but we'll see how it turns out when they get here. At any rate we are not forgotten altogether, and that is something."

The boys were told about the message, and were greatly interested, Jesse W. saying to Jack:

"Now I'll have a chance to speak to father about you, Jack, and to tell him what you have done for me. He has always been interested in you, and now he will be all the more so."

"Never mind doing too much for me, J.W., or you will spoil me altogether," laughed Jack, who, nevertheless, felt grateful to the younger boy for his interest. "We Hilltop boys should help each other, and so I don't deserve any extra credit for simply doing what is expected of me. It is only the big brother idea which is gaining ground every day, and is a good thing both for the little brothers and the big ones."

That night as Jack Sheldon lay asleep in his berth in the cabin set off for the Hilltop boys, he was suddenly awakened by a bright light flashing in his face, there being a porthole opposite.

"That's odd!" he murmured, as he sat up and looked around. "Where does that light come from? Or did I only imagine it?"

At that moment the light flashed in his face again, and he got out of his berth and went over to the porthole, looking out to see where the light could have come from, there being only water on that side.

The yacht had changed her position, and was now in sight of the outer bay, and having changed the direction of her head on account of the tide, the boy could now look out upon the bay, which he had not been able to do at the time he went to bed.

He saw the flash again, and in a moment realized that some one out there, probably beyond the reefs, was using a regular code of signals, a thing he had himself done with his pocket electric light.

Having had this experience he was familiar with the code, and at once began to read the message sent by those outside, whoever they might be.

"That cannot be the steamer Mr. Smith has sent," he mused. "No, of course not. 'Where are you? Am dodging government vessel.' Why, that must be one of the smugglers that the captain told us about. But where is the man he is signaling? I wish I could tell that."

The signals ceased, but presently the lights flashed again, and Jack read the message:

"Why don't you answer? Am waiting."

"My word! I believe the fellow takes our lights for the smuggler's, and thinks that he is in here. It would be just the place for him. By Jove! I have a mind to answer him myself, and get him in here. Then we could get out. Even if a smuggler takes us out that is better than waiting."

His pocket flash was in a convenient place, and he quickly got it out and flashed out through the port:

"In the bay. Come inside."

After sending this message he waited a few minutes, and then saw the reply being flashed to him:

"Cannot. Don't know the passage. Come out"

"H'm! that's too bad," muttered Jack. "I was in hope I could get him in here. I'd like to know -- I guess I'd better see the captain."

Partly dressing himself he hurried on deck, and looked for the light, but could see nothing.

An anchor watch was kept, or supposed to be at least, but Jack saw the man on deck fast asleep on a bench against the house on deck instead of keeping a lookout as he was supposed to do.

He could not see any vessel's light out at sea, and saw no more flashes, although he looked for them for several minutes.

"Well, I can't go to waking the captain in the middle of the night," he said, "and it is likely this fellow has gone. It is simply another disappointment. I think I'll go to bed."



Chapter XIV

The Man With The White Mustache


In the morning Jack told the captain, Dr. Wise, and a few of his most intimate friends among the boys under the promise of keeping it quiet, the strange event of the previous night, asking the doctor if he had done right in not calling the captain.

"If you had aroused me I would probably have been mad," chuckled the captain, "and could not have done anything anyhow. It is clear that there is a way in here, although we don't know it, and that this fellow you saw signaling mistook our lights for those of one of his evil associates. I'd like to watch him, but there is no use in crying over spilled milk, and you did all right in not calling me."

"It is all very singular," said the doctor, knitting his brows. "Of course we would like to get out of here, but as to seeking the assistance of a smuggler --  -- "

"I'd as soon go out under his escort as that of any one else," laughed Storms, "although we might get in trouble afterward if a government vessel happened to see us in company with smugglers. Well, I guess it won't be long now before the relief steamer comes, but --  -- "

"But they may not know the way in, and we are as badly off as before," finished the doctor. "I don't see that we have advanced any, except, perhaps, to let people know where we are."

"And you think there is little satisfaction in that?" with a grin. "We might be worse off, however, so I guess we had better wait and trust to good luck. Clever game, that of Jack's, wasn't it, stealing the fellow's despatches?"

"Why, yes, clever in a way," admitted the doctor, glaring at the captain through his big black-rimmed glasses, "but does it not savor somewhat of -- h'm -- of deception? Pretending to be one person when he was another, and quite a different one, by the way?"

"But he did not pretend to be anybody. He simply flashed a message, and if that fellow outside took him for another person it was not Mr. Sheldon's fault. All is fair in love and war, you know."

"H'm! so I have heard, but as I have been in neither I cannot say whether it is so or not. However, I am not accusing you, Sheldon, you understand? I suppose, under the circumstances, that what you did was perfectly justifiable. At any rate, we shall not have to wait for this person to come and take us out. But where was the person to whom he was sending signals? You did not see him, Captain?"

"No, indeed, and I wonder that my man on deck did not see them. Asleep, I'll warrant. That means loss of shore liberty to him for some time. The other fellow was not here, of course. How could he get in?"

"I believe there is a way, sir," spoke up Jack, "and that this place is used as a retreat for smugglers. If not just here, then some part of the island. How about the calf we saw? I thought at the time that there were people here, but did not think of smugglers."

"Why, I guess you've been reading about Captain Kidd and Blackbeard and those old pirates, and have got your head full of secret lairs and all that sort of stuff."

"Oh, no," smiled Jack in reply, "but evil men hide in woods and mountains and all sorts of odd places as much now as they did in the old days. There is just as much of this in modern times as there was in the old, but it is accompanied with greater danger."

"Yes, I reckon it is. At any rate, I'd like to get hold of these rascals. There'll be a pretty big reward for them, I fancy."

The boys left the cabin and during the afternoon Jack, Dick and young Smith set out for a stroll over the island, taking one of the paths already made, so as not to subject the younger boy to too much trouble.

"I hardly think these smugglers are on the island," said Jack, as they walked on, "or, at least, I don't think that they got in through the reefs. They could have landed on the other side, although there are many difficulties connected with it, not to say dangers. You remember the rocks, Dick? And there is a good deal of surf there also. One would need to be careful in making it. A vessel could lie to, of course, while boats landed the men, and that has probably been done."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Percival carelessly, thinking of other things at the moment, and not paying much attention.

The boys walked on without paying much attention to where they were going, young Smith being greatly pleased at being with the older boys, but at length Jack stopped, looked around him, and said with the least bit of alarm in his tone:

"H'm! I believe we are where Billy was treed by the calf the other day or pretty near it, at any rate. We thought there might be people in the neighborhood, but we did not see them."

"I suppose it might be as well to go back," said Percival. "It would not be pleasant to run across a lot of half-civilized natives to say nothing of smugglers."

"No, it would not," and at that instant there was a rustling in the bushes not far away, and two men stepped out, the singular appearance of one of them causing Jack to turn suddenly pale.

This man was of good height and build and evidently quite strong, and was, besides, a person of superior intellect if not of the best tendencies, as his face indicated, but what attracted most attention was the fact that while his mustache was snowy white his hair and eyebrows were quite dark, this making him noticeable in a moment.

"You here, George --  -- "

"Rollins," said the other, evidently thinking that Jack was about to pronounce another name, which was the fact. "Yes, I am here. It is safer than back in New York state or any of the states, in fact. May I ask what you are doing in this part of the world! I am as much surprised to see you here as you are to see me," and the man made a sudden quick signal with his left hand.

Jack heard a rustle behind him, and turned quickly, but not soon enough to escape the quick rush of three big, strong, bearded men who sprang upon him and his companions and held them fast.

"What does this mean, George -- Rollins?" asked Jack, hesitating at pronouncing the name, "Who are these men!"

"Friends of mine," laughed the man with the white mustache. "Business partners I might say."

"The majority of your business partners get in jail or are shot by the police, Mr. Rollins," said Jack. "Are these the same sort? What business are you in now?" and then a look of intelligence shot across the boy's face, as he remembered that Rollins was the name of the smuggler he had but recently heard mentioned.

The other saw this look, and said with an evil glance:

"I think you have heard the name before. What are you doing here? You are in the government service, you and your boy friends? What is this uniform you wear?"

"That of the students of the Hilltop Academy. You knew that I was one of them, for on the occasion of our last meeting --  -- "

"I say, Jack," said Percival suddenly, "this is the man who was concerned in the robbery of the Riverton Bank, your --  -- " and the boy suddenly paused, a deep flush on his face.

"His father, you were going to say," laughed the other, an evil look crossing his countenance. "Yes, you are quite right, I am --  -- "

"You are not!" cried Jack hotly. "You married my mother a year or so after my own father's death, and made her life miserable, but that does not make you my father, and you well know that I have never admitted your claim. No court would admit it. Courts? You take good care to keep away from all of them, Mr. Rollins, as you choose to call yourself."

"Take them away," said the man with the white mustache. "Let no harm come to them. I don't understand why they are on the island, but it would be awkward if any of their friends should know of our presence here. Don't let them get away, but don't hurt them."

The men were much stronger than the boys, and Jack saw the futility of a struggle during which the younger boy might be hurt, and he, therefore, submitted to being led away, hoping to escape at some later time.

The boys were led some little distance to a little opening where they saw a number of small crudely built houses, several dark-skinned men, who were neither Indians nor negroes, but perhaps a combination of both, and a number of domesticated animals, calves, pigs, a sheep and several fowls.

There were people on the island, therefore, as they had supposed, and these men visited the place on occasion as in the present instance.

There was a strongly built house somewhat larger than the rest on one side of the little village, and here the three boys were taken and locked in a small square room with one window, this being small and protected with an iron bar, evidently to make it safer, Jack noticing several cases in one corner opposite the window.

"Make yourselves comfortable, young gentlemen," laughed Rollins, as he called himself. "You will be set free, but not at present," and with that he went away, and the door was stoutly locked.



Chapter XV

Jesse W. Is Sent For Help


All was quiet in a few minutes after the man with the white mustache had left the boys in the room with the barred windows, and presently Percival said, half apologetically, but with the greatest kindness:

"You know I did not mean to call that man any relation of yours, Jack, but the sudden recollection of the last time you met him when I did not see him at all made me blurt out suddenly. I did stop, though."

Jack had come unexpectedly upon his stepfather during his first term at the Academy, several months previous, the man at that time being concerned in the robbery of a bank near the Academy, but escaping capture and suddenly disappearing, Jack had hoped, forever.

He felt nervous and discouraged now that the man had again come into his life, and he sat in a corner of the room on a chest and thought deeply, Percival presently saying to him in cheery tones:

"Brace up, Jack. It is not like you to give way to despondency. What are we going to do? We can't stay here even if that fellow with the white mustache has given orders that we are not to be harmed."

"I tell you what," whispered young Smith. "That window is small, but not too small to put me through. You have done that before, you know. If you can get that bar loose it will be easy enough to put me out, and then I will go straight to the vessel and get the captain, old Ben Bowline, and a lot of sailors to come and get you out."

"You know the way, do you, Jesse W., you won't get lost!" asked Percival, catching at the idea. "You are a plucky little fellow, but I don't want you to take any risks."

"They are nothing but what I can take easy enough," answered the other quickly. "Don't you suppose I would do anything for Jack? And for you, too. You have both done a lot for me, and this isn't much. You get me through the window, and I'll do the rest."

Jack arose quietly, crossed the room, took hold of the iron bar put across the window and tested it.

"I believe we could pull it loose, Dick," he said in a low tone, not knowing if there were any one outside who might hear him. "It is only driven into the frame, and I believe we could pull out frame and all."

"Let me look at it," said Percival, and, taking hold of the bar, he suddenly swelled up his muscles, gave it a quick, sharp wrench, and had it out with a part of the frame as well.

"H'h! great protection that was!" he laughed. "I suppose they thought the window was too small for any one to get through, and it is for most folks, but Jesse W. is only half size and we can put him through all right."

"And I'll put through the other part," said the younger boy. "I am glad I can do something for you two, for you have both of you done a lot for me at one time or another."

"But see here, J.W., do you understand that there is considerable danger in getting away?" asked Jack in a serious tone. "These fellows may be watching, and they would handle you roughly if they caught you. And then it is dark going through the woods, for the moon does not rise till pretty late, and you might fall down some --  -- "

"And I might not!" interrupted the other in a decided tone. "I have a pocket light with me. I always carry one now, whether I think I am going to need it or not, and I can find my way easy enough. Besides, I have a pocket compass as well, and I know which way the vessel lies, and I am going to get you boys out of here and that's all there is to it!"

"All right!" and Jack smiled at the smaller boy's determination. "But I wouldn't let you go if I didn't think you had the pluck to carry it out, and that the only difficulties are at the outset. Listen at the door, Dick, and I'll see how the land lies in this direction," and Jack pulled the chest to the window and looked out.

He could not see very far, but he saw that there were no huts on that side, and that it was not far to the woods, and calculated that the boy could get to them without being observed.

"All right, J.W., the coast is clear," he said. "You are sure you know the way and the general direction? What is it, in fact?"

"About south, and I will get in sight of the water as soon as I can. It will not be dark for some little time yet, and I ought to get to the yacht before sunset or a little after at any rate."

"Very good. Keep in the open as much as you can after you get away from here, and don't run too fast."

"All right. Are you ready?" and the boy stood on the chest beside Jack, looking up into the latter's face with such an air of determination that he laughed and said:

"Yes, I'm ready, up with you!" and Jack lifted the little fellow to the window level, and put him through, Percival saying in a low tone:

"It's all right. I don't hear a sound. I imagine they are all away somewhere, for I can neither see nor hear anything."

"Out you go!" said Jack, dropping the boy to the ground, and looking out to see that he was all right. "Now then, cut!"

He watched the boy till he disappeared in the woods, and then as he neither saw any one nor heard anything of an alarming nature, he said in a tone of great relief:

"He is all right, and I believe he will get there without trouble. I had an idea he would, or I would not have let him go."

"There he is, only half a boy, you might say," said Percival, "but ready to undertake anything for us, no matter how dangerous and there are those big overgrown bullies, Herring and Merritt, who would go all to bits if they had the half of this to do. I tell you, Jesse W. Smith is worth both of them in a lump, and with considerable on his side of the ledger after that, Jack."

"Yes, so he is," agreed Jack.

"And now we will simply have to wait, I suppose?"

"I don't see anything else. The window is too small for us and the door seems to be very strong and heavy, and securely locked. No, I considered these points before I let the boy go."

"But suppose our man with the white mustache should return and miss him?" asked Percival.

"Well, we will put the bar back in its place, put the chest in the corner, and place our coats in a neat pile over there where it is darkest. There are things that we can put under them, and there is the boy fast asleep after his tramp through the woods."

"A good idea, Jack! You are full of resources. Now I would never have thought of a way out of the trouble, but only of the trouble itself."

They replaced the bar so that no one would know by a casual glance that it had been tampered with, put the chest back where they had taken it from, and, gathering up a few loose articles from the floor, made a bundle of them and spread their coats over it.

"A mere reference to the boy being asleep will be enough," said Jack. "The look of the thing is enough to carry out the idea, and they will accept it without question."

"To be sure, and in the meantime the plucky young fellow is hustling to get back to the vessel and bring us help."

Having settled all this the boys sat down and waited, now and then conversing, and occasionally listening for any sound that would denote the return of the so-called Rollins and the men with him.

It was getting on toward sunset when Jack heard Rollins and another man talking outside, although he could not see them when he went to the little window and looked out.

"You say there is a vessel in the bay?"

"Yes, inside the reefs."

"Government vessel?"

"No, private yacht, the one these boys belong on. It's a school on a vacation or tour or something."

"Do they know the way through the reefs!"

"I guess not. They were washed in the other night when there was a cyclone or tidal wave."

"They did not come here after us?"

"No, they didn't know anything about us. They have been here for some time, a week I guess, and can't get out."

"H'm! let them stay here then!" growled the man with the white mustache. "They can't bother us any. If they don't know the way out, which very few do, they'll have to stay here for all I can see."

"But suppose we want to get in on that side ourselves?"

"They could not make us any trouble. We don't want to get in there at this time, although it is a better hiding place than this."

"Then you're going to let them stay there?"

"Certainly. They can't do us any harm. After we get away with our cargo we don't care what happens to them."

The men went away or stopped talking, at any rate, and Jack did not hear any further conversation between them.

"They will probably let us out as soon as they are ready to go," he said to Percival, "but we don't want to stay here till they get ready to let us out, and then there is just a chance that they may forget us altogether. It was just as well that we sent Jesse W. off on his errand."

"I think so myself, and I don't doubt that he will carry it out."

"If Rollins knows the way out through the reefs," said Jack presently, "we might either force or persuade him to pilot us out. If we should capture him we might force him to do it. Otherwise, I might persuade him to do it on consideration of allowing him to escape after we were perfectly safe outside. Very few know of the way out, and it is not likely that the vessel which they are sending to our relief will have any good pilot for these waters on board."

"You don't know positively that this man knows the passage!"

"No, I do not, but he does know some one who does, to judge by his talk, and if he cannot be bargained with perhaps the other man can. I am averse to having anything to do with the man, as you can readily understand, but I do not want to see the whole Hilltop Academy kept prisoners here for an indefinite time."

When it began to grow dark one of the men who had brought them to the place came in with some food and a bottle of wine, and said, as he put it on a chest:

"There's something for you to eat. Other boy asleep, h'm? Well, there is all the more for you then."

Then the man went away, never noticing the little bit of deception which the boys had practised, locking the door after him.

"The things to eat are all right," said Jack, after the man had gone, "but we would better not touch the wine. I never do, anyhow. This is likely to be drugged to make us sleep, so that we will give no trouble."

"I don't want it anyhow," said Dick.

The boys ate a supper, and then, as it grew dark, sat and waited for some sign of their friends, and at last when it was quite dark hearing a peculiar whistle somewhere outside.

"That's the Hilltop signal!" whispered Percival "Aid is at hand!"



Chapter XVI

Ben's Strange Story


Jack jumped upon the chest, which he quickly dragged to the little window, and answered the signal, one generally used by the Hilltop boys when they wished to communicate with each other at a distance.

In a moment it was answered, and then young Smith ran up under the window, and said eagerly:

"You are all right, boys, you are there still, and safe!"

"Yes," answered Jack. "Who is there?"

"Some of the boys, Ben Bowline, the captain and Buck, all ready for a fight if necessary."

"All right. I don't think you will need to make one."

Percival was at the door now, and in a moment he heard the outer one fall in with a crash, and then came the rush of many feet.

There were shouts outside, but these were drowned by the yells of the boys, and of the old sailor.

"Are yo' dere, sah?" the boys heard Bucephalus say in a few moments, just outside the door.

"Yes, but we are locked in."

"Nevah min' dat, jus' lemme get mah head at it an' Ah'll break it down in a hurry, sah."

"Here, stop that!" roared Ben Bowline. "You'll crack yer skull!"

"No, sah, Ah's used to dem things!" guffawed Bucephalus.

"Don't you know that his name means 'ox-headed,' Ben?" cried Percival with a laugh. "Why, he could split a two-inch plank with that head of his. Let him do it, but first wait till I get out of the way."

It was not necessary for Bucephalus to butt the door down, however, as one of the men with Rollins had been captured, and was forced to open the door with his key.

It was the same man who had brought them food and wine, and at the sight of the boys, for lights had been brought, he exclaimed:

"Guess you boys didn't drink anything?"

"No, we did not," said Percival. "Won't you have it your self?"

"Huh! I think not. But where's the little fellow? The one that was asleep when I come in."

"Here I am!" piped up Jesse W. himself, "and you'll find that I am pretty wide awake."

The boys picked up their coats, and put them on, and the man muttered, his eyes opening wider every moment:

"Huh! that was a neat trick! Then the boy was not there at all?"

"No, he was on his way for help," said Jack. "Never judge too much by appearances. Still, I am glad you did this time."

The boys and their friends now left the house, the man being taken a short distance to prevent his giving the alarm, although the natives had already scattered in many directions at the coming of Ben, Buck and the boys.

"Young Smith got to us all right," said Harry to Jack and Dick, "and we set out without delay. You must have had quite an adventure."

"So we did, and it might have been worse. Rollins is on this part of the island, sir," to the captain. "He got in yesterday or to-day, I am not sure which. I do not believe he has seen the man who was signaling to him last night, and I do not think he knows anything about him. He does know that government vessels are on the watch for him, however, and I think he will shortly get away from here."

"I wish we could get word to them so as to stop him," growled the captain. "These smugglers give honest traders a bad reputation, for folks think we are all alike."

A considerable number of the Hilltop boys had come to the rescue of the two boys, and these were now carried on the shoulders of the others, and a triumphal march back to the vessel was begun, young Smith being taken up as well as Jack and Dick, the boys saying that he had traveled enough for one day and that he needed a rest.

Many of the boys had pocket lights with them, and others cut pine branches and made torches of them so that there was light enough to show them the way, and it was not necessary to wait for the moon to rise.

The boys sang and shouted, and made a lot of noise on the way back so that if the smugglers or any of the natives had had any idea of attacking them they would have been deterred by the very din.

They reached the shore at length, and were taken on board the yacht, Bucephalus presently announcing that supper was ready, the boys having the best of appetites for it, and making it a feast in honor of Jack, Dick and young Jesse W., who was considered as much a hero as his older schoolmates, and was certainly regarded so by them.

Not all the boys had gone over to the other side, some staying away on account of the fatigue of the journey and others, noticeably Herring and his cronies, because they were either not asked or would not have gone if they had been.

It was a feast in honor of the three boys, nevertheless, and those who were not ready to join in praise of the heroes were wise enough to keep quiet and not to make any dissent.

After supper Jack and a few of the boys discussed the situation, and tried to calculate how long it would take the vessel which Mr. Smith had sent out to reach them.

"If we knew that, we would know how long we would have to wait," observed Arthur. "Some vessels are faster than others."

"It would take at least three or four days," said Jack, "and if he has sent a fast vessel and given directions to make all speed they might be here in less time. Then they must pick up a pilot who would be likely to know these seas, and who is used to making difficult passages. Any ordinary pilot would not do. He should have a special one."

"And he cannot tell just what is required till he gets here, and, perhaps, would have to hunt one up, and there is more lost time," said Harry dolefully. "It's a pity we are wasting so much time."

"Yes, but I don't see how we are going to help ourselves."

"No, perhaps not."

Late that night Jack was awakened as he lay asleep in his berth, not by a flash, as before, but by hearing some one say, as he went by the door:

"It can't be, it's too much like the flying Dutchman."

"That's what I say, but all the same I was sure I saw one come in through the reefs."

"You didn't see any lights?"

"No, but I could make out her masts and rigging."

The two men went on, and Jack heard no more.

"There has some vessel come in through the reefs," he said to himself as he sat up in bed. "I must try to find them to-morrow. I have always said that I thought it possible for a vessel to get through if one knew the passage, and this shows that it has been done. No wonder these men thought it was a phantom ship."

Partially dressing himself he went on deck, and looked around him.

He could see nothing, and he hardly expected to do so, but had yielded to impulse and had come on deck.

Ben Bowline presently came up, looked at him, touched his grizzled forelock, and said:

"Sir to you. Come up to get the air?"

"Yes," Jack answered shortly.

"Kind of a pretty night, don't you think, sir!" the old sailor said after a pause during which he stood balancing himself first on one foot and then on the other.

"Yes, it is a fine starlight night. The moon ought to be coming up soon, and then we can see things better."

"Yes, so we can. Was you looking for anything particular, sir?" in a mysterious tone.

"How about that vessel, Ben?" asked Jack in a low tone. "Are you sure you saw her? What was she, the long, low, rakish craft we read of in old stories or a saucy steam yacht with tremendous speed?"

"Sh! the old man might hear us," cautioned Ben Bowline. "Do you know I don't want to think it were the Flying Dutchman 'cause it's plumb bad luck to see her, but how is a live ship going to get in here?"

"Easy enough, if she knows the way, Ben. Don't say anything about it, but are you sure you saw something?"

"Well, I dunno, but I think I did. She was out yonder, just where you can see the open water, and she was only there half a jiffy, as you might say. Tom saw her, too, or I would have thought I was dreaming."

"Steamer, Ben?" asked Jack, sure now that there was something in the old fellow's story.

"Reckon she was, though I did see something white, which gave me a creepy feeling like as if I'd seen a apparition or something similar. Maybe she had sail on to help her steam. Some of 'em do."

"And you saw her for a short time only!"

"Yes, sir, not half a minute nor half that even. There wasn't time to say 'Jack Robinson' twice, sir, before she was out of sight."

"Well, if she came in she can get out, and so can we, Ben. Keep this quiet till I speak to the captain about it. It will be just as well not to have every one know it, and have it talked about all over the vessel."

"Shouldn't wonder if it would, sir," and as Jack walked away the old sailor continued his own passage up and down the deck.

"There are probably places to hide that we have not seen," thought the boy, as he took a turn of the deck, and then started to go below, "and we may not be able to see this vessel in the morning. I shall have a look for her, nevertheless. If there is to be a bargain made and I don't see why there should not be, unless we trade directly with lawbreakers and assist them. That we could not do, of course, but if we hire a pilot we are not supposed to know whether he is honest or not."

The question was a puzzling one, and Jack had not solved it when he went below, turned in and quickly fell asleep.

In the morning, nothing having been seen of any strange vessel from the deck of the yacht, Jack told Percival quietly what he had heard, and after breakfast they went ashore and set out for a search for the stranger.

"If she is here," Jack said, "she is one of the smugglers, and will not want to be seen. If we can find her it may mean that we can get out of our strange prison."

"How are we going to find her, Jack? There are probably plenty of hiding places about here that we don't dream of."

"I know it, Dick, but we must find them if we want to leave here. I do not think that Smith will be able to get us out, and if we can do it ourselves, so much the better."

"Yes, and all the more credit to us, Jack."



Chapter XVII

Discoveries And Disappointments


The boys landed at the point where they had first gone ashore, well up in the bay, as that would give them less walking, and pushed toward the north, keeping as near to the shore as they could in the hope of being thus better able to see the hidden smuggler in case she was still at the island.

Making their way over rough ground, they at length came to an opening in the rocks which was quite high enough for them to enter, and Jack said in an eager tone:

"It is possible we may find something here, Dick. This seems to be a cave, and smugglers and men of that sort make such places convenient."

"It looks rather dark, Jack," murmured Percival. "We had a pretty gruesome experience in a dark cave when we first came to the island and I don't want to repeat it."

"You won't find any devil fish in there, Dick," said Jack reassuringly. "Besides, we have our flashes with us and are armed as well, and if we do find anything uncanny we can put up a good fight, I imagine."

"That's all right, Jack, but once I have an experience of that sort I am a little shy at venturing into a place anything like it. The mere look of this cave made me think of the other."

"But there is no water here and it may be only a hole in the rocks after all. Then it may lead to some retreat of these smuggler folk, and if it does, so much the better."

"All right, Jack, I am with you," said Percival, and the boys entered the hole in the rocks, as Jack called it.

It was more than that, as they presently discovered, for they found that it extended much farther than they thought, and Jack, turning on his pocket flash when there began to be less and less light to guide them, saw that the passage went on for some distance.

It was high enough for them to walk upright and wide enough for three or four persons to walk abreast, there being a few turns, but none sharp enough to cut off the view ahead for some distance.

"Well, we won't get under water as we did in the other place, Jack," observed Percival as they walked on, meeting the first sharp turn and being now unable to see behind them, "for we are going toward the interior of the island and not toward the sea."

"No, and there will be no one to tumble down rocks upon us and shut us in, or think they did, as happened before. In fact, the place seems to be decidedly uninteresting, Dick."

"Nothing has happened so far, if that is what you mean," laughed the other, "but you never can tell."

They made one or two more sharp turns and at length came to an opening of greater magnitude where they could see three or four passages leading in different directions, some very narrow and one wide enough for them to walk side by side.

"Which one shall we take, Jack?" asked Percival. "The place begins to grow interesting now that we have several routes to choose from. Does it look as if men had been here? Do you see any smudges on the walls or any footprints in the dust? Is this just an accident, or has it been cut out and made of use for a hiding place?"

"No, there are no smudges which might have been made by torches, Dick, and I don't see any footprints except our own. I don't believe any one has been in here for years."

"Then you think that there may have been some one here at some time, Jack? It has been used?"

"Yes, for it has not the looks of a natural cavern which has not yet been discovered. It has been cleaned up to a certain extent. Still, I do not think that the particular gang of malefactors we are looking for has ever occupied it."

"Then there is not much use in our going any farther, Jack?"

"No, not if we want to find Rollins and the rest."

"Suppose we take the widest passage, Jack!"

"Very well. Come ahead."

They went on for twenty feet, when the floor of the passage began to take a sudden decline which increased at every step.

"Hold on, Dick," said Jack, holding his light low and flashing it along the rough floor. "This thing may take a sudden drop and --  -- "

"So it does!" gasped Percival, lying at full length on the floor and crawling carefully forward a pace or two. "It takes a drop for fair. It is a lucky thing you noticed it."

"Then we may as well go back, for I don't care to take a drop I don't know how deep."

"I'll see," muttered Percival, picking up a loose stone as big as his fist and tossing it ahead of him.

Not until several seconds had passed did the boys hear the sound of the stone falling into water, and Percival said with a sigh of relief:

"Well, we didn't go that way, at any rate. Come on, Jack, there is nothing to be seen in that direction."

The boys returned to the place where the passages diverged, and Percival suggested that they take one of the narrower paths and follow it for a time.

"All right," laughed Jack, "but I don't believe we shall find any more than we have already found. In fact, I don't believe the smugglers know of this place at all and we won't find out anything."

However, they proceeded down the narrow path till they suddenly found themselves at the end, where the place widened into a chamber about ten feet square, and here they saw a sight which made Percival tremble.

It was a pile of human skeletons reaching nearly to the roof of the vault and thrown promiscuously about like so much rubbish.

"I say, I've got enough of this!" gasped the young fellow. "Let's get out of this, Jack, before we find anything worse. First the bottomless pit and then a charnel house. I am satisfied!"

"It is not a very pleasant sight," said Jack musingly, "but they cannot do us any harm. They have probably been here for years."

The boys returned to the chamber they had left and then went back along the way they had come without seeking to explore any other passages.

Getting out into the light at last, they proceeded with their search for the smugglers, resolving not to enter any more mysterious caves, but to look for places where a vessel might be able to hide.

"There must be a lot of coves along here," said Jack, "that we have not been able to find on account of the difficulty of making one's way along the rocks, but now we are looking for them we don't mind doing a lot of scrambling."

"No, we are used to that, and, besides, we are alone, and haven't young Smith with us. I suppose he would have been delighted to come, for he likes being with us, but it would have been too much of a task for him."

"And yet he would not have complained, Dick. He is a plucky little chap. Just think of his going into the cabin of the wreck, up to his knees in the water, to get that bag of gold just because he said he would."

"Yes, it was a nervy thing to do, and there are bigger boys in the Academy who would not have done it. But I say, Jack, it is getting pretty rough along here. I am afraid we may have to change our route."

They had come upon a mass of high rocks over which it was well nigh impossible to make their way, and Jack stopped, looked around him and said:

"It seems a pretty tough job, Dick. Suppose you give me a boost, however, and let me see if I can get to the top of this one. I am lighter than you, and perhaps I can make it."

"All right, Jack, just as you say," and Dick bent his back so that his companion could get upon his shoulders, and then straightened up slowly, Jack holding on by some of the projections in the rock and going up with him, being able to reach a bit higher when Percival was at his full height and saying, with some satisfaction:

"That is fine, Dick. I should reach the top now. Catch me if I come tumbling down, however."

"I don't think you will, Jack. You are a regular cat to keep your feet, and I guess you are all right."

Clinging with toes and fingers to the rock and going up inch by inch, Jack at length reached a point whence it was easier climbing, and here he advanced more rapidly than before, Percival watching him closely, and standing ready to catch him in case he happened to lose his footing.

Jack did not, however, and at last, as he reached the top of the rock, threw himself forward and found himself on a flat, but somewhat rough surface a few yards in extent with higher rocks on one side, but nothing in front of him.

Beyond, at some little distance, there were other rocks, but he judged that if he went to the edge of the rock to which he had climbed he might see something, and he, therefore, crept along cautiously for fear of being seen, until he reached the edge.

Here he looked over and saw that there was water below him, quite a good sized cove, in fact, which ran up from the shore to a considerable distance, apparently, but had a turn a few rods farther up in shore.

Looking the other way Jack could see the bay in which they lay, and said to himself:

"That is the way they could come, but now let us see if they did, and if there is room beyond for a vessel of any size to pass."

The higher mass of rock on his left prevented his going much farther, however, and he was thinking that he might be obliged to climb to the top of this, being unable to get around it, when he heard a suspicious sound below him, and lay flat on his face, peering cautiously over the edge.

There were some bushes and coarse grass here and these hid him somewhat from observation, while they did not prevent his seeing anything going on below.

The sound he had heard was the splash of oars and the hum of voices, and in a few moments he saw a boat containing two men appear around a corner of the higher rock, which descended sheer to the water's edge, and make its way slowly toward the open bay.

"I tell you there is one, Davis," Jack heard one of the men say, recognizing the voice as that of the man with the white mustache, as he always thought of him, and not as his stepfather.

In fact, he had long since repudiated any relationship whatever with the man, and regarded him as a stranger who had come into his life without any wish of his own, and whom he would willingly put out of it, and be satisfied never to see or hear of again.

"But weren't you in here the other night when I signaled?" asked the other man, who was rowing. "You answered and told me to come in."

"Me?" with a laugh. "I tell you I was not. I don't know the way in any more than you, though I know that there is one."

"But I saw lights, and I got flashes from some one on deck, in the regular code, too."

"They were from the deck of this yacht I told you of, and I will show her to you if you are patient. Go easy, though, for we may come in sight of her at any moment."

"But how about the signals I got? How could any one know I was out there, and how would they know the code?"

"They got you by accident, perhaps, and then were smart enough to take your signals and answer them. I know a boy who is clever enough for that. He is on the yacht, too. She has a lot of schoolboys who are on a trip to these seas. They were carried in here by a tidal wave, and now cannot get out, not knowing the passage."

"Well, I don't know it myself, and I never would have come in only for finding a pilot who knows the ins and outs of all the islands in the Caribbean, but if I noticed any lights when I came in I must have thought they were yours."

The men rowed on out of sight, for Jack did not care to lean over too far, partly from fear of falling and partly because he might be seen if any one else should happen to pass that way.

There had a vessel come into the bay, then, and she was now probably up the cove out of sight, and the man in the boat with the other was her captain.

"That is the man whose vessel I signaled the other night," thought Jack. "Rollins must have come over to this side and met him. They know each other, it seems. Birds of a feather flock together."

Not caring to expose himself to the risk of being seen by the men when they returned, Jack now crept back to the other side of the rock and began to descend carefully, Percival being at length able to help him.

"Well, Jack," said the latter when his friend was safe on the ground, "did you discover anything!"

"Yes, I did," and Jack told him briefly what he had seen and heard.

"H'm! then there was a vessel coming in last night, and old Ben was not mistaken?" exclaimed Percival.

"No, he was not, and she is in a cove somewhere on the other side of the rocks. I don't know how far up it goes, but there is one there. I could not see the vessel either."

"We must try to find it, Jack."

"Yes, and we must get around these rocks. There is no way of getting to the cove this way, unless we climb another high rock, and it is dangerous and we might be seen also."

"Then let's look for another way."

They went back for a distance, and then began clambering over masses of other rocks they came to, getting higher and higher, but at last coming to a great mass of ledge rock, which rose sheer above their heads for twenty feet without a single projection upon which they could rest their feet and without a crevice where they might get a finger hold.

"There is no use trying to get up there, Jack," murmured Percival in disgust. "A goat could not climb up there. Nothing without wings could manage it, in fact."

"No, there is clearly no getting around this way, Dick. We shall have to go back and try some other place. There is a vessel on the other side of those rocks, but how to get a sight of her is the question. I think we would better try to find the head of the cove."

They went back, therefore, to where they had tried to ascend the rocks, and pushed on toward the interior of the island, finding the way difficult, but at length getting clear of the rocks and after struggling through a perfect jungle coming out upon one of the paths they had themselves made in their explorations.

"Well, we know where we are now!" exclaimed Percival with considerable satisfaction, "but we seem to be no nearer the head of the cove than before. What are you going to do, Jack?"

"Look for the cove," said Jack tersely.

"All right, my boy, I am with you," said Dick with a chuckle, as if the idea was a most amusing one.

"Seems funny, doesn't it?" said Jack, smiling. "Well, we have had a lot of trouble, I admit, but you are not the one to give up when you undertake a task, and you know that I do not like to."

"Not only that you don't like to, Jack, but that you don't do it."

They set out toward the shore again, determined to find the cove if it were a possible thing, and looking for every possible clue to its whereabouts, and plunging into what seemed the most impassable thickets in their efforts, halting at nothing, in fact.

"We should have brought axes, Jack," muttered Percival in disgust, as both boys paused at length, tired and hot in a little glade where the way was clearer than before, and yet having no assurance that they were anywhere near the place they sought.

"Yes, but that is just like a couple of boys who are bound to do a thing and don't make all their calculations ahead. Our hind thought is better than our forethought, Dick."

"Yes, but we could not think of everything. I think we have done pretty well, considering."

"Yes, I suppose so, but it rather takes the conceit out of a fellow to meet with so many obstacles. Why, I always thought I was good in making my way through tangled woods, but I begin to think that I am not."

"There is one thing you have forgotten, Jack. We are in the tropics, the woods here are regular jungles and the temperature is something considerably above what you have been used to. You must not scold yourself too much, Jack. I think we have done very well -- 'sh, what's that!" in a hoarse whisper, and looking around him with alarm.

"Some one coming, Dick. Hide, quick!"



Chapter XVIII

In The Lair Of The Fox


The boys quickly secreted themselves in the high grass, and in a few moments several men came into the glade, evidently in great excitement.

"We've got to get him quick," said one. "Is this the right way, do you think? We can't waste no time waiting around here with that revenue cutter hanging around."

"Him and Davis went over to this side 'cause he wanted to show Davis that there was a vessel in the bay, and now this here other one is hanging about, and she may come to our side and find us," said another. "This here is the way, I think, but I ain't sure."

"Well, come on and find him," growled a third man. "As you say, we'd better not waste no time with a revenue cutter hanging about and looking for us. Come on!"

The men hurried on, and when there was no longer any sign of them Jack arose and said:

"They have seen a vessel outside, probably from one of the hills, and have taken the alarm. It is likely that this is the vessel Mr. Smith has sent to get us out. I hardly believe she is a revenue cutter, although these men would hardly be deceived on that point."

"They might," said Percival. "They would take alarm at anything. I think myself that it is likely to be the vessel sent to get us out. She should be here by this time, according to our calculations. Let us get on the hill, Jack, and have a look at her ourselves. We may be able to tell what she is if we can get a good look at her."

"Very good," and the boys at once struck out in a direction which they judged would take them into one of the paths leading to the northern end of the island.

They reached one in five minutes, and then pushed on till they came to the open, and in another few minutes came out upon a higher level whence a fairly good view of the open sea could be obtained.

"There she is!" cried Jack, pointing out to sea. "She is a cutter, Dick. The men were right. She is under a good head of steam, too, as you can tell by the smoke pouring from her funnels. She is cruising about here, and is evidently in search of some one. Perhaps she suspects that Davis is in here, and is trying to locate him."

The boys watched the cutter for ten minutes, and then saw her alter her course, and take one which would bring her around to the other side of the island.

"I wonder if Storms has seen her?" said Jack. "I don't believe she knows the way in here. If she did she would have come in. She is going away. We won't see her in a short time."

"I don't wonder that the smugglers were alarmed. Well, if she goes to the other side Rollins may leave unless he is hidden in a cove, the same as Davis is. The latter will have a good chance to get out if the coast is clear. She is getting farther and farther off, Jack."

"Yes, and we won't see her in a little while. She is probably going to the other side to look for these fellows. Well, we have not seen exactly what we came out to see, but we have seen something, and I think we had better go back. It is getting later than I thought."

The boys, accordingly, set off toward the shore, and at length reached it, finding Ben Bowline waiting for them with the boat.

"Your Flying Dutchman was a real vessel, Ben," said Jack, "and she is hiding in a cove along shore, but just where I can't tell you. I would have to look for her. Did you see the revenue cutter outside?"

"No, we did not. Revenue cutter, hey? Not the vessel that's coming to take us out, sir?"

"No, but a revenue cutter. She is looking for your Flying Dutchman, I imagine, or for another smuggler. This place seems to be a favorite hiding place for such craft."

"Well, they're welcome to it, sir, for if we get out all right they can have it to themselves, for all o' me."

"The trouble is how to get out, Ben," said Percival. "Whichever way you turn there seems to be some difficulty ahead of you."

"Yes, and that reminds me of a time when I was sailing around the coast of Africky lookin' for slavers. Ever heard tell about it!"

"No, but you must be older than I thought, Ben, to have been alive at that time. There have been no slavers for sixty years or more around these parts, and you wouldn't --  -- "

"Well, there was slavers for all that," persisted Ben. "I didn't say I was chasin' American slavers. They is others, or was. Portuguese an' other fellows was in the business in them days. Well, anyhow, talking about meetin' trouble wherever you turn, this here adventure o' mine was that sort."

"What was it, Ben? We have time to listen to it before having to start back, I guess, or you can tell it to us while you are rowing us out to the yacht."

"Well, we was cruisin' around the Guinea coast, and one day I went on shore to look about and got separated from the other fellows, and all to once got so tangled up in the jungle that I didn't know which way to go nor nothing."

"That's interesting," said Percival.

"Then all of a sudden about forty black niggers jumped out of the jungle and gave chase, for I didn't stop to calc'late which way I orter go when I seed them, but just laid a course what would take me away from 'em the quickest.

"I just put through the jungle as tight as I could jump, and suddenly come face to face with a scrouching lion as big as a elephant, all ready to pounce upon me, and there I was between two fires.

"You might say three, because I was on the edge of a swamp and there was a big alligator with his mouth wide open, ready to swaller me the minute I got into the swamp."

Percival gave Jack a knowing wink and said:

"Well, that was a dilemma. What did you do?"

"Well, I just didn't know what to do, 'cause whichever way I went there was danger. The lion and the 'gator was in front an' the savage niggers behind, and it was as bad to stand still as to run and no port in a storm."

"Well?" and Dick gave Jack a wink.

"I just didn't do nothin', 'cause good luck did it for me. The niggers run plump into the jaws of the lion or smack into the 'gator, an' in a brace o' shakes one an' t'other was so stuffed full o' meat that they had no appetite for me, an' I just laid a course down the river an' found my mates in a jiffy."

"That's another steal from Baron Munchausen with a few variations," laughed Percival. "Did you ever hear of him, Ben?"

"Huh! they's no 'arthly use o' spinin' any yarns to you, young gentlemen, 'cause you don't believe 'em nohow," muttered Ben in a disgusted tone, and then he gave way upon the oars and did not say another word.

When the boys reached the vessel, shortly before dinner, Jack told the captain of what he had heard and seen, the officer being greatly interested, and saying shortly:

"If the fellow in the cove has a pilot on board maybe we can hire him to take us out or maybe force him to do it. You couldn't signal to the cutter, I suppose?"

"No, we had no means. She has gone to the other side of the island now, probably in search of the other vessel. You have not had any message from the one that is coming to our assistance?"

"No, I have not, but I expect her to-day or to-morrow. Could you find the cove where the smuggler is hidden?"

"I might," answered Jack thoughtfully.

"If I can find her before she gets out," the captain continued, "I'll catch him, and make him take us out of the bay to the open. Then I'll turn him over to the cutter, and get the reward. These fellows captured one of our vessels, and it'll be only turn about, which is fair play for everybody."

"Are your men armed?" asked Jack. "Remember, these men are ready for fight at any moment. They always expect it, and are prepared. They act in defiance of the government, and know that if caught they will be imprisoned, and they are always on the defensive."

"Yes, I know that, but if I can take them by surprise they won't have a chance to fight."

"Well, I will try to find the cove for you, sir, but, of course, I cannot join in any fight you may have with the smugglers. The doctor would not allow it."

"No, I suppose not, and quite right, too. I'll see that you don't get into trouble on our account, but I do want to catch this chap, and make him take us out of here."

"I heartily hope that you will, Captain," said Jack.

After dinner the yacht steamed out into the open bay, inside the reefs, and a lookout was kept for the cutter, which might still be in the neighborhood, and at the same time Captain Storms told the doctor what he had contemplated, and asked his permission to take Jack as a pilot to discover the whereabouts of the smuggler.

"He will be in no danger, I trust?" asked Dr. Wise, glaring at the captain, as was his wont when greatly interested.

"I will look out for that, sir," replied the captain. "He and his chum were looking for this fellow this morning, and found out where he lay, from the shore. I think he will be able to locate him from the water, and if he does I'll have the rat out of his hole in a brace of shakes, provided you will let me have him."

"Why, yes, I think so," rejoined the doctor, looking as wise as his name would indicate. "I am most anxious to get away from here, and if you think there is a chance of it I am quite willing to let you use your own judgment. You know best about such matters."

A boat was lowered containing the captain, Jack Sheldon, Dick Percival and six stout sailors, the entire party with the exception of the boys, being heavily armed.

A second boat, in charge of the mate, was lowered, and followed the first at a little distance, the officer having orders to close up quickly in case it became necessary.

Jack sat in the stern with the captain, and, as they skirted the shore, kept a sharp lookout for any possible inlet to the cove where the smuggler lay in hiding.

There was a full tide, and this enabled them to go closer to the rocks than if it had been low, and Jack peered into every opening in the hope of finding the right one at last.

At length as they were proceeding slowly at a safe distance from an ugly looking mass of rocks, which projected to some distance into the water, and where there were dangerous looking eddies, Jack noticed a steeple shaped rock higher than the rest, and at some little distance in shore.

"That is the rock I could not get around, Dick," he said to Percival. "Of course, I cannot from here see the rock from which I looked down on the men in the boat, but I know that rock well. Keep on, Captain, and watch. I think I can find the way now."

"There was a turn in the passage, wasn't there, Jack?" asked Dick.

"Yes, but there may have been others, and I think that the general direction of the inlet was about east. I shall look for it at any rate."

They kept on slowly, Jack directing them closer in to shore, and looking sharply for any sign of the channel, which he presently detected by keeping his eye on the water.

At a point where the rocks seemed to have no opening he detected a motion toward the bay, and, knowing that the tide was now on the ebb, had the captain steer closer in to the rocks.

"You won't run us onto them, sir?" whispered Storms.

"No, sir. Look toward them. Can't you see that the tide is setting this way, that there is no eddy, but the regular flow of the tide?"

"By gravy! yes, I do," exclaimed the captain hoarsely. "Keep on, my boy, and I believe you'll find the place."

Jack watched the water, steered in closer, and suddenly, in rounding a blunt point, saw the entrance to the cove before him, and noticed that the tide was running steadily out of it toward the sea.

"Here we are, sir," he said to the captain, and at once the other boat was signaled, and came up in a few moments.

Both proceeded up the creek side by side, and at length Jack saw the rock whence he had watched the men in the boat, and pointed it out to Percival, together with the one like a steeple, which had first called his attention to the place.

There was room for the two boats abreast, the passage being wide enough for a good-sized vessel to pass, and they kept on side by side, past the bend in the inlet, and then on and around another, suddenly coming in sight of a vessel at anchor.

"That's the Circe, the steamer that was taken by the smugglers," said the captain. "I know her well, though I never sailed in her. They've painted out her name, but that's her, I'll take my oath."

At a signal from the captain the two boats dashed forward, and were alongside the steamer before any one on board knew of their approach.

The captain and mate, followed by four men from each boat, scrambled up the side like monkeys, and made a dash for the cabin as a man came out and demanded gruffly:

"Hello! who are you, and what do you want?"

"That's Davis," said Jack. "I know his voice. We have made no mistake."

"Of course not," said Percival "Do you see that fender hanging over the side? These fellows have forgotten it. There is your name Circe, as plain as you please."

"Yes, I see it."

"There are lively times up there, Jack," Dick continued. "I'd like to join in it."

"Let the men go instead," laughed Jack. "We can look after the boats."

"All right. Up with you, men!" and the invitation was accepted in a moment.



Chapter XIX

The Way Out Found


The men scrambled out of the boats and on deck as soon as they had the boys' permission, and for a minute or two there was the liveliest sort of fracas on the deck and in the cabin of the Circe, but this shortly ceased, and the mate coming to the side leaned over and said:

"We've got 'em! They put up a fight, but everything is dead against them. This is our company's vessel, and we've found enough unstamped stuff in the cabin to give 'em a good long rest in jail. We've got Davis, the captain, but the other fellow is over on the other shore, unless he has made his escape by this time. Come on board, boys."

The boys quickly accepted the invitation, and went on board where they found Davis and his men prisoners.

There was not a large crew, and some of them had been asleep at the time of the surprise, these being captured before they knew what was going on.


"Go aboard with the boys and all the men you need," said the captain to the mate. "I am going with the pilot. Follow us and do exactly as we do. I've got this fellow under my thumb. He knows he'll get a good long term for smuggling, but I can get some of it taken off if he pilots us out, and I've promised him to do my best for him. It'll be as hard as finding a needle in a haystack to get a pilot and we have him, so what's the use of looking?"

"Quite right, sir."

The captain stood in the pilot house with a pistol at the head of the pilot, and told him to give his orders, and to give wrong ones at his peril.

"If you sink us you'll sink yourself," he added, "so mind your chart and steer straight."

"All right, Captain," said the other. "I'll do as you say. I am not over fond of Davis, who has done me many a dirty turn, and as for Rollins, there is no more trusting him than there is a wolf, and I shall be glad to be shut of both of them and the business at the same time."

The boats were sent back to the yacht, which was put in charge of the first officer, and followed in the wake of the Circe.

In this case she proved to be worthier of trust than her beautiful namesake of the days of Ulysses, and she not only made her way safely out through the tortuous channel among the reefs, but led the yacht with the boys on board to the open water outside.

More than once as Captain Storms saw the waters bubbling and boiling around them, and saw how close they were to the rocks he thought that they were doomed, but as he watched the face of the pilot he saw that the man was to be trusted, and held his peace.

When they were outside, and a great cheer went up from the Hilltop boys, they proceeded to the end of the island in search of the cutter and at last saw her smoke in the distance.

Sending her a wireless message they at length had the satisfaction of seeing her approach, and at last the captain came on board and the Circe and her crew were turned over to him, Storms saying:

"Look out for the pilot. He is not as bad as the rest, and deserves some consideration on account of getting us out of a bad scrape. Have you caught Rollins?"

"No, he was too quick for us, and slipped away, but we'll catch him yet."

"I doubt if you do. However, never mind that. I'll put you in charge here and will go back to my own vessel."

He had been back in his own cabin but a short time, receiving the congratulations of the doctor and the boys when the man on the lookout reported a vessel in the offing, which flew the company's flag, and seemed to be familiar to many of the officers and men.

"That's the ship that Smith has sent to get us out," laughed Storms, "and we've got ahead of him, and got out ourselves."

He was correct, for in half an hour the newcomer was alongside and in a moment Mr. Smith himself was over the side and grasping his son, Jesse W., in his arms.

"But how is this?" he asked. "I thought you could not get out. Did you do this for a joke so that you could see me?"

"No, indeed, sir," said young Smith. "We have not been away from the island more than an hour or two, and it is to Jack Sheldon that you owe your getting out. Come here, Jack, I want to introduce you to my father."

"I am pleased to see you, sir," said Jack, coming up. "I am afraid that Jesse W. gives me too much credit, although I am willing to take a little of it. Captain Storms deserves the greater part of it, however."

Mr. Smith held a consultation with the captain of the revenue cutter, and an arrangement was shortly made between them whereby the Circe was to be in the government's custody for a time, and then to be turned over to her owners.

The whole story was told and Jack, Dick, and many of the boys came in for their meed of praise from Mr. Smith, as well as from Dr. Wise and the captain.

Mr. Smith had not found a pilot who could take him through the reefs to Lost Island, as they all still called it, but his chagrin was greatly tempered by seeing his son and all the boys safe out of their island prison, and he complimented Jack on all that he had done, and said:

"My dear boy, I have already promised my son to look after your interests, and you need have no fear that they will be thoroughly attended to."

"I am much obliged to you, sir," replied Jack, blushing, "but I am glad to have found such good friends. I want to say a few words in behalf of your son, and am only expressing the sentiments of the majority of the boys when I tell you that he is a plucky little chap, and a credit to the Hilltop Academy. I trust that we may long have him with us."

"Hurrah for Jesse W., boys, give him a rouser!" cried Percival, and they were given with a will.

Mr. Smith went back to the relief vessel, the cutter took away her prize, and by night the vessels had all parted company, Jesse W. Smith's father to return to New York, and the yacht to proceed on her cruise, which, although somewhat shortened as to route, was to continue until the time originally set as to its duration.

The cruise was a most pleasant one, and the boys learned much while it lasted, and were sorry when it ended, and they set out for the north and the Academy in the highlands.

Later the Circe was turned over to its owners, and a share of the reward for its recovery put to Jack's account in the bank, much to his surprise, as well as satisfaction.

The man with the white mustache, who was one of the boldest of the smugglers, had made his escape, whither he had gone no one could tell, but Jack's only interest in the man was to hope that he would keep away on account of his mother, to whom he related nothing concerning his meetings with the man, either at the Academy or in the tropics.

"I do not wish her to think of him," he said to Percival, "and I do not wish to think of him myself. Never mention him, Dick."

"You may be sure I won't!" replied Dick with emphasis.

There were some of the boys who did not escape seasickness on the way back, for all they had been on the water so long, but the run home was, on the whole, most pleasant, and Jack, Dick, young Smith and some others enjoyed it thoroughly.

"We shall have enough to think of and to talk about for a long time," remarked Jack to Percival when they were at last on the train going back to the Highlands, "and it is all the better that the trip was not what it was originally planned to be. The very unexpectedness of our adventures gave them all the greater charm."

"I suppose so," said Dick, "but I generally like to know what is coming, and then if I don't like it, I can get out of the way."

"Well, we are all of us richer in experience."

"And you in pocket," laughed Dick. "Don't forget that, my boy."

"Oh, I have something that is worth a good deal more than the money that I happened to get," said Jack, smiling.

"What is that?" asked Percival.

"The friendship of a lot of good fellows, and of one or two who are a good deal more than mere good fellows, real friends, in fact."

"Well, that is worth a good deal, of course, but it seems to me that one always has plenty of friends if he has money."

"If he keeps them when he has no money, then they are friends, indeed," said Jack, "and I think that I can count upon mine in any case."

"Then you are lucky, Jack."

For all that they had enjoyed themselves while afloat, the Hilltop boys were glad to be back at the Academy again among the old familiar scenes, and the work of the school went on with renewed vigor, Jack, in particular, giving his entire attention to it so as to be as high as possible in his classes at the end of the term.

The greater part of the boys at the Academy, as well as the doctor and all of the professors, were his friends, and the fact that some of the boys were not, and did all they could to injure him did not worry him, for he thought little or nothing of it.

At the end of the term he was at the head of his class, and was so close upon Percival that the latter said with a good-natured grin:

"You'll be up with me next term, Jack, whether I look out for myself or not."

"Well, we generally have pretty good times together, Dick," Jack replied, "so I don't think you will be sorry."

"Not a bit of it," said Dick.

Those who have been interested in following the fortunes of the Hilltop boys may be glad to continue their acquaintance with Jack Sheldon and his friends and enemies in the next volume, "The Hilltop Boys on the River," which, in addition to giving an account of many aquatic sports, contains also a number of thrilling incidents, which serve to bring out the characters of the boys to good advantage.

It was at the end of the term, and many of the boys were preparing to go home when Percival said to Jack:

"The doctor is going to let us have a summer camp for a few weeks. We are to live on the river, and have all the fun we want with the addition of some study, just to keep our hands in. What do you say, Jack? Will you stay over if I do?"

"I may stay in any event, Dick. I want to get on as fast as I can, and this will give me a chance."

"Then if you stay, so will I," heartily, "and between you and me you will find a lot more who will do it if they know you are to be here."

"The more the merrier," said Jack.

<eob>

The Lively Poll

By

R.M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

The Fleet.

Manx Bradley was an admiral -- "admiral of the fleet" -- though it must be admitted that his personal appearance did not suggest a position so exalted.

With rough pilot coat and sou'-wester, scarred and tarred hands, easy, rolling gait, and boots from heel to hip, with inch-thick soles, like those of a dramatic buccaneer, he bore as little resemblance to the popular idea of a lace-coated, brass-buttoned, cock-hatted admiral as a sea-urchin bears to a cockle-shell. Nevertheless Manx was a real admiral -- as real as Nelson, and much harder worked.

His fleet of nearly two hundred fishing-smacks lay bobbing about one fine autumn evening on the North Sea. The vessels cruised round each other, out and in, hither and thither, in all positions, now on this tack, now on that, bowsprits pointing north, south, east, and west, as if without purpose, or engaged in a nautical game of "touch." Nevertheless all eyes were bent earnestly on the admiral's vessel, for it was literally the "flagship," being distinguishable only by a small flag attached to its fore stay.

The fleet was hovering, awaiting orders from the admiral. A fine smart "fishing breeze" was blowing. The setting sun sparkled on the wave-crests; thin fleecy clouds streaked the sky; everything gave promise of a satisfactory night, and a good haul of fish in the morning.

With the quiet air of an amiable despot Manx nodded his venerable head. Up went the signal, and in a few minutes the fleet was reduced to order. Every smack swept round into position, and, bending over on the same tack, they all rushed like a shoal of startled minnows, away in the same direction -- the direction signalled by the admiral. Another signal from our venerable despot sent between one and two hundred trawl-nets down to the bottom of the sea, nets that were strong enough to haul up tons of fish, and rocks, and wreckage, and rubbish, with fifty-feet beams, like young masts, with iron enough in bands and chains to sink them, and so arranged that the beams were raised a few feet off the ground, thus keeping the mouths of the great nets open, while cables many fathoms in length held the gears to their respective vessels.

So the North Sea Fishermen began the night's work -- the Nancy, the Coquette, the Rattler, the Truant, the Faith, the Playfellow, the Cherub, and all the rest of them. Of course, although the breeze was fresh, they went along slowly, because of the ponderous tails that they had to draw.

Do you ask, reader, why all this order? why this despotic admiral, and all this unity of action? why not "every man for himself"? Let me reply by asking you to think for a moment.

Wind blowing in one direction, perhaps you are aware, does not necessarily imply vessels sailing in the same direction. With variation of courses possible, nearly two hundred tails out astern, and no unity of action, there would arise the certainty of varied and striking incident. The Nancy would go crashing into the bows of the Coquette, the bowsprit of the Rallier would stir up the cabin of the Truant, the tail of the Faith would get entangled with that of the Cherub, and both might hook on to the tail of the Playfellow; in short, the awful result would be wreck and wretchedness on the North Sea, howling despair in the markets of Columbia and Billingsgate, and no fish for breakfast in the great metropolis. There is reason for most things -- specially good reason for the laws that regulate the fisheries of the North Sea, the fleets of which are over twelve in number, and the floating population over twelve thousand men and boys.

For several hours this shoal of vessels, with full sails and twinkling lights, like a moving city on the deep, continued to tug and plunge along over the "banks" of the German ocean, to the satisfaction of the fishermen, and the surprise no doubt of the fish. About midnight the admiral again signalled, by rocket and flares, "Haul up," and immediately, with capstan, bar, and steam, the obedient crews began to coil in their tails.

It is not our intention to trouble the reader with a minute account of this process or the grand result, but, turning to a particular smack, we solicit attention to that. She is much like the others in size and rig. Her name is the Lively Poll. Stephen Lockley is her skipper, as fine a young fisherman as one could wish to see -- tall, handsome, free, hearty, and powerful. But indeed all deep-sea fishermen possess the last quality. They would be useless if not physically strong. Many a Samson and Hercules is to be found in the North Sea fleets. "No better nursery or training-school in time of war," they say. That may be true, but it is pleasanter to think of them as a training-school for times of peace.

The night was very dark. Black clouds overspread the sky, so that no light save the dim rays of a lantern cheered the men as they went tramp, tramp, round the capstan, slowly coiling in the trawl-warp. Sheets of spray sometimes burst over the side and drenched them, but they cared nothing for that, being pretty well protected by oilskins, sou'-westers, and sea-boots. Straining and striving, sometimes gaining an inch or two, sometimes a yard or so, while the smack plunged and kicked, the contest seemed like a doubtful one between vis inertiae and the human will. Two hours and a half it lasted, until the great trawl-beam came to the surface, and was got up on the vessel's side, after which these indomitable men proceeded to claw up the huge net with their fingers, straining and heaving with might and main.

"Yo, ho!" cried the skipper, "heave her in, boys!"

"Hoy!" growled Peter Jay, the mate, giving a tug that should have torn the net to pieces -- but didn't!

"Looks like as if we'd got hold of a lump o' wreck," gasped Bob Lumsden, the smack's boy, who was also the smack's cook.

"No, no, Lumpy," remarked David Duffy, who was no respecter of names or persons, "it ain't a wreck, it's a mermaid. I've bin told they weigh over six ton when young. Look out when she comes aboard -- she'll bite."

"I do believe it's old Neptune himself," said Jim Freeman, another of the "hands." "There's his head; an' something like his pitchfork."

"It does feel heavier than I ever knowed it afore," remarked Fred Martin.

"That's all along of your bein' ill, Fred," said the mate.

"It may be so," returned Martin, "for I do feel queer, an' a'most as weak as a baby. Come heave away!"

It was indeed a huge mass of wreck entangled with sea-weed which had rendered the net so heavy on that occasion, but there was also a satisfactory mass of fish in the "cod-end," or bag, at the extremity of the net, for, when, by the aid of the winch, this cod-end was finally got inboard, and the cord fastening the bottom of it was untied, fish of all kinds gushed over the wet decks in a living cataract.

There were a few expressions of satisfaction from the men, but not much conversation, for heavy work had still to be done -- done, too, in the dark. Turbot, sole, cod, skate, and all the other treasures of the deep, had to be then and there gutted, cleaned, and packed in square boxes called "trunks," so as to be ready for the steam-carrier next morning. The net also had to be cleared and let down for another catch before daybreak.

Now it is just possible that it may never have occurred to the reader to consider how difficult, not to say dangerous, must be the operation of gutting, cleaning, and packing fish on a dark night with a smack dancing a North Sea hornpipe under one's feet. Among the dangers are two which merit notice. The one is the fisherman's liability, while working among the "ruck," to run a sharp fish-bone into his hand, the other to gash himself with his knife while attempting to operate on the tail of a skate. Either accident may be slight or it may be severe.

A sudden exclamation from one of the men while employed in this cleaning and packing work told that something had happened.

"There goes Martin," growled Joe Stubley; "you can always tell when it's him, 'cause he don't curse an' swear."

Stubley -- or Stubby, as his mates called him -- did not intend this for a compliment by any means, though it may sound like one. Being an irreligious as well as a stupid man, he held that all who professed religion were hypocritical and silly. Manliness, in poor Jo's mind, consisted of swagger, quiet insolence, cool cursing, and general godlessness. With the exception of Fred Martin, the rest of the crew of the Lively Poll resembled him in his irreligion, but they were very different in character, -- Lockley, the skipper being genial; Peter Jay, the mate, very appreciative of humour, though quiet and sedate; Duffy, jovial and funny; Freeman, kindly, though reckless; and Bob, the boy-cook, easy-going both as to mind and morals. They all liked Martin, however, in spite of his religion, for he practised much and preached little.

"What's wrong?" asked Lockley, who stood at the tiller looking out for lights ahead.

"Only a bone into my left hand," replied Martin, going on with his somewhat dirty labours.

"Well that it's no worse, boy," observed Freeman, "for we've got no medicine-chest to fly to like that lucky Short-Blue fleet."

"That's true, Jim," responded Martin; "I wish we had a Gospel smack with our fleet, for our souls need repairing as well as our bodies."

"There you go," growled Stubley, flinging down a just finished fish with a flap of indignation. "A feller can't mention the name o' them mission craft without rousin' you up to some o' your hypocritical chaff. For my part, if it wasn't for the medicine-chest and the mittens, I think we'd be better by a long way without Gospel ships, as ye call 'em. Why, what good 'ave they done the Short-Blues? I'm sure we doesn't want churches, or prayin', or psalm-singin' or book -- "

"Speak for yourself, Jo," interrupted Puffy.

"Although your head may be as thick as a three-inch plank, through which nothin' a'most can pass either from books or anything else, you mustn't think we've bin all built on the same lines. I likes a good book myself, an', though I don't care about prayin' or psalm-singin', seein' I don't understand 'em, I say 'good luck' to the mission smacks, if it was for nothin' else than the books, an' doctor stuff, an' mitts what the shoregoin' ladies -- bless their hearts! -- is so fond o' sendin' to us."

"Ay, an the cheap baccy, too, that they say they're a-goin' to send to us," added Freeman.

"P'r'aps they'll send us cheap grog at last," said Puffy, with a laugh.

"They'll hardly do that," remarked Martin; "for it's to try an' keep us from goin' for our baccy to the copers that they've started this new plan."

"I wish 'em success," said Lockley, in a serious tone. And there was good ground for that wish, for our genial and handsome skipper was peculiarly weak on the point of strong drink, that being to him a powerful, almost irresistible, temptation.

When the fish-cleaning and packing were completed, the men went below to snatch a few hours' repose. Wet, weary, and sleepy, but with a large stock of reserve strength in them, they retired to the little cabin, in which they could scarcely stand up without bumping their heads, and could hardly turn round without hitting their elbows on something or other. Kicking off their long boots, and throwing aside oilskin coats and sou'-westers, they tumbled into their narrow "bunks" and fell asleep almost without winking.

There was one among them, however, who did not sleep long that night. Fred Martin was soon awakened by the pain of his wound, which had begun to inflame, and by a feeling of giddiness and intense uneasiness with which he had been troubled for several days past.

Turning out at last, he sat down in front of the little iron stove that served to cook food as well as to warm the cabin, and, gazing into the embers, began to meditate on his strangely uncomfortable sensations.

"Hallo, Martin, anything wrong?" asked the mate, who descended at that moment to relight his pipe.

"I believe there is, mate. I never felt like this afore. I've fowt against it till I can hardly stand. I feel as if I was goin' to knock under altogether. This hand, too, seems gittin' bad. I do think my blood must be poisoned, or somethin' o' that sort. You know I don't easily give in, but when a feller feels as if little red-hot wires was twistin' about inside of him, an' sees things goin' round as if he was drunk, why -- "

"Why, it's time to think of goin' home," interrupted Jay, with a laugh. "But let's have a look at you, Fred. Well, there does seem to be some o' your riggin' slack. Have you ever had the measles?"

"Not as I knows of."

"Looks like it," said the mate, lighting his pipe. "P'r'aps it'll be as well to send you into dock to refit. You'd better turn in again, anyhow, for a snooze would do you good."

Fred Martin acted on this advice, while Jay returned to the deck; but it was evident that the snooze was not to be had, for he continued to turn and toss uneasily, and to wonder what was wrong with him, as strong healthy men are rather apt to do when suddenly seized with sickness.

At grey dawn the admiral signalled again. The order was to haul up the nets, which had been scraping the bottom of the sea since midnight, and the whole fleet set to work without delay.

Martin turned out with the rest, and tried to defy sickness for a time, but it would not do. The strong man was obliged to succumb to a stronger than he -- not, however, until he had assisted as best as he could in hauling up the trawl.

This second haul of the gear of the Lively Poll illustrated one of those mishaps, to which all deep-sea trawlers are liable, and which are of frequent occurrence. A piece of wreck or a lost anchor, or something, had caught the net, and torn it badly, so that when it reached the surface all the fish had escaped.

"A night's work for nothing!" exclaimed Stephen Lockley, with an oath.

"Might have been worse," suggested Martin.

By that time it was broad daylight, and as they had no fish to pack, the crew busied themselves in removing the torn net from the beam, and fitting on a new one. At the same time the crews of the other smacks secured their various and varied hauls, cleaned, packed, and got ready for delivery.

The smoke of the steam-carrier was seen on the horizon early in the forenoon, and all the vessels of the fleet made for her, as chickens make for their mother in times of danger.

We may not pause here to describe the picturesque confusion that ensued -- the arriving, congregating, tacking, crossing, and re-crossing of smacks; the launching of little boats, and loading them with "trunks;" the concentration of these round the steamer like minnows round a whale; the shipping of the cargo, and the tremendous hurry and energy displayed in the desire to do it quickly, and get the fish fresh to market. Suffice it to say that in less than four hours the steamer was loaded, and Fred Martin, fever-stricken and with a highly inflamed hand and arm, started on a thirty-six hours' voyage to London.

Then the fleet sheered off and fell into order, the admiral issued his instructions, and away they all went again to continue the hard, unvarying round of hauling and toiling and moiling, in heat and cold, wet and dry, with nothing to lighten the life or cheer the heart save a game at "crib" or "all fives," or a visit to the coper, that terrible curse of the North Sea.



Chapter Two.

Accidents Afloat And Incidents Ashore.

Now, although it is an undoubted fact that the skippers of the North Sea trawling smacks are first-rate seamen, it is an equally certain fact that strong drink can render them unfit for duty. One of the skippers was, if we may say so, unmanned by drink at the time the fleet sheered off from the steam-carrier, as stated in the last chapter. He was named Georgie Fox -- better known in the fleet as Groggy Fox.

Unfortunately for himself as well as others, Skipper Fox had paid a visit to one of the copers the day before for the purpose of laying in a stock of tobacco, which was sold by the skipper of the floating grog-shop at 1 shilling 6 pence a pound. Of course Fox had been treated to a glass of fiery spirits, and had thereafter been induced to purchase a quantity of the same. He had continued to tipple until night, when he retired in a fuddled state to rest. On rising he tippled again, and went on tippling till his fish were put on board the steamer. Then he took the helm of his vessel, and stood with legs very wide apart, an owlish gaze in his eyes, and a look of amazing solemnity on his visage.

When a fleet sheers off from a steam-carrier after delivery of cargo, the sea around is usually very much crowded with vessels, and as these cross and re-cross or run past or alongside of each other before finally settling into the appointed course, there is a good deal of hearty recognition -- shouting, questioning, tossing up of arms, and expressions of goodwill -- among friends. Several men hailed and saluted Fox as his smack, the Cormorant, went by, but he took no notice except with an idiotic wink of both eyes.

"He's bin to the coper," remarked Puffy, as the Cormorant crossed the bow of the Lively Poll. "I say, Lumpy, come here," he added, as Bob Lumsden came on deck. "Have 'ee got any o' that coffee left?"

"No, not a drop. I gave the last o't to Fred Martin just as he was goin' away."

"Poor Fred!" said Puffy. "He's in for suthin' stiff, I doubt, measles or mulligrumps, if not wuss."

"A great pity," remarked Peter Jay, who stood at the helm, "that Martin couldn't hold out a week longer when our turn comes round to run for Yarmouth."

"It's well we got him shipped off to-day," said Lockley. "That hand of his would have made him useless before another day was out. It's a long time for a man in his state to be without help, that run up to Lun'on. Port your helm a bit, Jay. Is it the Cormorant that's yawin' about there in that fashion?"

"Ay, it's the Cormorant," replied Jay. "I seed her just now a'most run foul o' the Butterfly."

"She'll be foul of us. Hi! Look out!" cried Lockley, becoming excited, as he saw the Cormorant change her course suddenly, without apparent reason, and bear straight down upon his vessel.

There was, indeed, no reason for the strange movements of the smack in question, except that there was at the helm a man who had rendered his reason incapable of action. With dull, fishy eyes, that stared idiotically at nothing, his hand on the tiller, and his mind asleep, Georgie Fox stood on the deck of the Cormorant steering.

"Starboard a bit, Jay," said Lockley, with an anxious look, "she'll barely clear us."

As he spoke, Fox moved his helm slightly. It changed the course of his vessel only a little, but that little sufficed to send the cutwater of the Cormorant straight into the port bows of the Lively Poll with a tremendous crash, for a smart breeze was blowing at the time. The bulwarks were cut down to the deck, and, as the Cormorant recoiled and again surged ahead, the bowsprit was carried away, and part of the topmast brought down.

Deep and fierce was the growl that burst from Lockley's lips at this disaster, but that did not mend matters. The result was that the Lively Poll had to quit the fleet a week before her time of eight weeks afloat was up, and run to Yarmouth for repairs. Next day, however, it fell calm, and several days elapsed before she finally made her port.

Meanwhile Fred Martin reached London, with his feverish complaint greatly aggravated, and his undressed wound much worse. In London he was detained some hours by his employers, and then sent on to Yarmouth, which he reached late in the afternoon, and ultimately in a state of great suffering and exhaustion, made his way to Gorleston, where his mother lived.

With his mind in a species of wild whirl, and acute pains darting through his wounded hand and arm, he wended his way slowly along the road that led to his mother's house. Perhaps we should style it her attic, for she could claim only part of the house in which she dwelt. From a quaint gable window of this abode she had a view of the sea over the houses in front.

Part of Fred's route lay along the banks of the Yare, not far from its mouth. At a spot where there were many old anchors and cables, old and new trawl-beams, and sundry other seafaring rusty and tarry objects, the young fisherman met a pretty young girl, who stopped suddenly, and, with her large blue eyes expressing unspeakable surprise, exclaimed, "Fred!"

The youth sprang forward, seized the girl with his uninjured hand, and exclaimed, "Isa!" as he drew her towards him.

"Fred -- not here. Behave!" said Isa, holding up a warning finger.

Fred consented to behave -- with a promise, however, that he would make up for it at a more fitting time and place.

"But what is the matter!" asked Isa, with an anxious look, laying her pretty little hands on the youth's arm.

Yes, you need not smile, reader; it is not a perquisite of ladies to have pretty little hands. Isa's hands were brown, no doubt, like her cheeks, owing to exposure and sunshine, and they were somewhat roughened by honest toil; but they were small and well-shaped, with taper fingers, and their touch was very tender as she clasped them on her lover's arm.

"Nothing serious," replied the youth lightly; "only an accident with a fish-bone, but it has got to be pretty bad for want of attention; an' besides I'm out o' sorts somehow. No physic, you see, or doctors in our fleet, like the lucky dogs of the Short-Blue. I've been knocked up more or less for some weeks past, so they sent me home to be looked after. But I won't need either physic or doctor now."

"No? why not?" asked the girl, with a simple look.

"Cause the sight o' your sweet face does away with the need of either."

"Don't talk nonsense, Fred."

"If that's nonsense," returned the fisherman, "you'll never hear me talk sense again as long as I live. But how about mother, Isa? Is she well!"

"Quite well. I have just left her puzzling herself over a letter from abroad that's so ill-written that it would bother a schoolmaster to read it. I tried to read it, but couldn't. You're a good scholar, Fred, so you have come just in time to help her. But won't she be surprised to see you!"

Thus conversing, and walking rather slowly, the pair made their way to the attic of Mrs Martin, where the unexpected sight of her son threw the patient woman into a great flutter of surprise and pleasure. We use the word "patient" advisedly, for Mrs Martin was one of those wholesome-minded creatures who, having to battle vigorously for the bare necessaries of life in the face of many adverse circumstances, carry on the war with a degree of hearty, sweet-tempered resolution which might put to shame many who are better off in every way. Mrs Martin was a widow and a washerwoman, and had a ne'er-do-well brother, a fisherman, who frequently "sponged" upon her. She also had a mother to support and attend upon, as well as a "bad leg" to endure. True, the attendance on her mother was to the good woman a source of great joy. It constituted one of the few sunbeams of her existence, but it was not on that account the less costly, for the old woman could do nothing whatever to increase the income of the widow's household -- she could not, indeed, move a step without assistance. Her sole occupation was to sit in the attic window and gaze over the sands upon the sea, smiling hopefully, yet with a touch of sadness in the smile; mouthing her toothless gums, and muttering now and then as if to herself, "He'll come soon now." Her usual attitude was that of one who listens expectantly.

Thirty years before Granny Martin had stood at the same attic window, an elderly woman even then, looking out upon the raging sea, and muttering anxiously the same words, "He'll come soon now." But her husband never came. He was lost at sea. As years flew by, and time as well as grief weakened her mind, the old woman seemed to forget the flight of time, and spent the greater part of every day in the attic window, evidently on the look-out for some one who was to come "soon." When at last she was unable to walk alone, and had to be half carried to her seat in the attic window by her strong and loving daughter, the sadness seemed to pass away, and her cheery spirit revived under the impression, apparently, that the coming could not be delayed much longer. To every one Granny was condescendingly kind, especially to her grandchild Fred, of whom she was very fond.

Only at intervals was the old woman's cheerfulness disturbed, and that was during the occasional visits of her ne'er-do-well son Dick, for he was generally drunk or "half-seas-over" when he came. Granny never mentioned his name when he was absent, and for a long time Mrs Martin supposed that she tried to forget him, but her opinion changed on this point one night when she overheard her mother praying with intense earnestness and in affectionate terms that her dear Dick might yet be saved. Still, however much or frequently Granny's thoughts might at any time be distracted from their main channel, they invariably returned thereto with the cheerful assurance that "he would soon come now."

"You're ill, my boy," said Mrs Martin, after the first greetings were over.

"Right you are, mother," said the worn-out man, sitting down with a weary sigh. "I've done my best to fight it down, but it won't do."

"You must have the doctor, Fred."

"I've had the doctor already, mother. I parted with Isa Wentworth at the bottom o' the stair, an' she will do me more good than dozens o' doctors or gallons o' physic."

But Fred was wrong.

Not long afterwards the Lively Poll arrived in port, and Stephen Lockley hastened to announce his arrival to his wife.

Now it was the experience of Martha Lockley that if, on his regular return to land for his eight days' holiday, after his eight weeks' spell afloat, her handsome and genial husband went straight home, she was wont to have a happy meeting; but if by any chance Stephen first paid a visit to the Blue Boar public-house, she was pretty sure to have a miserable meeting, and a more or less wretched time of it thereafter. A conversation that Stephen had recently had with Fred Martin having made an impression on him -- deeper than he chose to admit even to himself -- he had made up his mind to go straight home this time.

"I'll be down by daybreak to see about them repairs," he said to Peter Jay, as they left the Lively Poll together, "and I'll go round by your old friend, Widow Mooney's, and tell her to expect you some time to-night."

Now Peter Jay was a single man, and lodged with Widow Mooney when on shore. It was not, however, pure consideration for his mate or the widow that influenced Lockley, but his love for the widow's little invalid child, Eve, for whose benefit that North Sea skipper had, in the kindness of his heart, made a special collection of deep-sea shells, with some shreds of bright bunting.

Little Eve Mooney, thin, wasted, and sad, sat propped up with dirty pillows, in a dirty bed, in a dirtier room, close to a broken and paper-patched window that opened upon a coal-yard with a prospect rubbish-heap beyond.

"Oh, I'm so glad it's you!" cried Eve, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, as the fisherman entered.

"Yes, Eve, my pretty. I'm back sooner than I expected -- and look what I've brought you. I haven't forgot you."

Joy beamed in the lustrous eyes and on every feature of the thin face as the sick child surveyed the treasures of the deep that Lockley spread on her ragged counterpane.

"How good -- how kind of you, Stephen!" exclaimed Eve.

"Kind!" repeated the skipper; "nothing of the sort, Eve. To please you pleases me, so it's only selfishness. But where's your mother?"

"Drunk," said the child simply, and without the most remote intention of injuring her parent's character. Indeed, that was past injury. "She's in there."

The child pointed to a closet, in which Stephen found on the floor a heap of unwomanly rags. He was unable to arouse the poor creature, who slumbered heavily beneath them. Eve said she had been there for many hours.

"She forgot to give me my breakfast before she went in, and I'm too weak to rise and get it for myself," whimpered Eve, "and I'm so hungry! And I got such a fright, too, for a man came in this morning about daylight and broke open the chest where mother keeps her money and took something away. I suppose he thought I was asleep, for I was too frightened to move, but I could see him all the time. Please will you hand me the loaf before you go? It's in that cupboard."

We need scarcely add that Lockley did all that the sick child asked him to do -- and more. Then, after watching her till the meal was finished, he rose.

"I'll go now, my pretty," he said, "and don't you be afeared. I'll soon send some one to look after you. Good-bye."

Stephen Lockley was unusually thoughtful as he left Widow Mooney's hut that day, and he took particular care to give the Blue Boar a wide berth on his way home.



Chapter Three.

The Skipper Ashore.

Right glad was Mrs Lockley to find that her husband had passed the Blue Boar without going in on his way home, and although she did not say so, she could not feel sorry for the accident to the Lively Poll, which had sent him ashore a week before his proper time.

Martha Lockley was a pretty young woman, and the proud mother of a magnificent baby, which was bordering on that age when a child begins to have some sort of regard for its own father, and to claim much of his attention.

"Matty," said Stephen to his wife, as he jolted his daughter into a state of wild delight on his knee, "Tottie is becoming very like you. She's got the same pretty little turned-up nose, an' the same huge grey eyes with the wicked twinkle in 'em about the corners."

"Don't talk nonsense, Stephen, but tell me about this robbery."

"I know nothin' about it more than I've told ye, Matty. Eve didn't know the man, and her description of him is confused -- she was frightened, poor thing! But I promised to send some one to look after her at once, for her drunken mother isn't fit to take care of herself, let alone the sick child. Who can I send, think 'ee?"

Mrs Lockley pursed her little mouth, knitted her brows, and gazed thoughtfully at the baby, who, taking the look as personal, made a face at her. Finally she suggested Isabella Wentworth.

"And where is she to be found?" asked the skipper.

"At the Martins', no doubt," replied Mrs Lockley, with a meaning look. "She's been there pretty much ever since poor Fred Martin came home, looking after old granny, for Mrs Martin's time is taken up wi' nursing her son. They say he's pretty bad."

"Then I'll go an' see about it at once," said Stephen, rising, and setting Tottie down.

He found Isa quite willing to go to Eve, though Mrs Mooney had stormed at her and shut the door in her face on the occasion of her last visit.

"But you mustn't try to see Fred," she added. "The doctor says he must be kep' quiet and see no one."

"All right," returned the skipper; "I'll wait till he's out o' quarantine. Good day; I'll go and tell Eve that you're coming."

On his way to Mrs Mooney's hut Stephen Lockley had again to pass the Blue Boar. This time he did not give it "a wide berth." There were two roads to the hut, and the shorter was that which passed the public-house. Trusting to the strength of his own resolution, he chose that road. When close to the blue monster, whose creaking sign drew so many to the verge of destruction, and plunged so many over into the gulf, he was met by Skipper Ned Bryce, a sociable, reckless sort of man, of whom he was rather fond. Bryce was skipper of the Fairy, an iron smack, which was known in the fleet as the Ironclad.

"Hullo! Stephen. You here?"

"Ay, a week before my time, Ned. That lubber Groggy Fox ran into me, cut down my bulwarks, and carried away my bowsprit an' some o' my top-hamper."

"Come along -- have a glass, an' let's hear all about it," said Bryce, seizing his friend's arm; but Lockley held back.

"No, Ned," he said; "I'm on another tack just now."

"What! not hoisted the blue ribbon, eh!"

"No," returned Lockley, with a laugh. "I've no need to do that."

"You haven't lost faith in your own power o' self-denial surely?"

"No, nor that either, but -- but -- "

"Come now, none o' your 'buts.' Come along; my mate Dick Martin is in here, an' he's the best o' company."

"Dick Martin in there!" repeated Lockley, on whom a sudden thought flashed. "Is he one o' your hands?"

"In course he is. Left the Grimsby fleet a-purpose to j'ine me. Rather surly he is at times, no doubt, but a good fellow at bottom, and great company. You should hear him sing. Come."

"Oh, I know him well enough by hearsay, but never met him yet."

Whether it was the urgency of his friend, or a desire to meet with Dick Martin, that shook our skipper's wavering resolution we cannot tell, but he went into the Blue Boar, and took a glass for good-fellowship. Being a man of strong passions and excitable nerves, this glass produced in him a desire for a second, and that for a third, until he forgot his intended visit to Eve, his promises to his wife, and his stern resolves not to submit any longer to the tyranny of drink. Still, the memory of Mrs Mooney's conduct, and of the advice of his friend Fred Martin, had the effect of restraining him to some extent, so that he was only what his comrades would have called a little screwed when they had become rather drunk.

There are many stages of drunkenness. One of them is the confidential stage. When Dick Martin had reached this stage, he turned with a superhumanly solemn countenance to Bryce and winked.

"If -- if you th-think," said Bryce thickly, "th-that winkin' suits you, you're mistaken."

"Look 'ere," said Dick, drawing a letter from his pocket with a maudlin leer, and holding it up before his comrade, who frowned at it, and then shook his head -- as well he might, for, besides being very illegibly written, the letter was presented to him upside down.

After holding it before him in silence long enough to impress him with the importance of the document, Dick Martin explained that it was a letter which he had stolen from his sister's house, because it contained "something to his advantage."

"See here," he said, holding the letter close to his own eyes, still upside down, and evidently reading from memory: "'If Mr Frederick Martin will c-call at this office any day next week between 10 an' 12, h-he will 'ear suthin' to his ad-advantage. Bounce and Brag, s'licitors.' There!"

"But you ain't Fred Martin," said Bryce, with a look of supreme contempt, for he had arrived at the quarrelsome stage of drunkenness.

"Right you are," said Martin; "but I'm his uncle. Same name c-'cause his mother m-married her c-cousin; and there ain't much difference 'tween Dick and Fred -- four letters, both of 'em -- so if I goes wi' the letter, an' says, 'I'm Fred Martin,' w'y, they'll hand over the blunt, or the jewels, or wotiver it is, to me -- d'ee see?"

"No, I don't see," returned Bryce so irritatingly that his comrade left the confidential stage astern, and requested to know, with an affable air, when Bryce lost his eyesight.

"When I first saw you, and thought you worth your salt," shouted Bryce, as he brought his fist heavily down on the table.

Both men were passionate. They sprang up, grappled each other by the throat, and fell on the floor. In doing so they let the letter fall. It fluttered to the ground, and Lockley, quietly picking it up, put it in his pocket.

"You'd better look after them," said Lockley to the landlord, as he paid his reckoning, and went out.

In a few minutes he stood in Widow Mooney's hut, and found Isa Wentworth already there.

"I'm glad you sent me here," said the girl, "for Mrs Mooney has gone out -- "

She stopped and looked earnestly in Lockley's face. "You've been to the Blue Boar," she said in a serious tone.

"Yes, lass, I have," admitted the skipper, but without a touch of resentment. "I did not mean to go, but it's as well that I did, for I've rescued a letter from Dick Martin which seems to be of some importance, an' he says he stole it from his sister's house."

He handed the letter to the girl, who at once recognised it as the epistle over which she and Mrs Martin had puzzled so much, and which had finally been deciphered for them by Dick Martin.

"He must have made up his mind to pretend that he is Fred," said Isa, "and so get anything that was intended for him."

"You're a sharp girl, Isa; you've hit the nail fair on the head, for I heard him in his drunken swagger boast of his intention to do that very thing. Now, will you take in hand, lass, to give the letter back to Mrs Martin, and explain how you came by it?"

Of course Isa agreed to do so, and Lockley, turning to Eve, said he would tell her a story before going home.

The handsome young skipper was in the habit of entertaining the sick child with marvellous tales of the sea during his frequent visits, for he was exceedingly fond of her, and never failed to call during his periodical returns to land. His love was well bestowed, for poor Eve, besides being of an affectionate nature, was an extremely imaginative child, and delighted in everything marvellous or romantic. On this occasion, however, he was interrupted at the commencement of his tale by the entrance of his own ship's cook, the boy Bob Lumsden, alias Lumpy.

"Hullo, Lumpy, what brings you here?" asked the skipper.

But the boy made no answer. He was evidently taken aback at the unexpected sight of the sick child, and the skipper had to repeat his question in a sterner tone. Even then Lumpy did not look at his commander, but, addressing the child, said -- 

"Beg parding, miss; I wouldn't have come in if I'd knowed you was in bed, but -- "

"Oh, never mind," interrupted Eve, with a little smile, on seeing that he hesitated; "my friends never see me except in bed. Indeed I live in bed; but you must not think I'm lazy. It's only that my back's bad. Come in and sit down."

"Well, boy," demanded the skipper again, "were you sent here to find me?"

"Yes, sir," said Lumpy, with his eyes still fixed on the earnest little face of Eve. "Mister Jay sent me to say he wants to speak to you about the heel o' the noo bowsprit."

"Tell him I'll be aboard in half an hour."

"I didn't know before," said Eve, "that bowsprits have heels."

At this Lumpy opened his large mouth, nearly shut his small eyes, and was on the point of giving vent to a rousing laugh, when his commander half rose and seized hold of a wooden stool. The boy shut his mouth instantly, and fled into the street, where he let go the laugh which had been thus suddenly checked.

"Well, she is a rum 'un!" he said to himself, as he rolled in a nautical fashion down to the wharf where the Lively Poll was undergoing repairs.

"I think he's a funny boy, that," said Eve, as the skipper stooped to kiss her.

"Yes, he is a funny dog. Good-bye, my pretty one."

"Stay," said Eve solemnly, as she laid her delicate little hand on the huge brown fist of the fisherman; "you've often told me stories, Stephen; I want to tell one to you to-night. You need not sit down; it's a very, very short one."

But the skipper did sit down, and listened with a look of interest and expectation as the child began -- 

"There was once a great, strong, brave man, who was very kind to everybody, most of all to little children. One day he was walking near a river, when a great, fearful, ugly beast, came out of the wood, and seized the man with its terrible teeth. It was far stronger than the dear, good man, and it threw him down, and held him down, till -- till it killed him."

She stopped, and tears filled her soft eyes at the scene she had conjured up.

"Do you know," she asked in a deeper tone, "what sort of awful beast it was?"

"No; what was it?"

"A Blue Boar," said the child, pressing the strong hand which she detained.

Lockley's eyes fell for a moment before Eve's earnest gaze, and a flush deepened the colour of his bronzed countenance. Then he sprang suddenly up and kissed Eve's forehead.

"Thank you, my pretty one, for your story, but it an't just correct, for the man is not quite killed yet and, please God, he'll escape."

As he spoke the door of the hut received a severe blow, as if some heavy body had fallen against it. When Isa opened it, a dirty bundle of rags and humanity rolled upon the floor. It was Eve's mother!

Lifting her up in his strong arms, Lockley carried her into the closet which opened off the outer room, and laid her tenderly on a mattress which lay on the floor. Then, without a word, he left the hut and went home.

It is scarcely necessary to add that he took the longer road on that occasion, and gave a very wide berth indeed to the Blue Boar.



Chapter Four.

Hardships On The Sea.

Fly with us now, good reader, once more out among the breeze-ruffled billows of the North Sea.

It was blowing a fine, fresh, frosty fishing breeze from the nor'-west on a certain afternoon in December. The Admiral -- Manx Bradley -- was guiding his fleet over that part of the German Ocean which is described on the deep-sea fisherman's chart as the Swarte, or Black Bank. The trawls were down, and the men were taking it easy -- at least, as easy as was compatible with slush-covered decks, a bitter blast, and a rolling sea. If we had the power of extending and intensifying your vision, reader, so as to enable you to take the whole fleet in at one stupendous glance, and penetrate planks as if they were plate glass, we might, perhaps, convince you that in this multitude of deep-sea homes there was carried on that night a wonderful amount of vigorous action, good and bad -- largely, if not chiefly bad -- under very peculiar circumstances, and that there was room for improvement everywhere.

Strong and bulky and wiry men were gambling and drinking, and singing and swearing; story-telling and fighting, and skylarking and sleeping. The last may be classed appropriately under the head of action, if we take into account the sonorous doings of throats and noses. As if to render the round of human procedure complete, there was at least one man -- perhaps more -- praying.

Yes, Manx Bradley, the admiral, was praying. And his prayer was remarkably brief, as well as earnest. Its request was that God would send help to the souls of the men whose home was the North Sea. For upwards of thirty years Manx and a few like-minded men had persistently put up that petition. During the last few years of that time they had mingled thanksgiving with the prayer, for a gracious answer was being given. God had put it into the heart of the present Director of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen to inaugurate a system of evangelisation among the heretofore neglected thousands of men and boys who toil upon the North Sea from January to December. Mission or Gospel smacks were purchased, manned by Christian skippers and crews, and sent out to the various fleets, to fish with them during the week, and supply them with medicine for body and soul, with lending libraries of wholesome Christian literature, and with other elevating influences, not least among which was a floating church or meeting-house on Sundays.

But up to the time we write of, Manx Bradley had only been able to rejoice in the blessing as sent to others. It had not yet reached his own fleet, the twelve or thirteen hundred men and boys of which were still left in their original condition of semi-savagery, and exposure to the baleful influences of that pest of the North Sea -- the coper.

"You see, Jacob Jones," said the admiral to the only one of his "hands" who sympathised with him in regard to religion, "if it warn't for the baccy, them accursed copers wouldn't be able to keep sich a hold of us. Why, bless you, there's many a young feller in this fleet as don't want no grog -- especially the vile, fiery stuff the copers sell 'em; but when the Dutchmen offers the baccy so cheap as 1 shilling 6 pence a pound, the boys are only too glad to go aboard and git it. Then the Dutchmen, being uncommon sly dogs, gives 'em a glass o' their vile brandy for good-fellowship by way of, an' that flies to their heads, an' makes 'em want more -- d'ee see? An' so they go on till many of 'em becomes regular topers -- that's where it is, Jacob."

"Why don't the mission smacks sell baccy too?" asked Jacob, stamping his feet on the slushy deck to warm them, and beating his right hand on the tiller for the same purpose.

"You're a knowing fellow," returned the admiral, with a short laugh; "why, that's just what they've bin considerin' about at the Head Office -- leastwise, so I'm told; an' if they manage to supply the fleets wi' baccy at 1 shilling a pound, which is 6 pence less than the Dutchmen do, they'll soon knock the copers off the North Sea altogether. But the worst of it is that we won't git no benefit o' that move till a mission smack is sent to our own fleet, an' to the half-dozen other fleets that have got none."

At this point the state of the weather claiming his attention, the admiral went forward, and left Jacob Jones, who was a new hand in the fleet, to his meditations.

One of the smacks which drew her trawl that night over the Swarte Bank not far from the admiral was the Lively Poll -- repaired, and rendered as fit for service as ever. Not far from her sailed the Cherub, and the Cormorant, and that inappropriately named Fairy, the "ironclad."

In the little box of the Lively Poll -- which out of courtesy we shall style the cabin -- Jim Freeman and David Duffy were playing cards, and Stephen Lockley was smoking. Joe Stubby was drinking, smoking, and grumbling at the weather; Hawkson, a new hand shipped in place of Fred Martin, was looking on. The rest were on deck.

"What's the use o' grumblin', Stub?" said Hawkson, lifting a live coal with his fingers to light his pipe.

"Don't 'Stub' me," said Stubley in an angry tone.

"Would you rather like me to stab you?" asked Hawkson, with a good-humoured glance, as he puffed at his pipe.

"I'd rather you clapped a stopper on your jaw."

"Ah -- so's you might have all the jawin' to yourself?" retorted Hawkson.

Whatever reply Joe Stubley meant to make was interrupted by Jim Freeman exclaiming with an oath that he had lost again, and would play no more. He flung down the cards recklessly, and David Duffy gathered them up, with the twinkling smile of a good-natured victor.

"Come, let's have a yarn," cried Freeman, filling his pipe, with the intention of soothing his vanquished spirit.

"Who'll spin it?" asked Duffy, sitting down, and preparing to add to the fumes of the place. "Come, Stub, you tape it off; it'll be better occupation than growlin' at the poor weather, what's never done you no harm yet though there's no sayin' what it may do if you go on as you've bin doin', growlin' an' aggravatin' it."

"I never spin yarns," said Stubley.

"But you tell stories sometimes, don't you?" asked Hawkson.

"No, never."

"Oh! that's a story anyhow," cried Freeman.

"Come, I'll spin ye one," said the skipper, in that hearty tone which had an irresistible tendency to put hearers in good humour, and sometimes even raised the growling spirit of Joe Stubley into something like amiability.

"What sort o' yarn d'ee want, boys?" he asked, stirring the fire in the small stove that warmed the little cabin; "shall it be comical or sentimental?"

"Let's have a true ghost story," cried Puffy.

"No, no," said Freeman, "a hanecdote -- that's what I'm fondest of --  suthin' short an' sweet, as the little boy said to the stick o' liquorice."

"Tell us," said Stubley, "how it was you come to be saved the night the Saucy Jane went down."

"Ah! lads," said Lockley, with a look and a tone of gravity, "there's no fun in that story. It was too terrible and only by a miracle, or rather -- as poor Fred Martin said at the time -- by God's mercy, I was saved."

"Was Fred there at the time!" asked Duffy.

"Ay, an' very near lost he was too. I thought he would never get over it."

"Poor chap!" said Freeman; "he don't seem to be likely to git over this arm. It's been a long time bad now."

"Oh, he'll get over that," returned Lockley; "in fact, it's a'most quite well now, I'm told, an' he's pretty strong again -- though the fever did pull him down a bit. It's not that, it's money, that's keepin' him from goin' afloat again."

"How's that?" asked Puffy.

"This is how it was. He got a letter which axed him to call on a lawyer in Lun'on, who told him an old friend of his father had made a lot o' tin out in Austeralia, an' he died, an' left some hundreds o' pounds -- I don't know how many -- to his mother."

"Humph! that's just like him, the hypercrit," growled Joe Stubley; "no sooner comes a breeze o' good luck than off he goes, too big and mighty for his old business. He was always preachin' that money was the root of all evil, an' now he's found it out for a fact."

"No, Fred never said that 'money was the root of all evil,' you thick-head," returned Duffy; "he said it was the love of money. Put that in your pipe and smoke it -- or rather, in your glass an' drink it, for that's the way to get it clearer in your fuddled brain."

"Hold on, boys; you're forgettin' my yarn," interposed Lockley at this point, for he saw that Stubley was beginning to lose temper. "Well, you must know it was about six years ago -- I was little more than a big lad at the time, on board the Saucy Jane, Black Thomson bein' the skipper. You've heard o' Black Thomson, that used to be so cruel to the boys when he was in liquor, which was pretty nigh always, for it would be hard to say when he wasn't in liquor? He tried it on wi' me when I first went aboard, but I was too -- well, well, poor fellow, I'll say nothin' against him, for he's gone now."

"Fred Martin was there at the time, an' it was wonderful what a hold Fred had over that old sinner. None of us could understand it, for Fred never tried to curry favour with him, an' once or twice I heard him when he thought nobody was near, givin' advice to Black Thomson about drink, in his quiet earnest way, that made me expect to see the skipper knock him down. But he didn't. He took it well -- only he didn't take his advice, but kep' on drinkin' harder than ever. Whenever a coper came in sight at that time Thomson was sure to have the boat over the side an' pay him a visit.

"Well, about this time o' the year there came one night a most tremendous gale, wi' thick snow, from the nor'ard. It was all we could do to make out anything twenty fathom ahead of us. The skipper he was lyin' drunk down below. We was close reefed and laying to with the foresail a-weather, lookin' out anxiously, for, the fleet bein' all round and the snow thick, our chances o' runnin' foul o' suthin' was considerable. When we took in the last reef we could hardly stand to do it, the wind was so strong -- an' wasn't it freezin', too! Sharp enough a'most to freeze the nose off your face.

"About midnight the wind began to shift about and came in squalls so hard that we could scarcely stand, so we took in the jib and mizzen, and lay to under the foresail. Of course the hatchways was battened down and tarpaulined, for the seas that came aboard was fearful. When I was standin' there, expectin' every moment that we should founder, a sea came and swept Fred Martin overboard. Of course we could do nothing for him -- we could only hold on for our lives; but the very next sea washed him right on deck again. He never gave a cry, but I heard him say 'Praise the Lord!' in his own quiet way when he laid hold o' the starboard shrouds beside me.

"Just then another sea came aboard an' a'most knocked the senses out o' me. At the same moment I heard a tremendous crash, an' saw the mast go by the board. What happened after that I never could rightly understand. I grabbed at something -- it felt like a bit of plank -- and held on tight, you may be sure, for the cold had by that time got such a hold o' me that I knew if I let go I would go down like a stone. I had scarce got hold of it when I was seized round the neck by something behind me an' a'most choked.

"I couldn't look round to see what it was, but I could see a great black object coming straight at me. I knew well it was a smack, an' gave a roar that might have done credit to a young walrus. The smack seemed to sheer off a bit, an' I heard a voice shout, 'Starboard hard! I've got him,' an' I got a blow on my cocoanut that well-nigh cracked it. At the same time a boat-hook caught my coat collar an' held on. In a few seconds more I was hauled on board of the Cherub by Manx Bradley, an' the feller that was clingin' to my neck like a young lobster was Fred Martin. The Saucy Jane went to the bottom that night."

"An' Black Thomson -- did he go down with her?" asked Duffy.

"Ay, that was the end of him and all the rest of the crew. The fleet lost five smacks that night."

"Admiral's a-signallin', sir," said one of the watch on deck, putting his head down the hatch at that moment.

Lockley went on deck at once. Another moment, and the shout came down -- "Haul! Haul all!"

Instantly the sleepers turned out all through the fleet. Oiled frocks, sou'-westers, and long boots were drawn on, and the men hurried on the decks to face the sleet-laden blast and man the capstan bars, with the prospect before them of many hours of hard toil -- heaving and hauling and fish-cleaning and packing with benumbed fingers -- before the dreary winter night should give place to the grey light of a scarcely less dreary day.



Chapter Five.

The Tempter's Victory.

"I wouldn't mind the frost or snow, or anything else," growled Joe Stubley, pausing in the midst of his labours among the fish, "if it warn't for them sea-blisters. Just look at that, Jim," he added, turning up the hard sleeve of his oiled coat, and exposing a wrist which the feeble rays of the lantern showed to be badly excoriated and inflamed.

"Ay, it's an ugly bracelet, an' I've got one myself just begun on my left wrist," remarked Jim Freeman, also suspending labour for a moment to glance at his mate's wound. "If our fleet had a mission ship, like some o' the other fleets, we'd not only have worsted mitts for our wrists, but worsted helmets for our heads an' necks -- to say nothin' of lotions, pills an' plasters."

"If they'd only fetch us them things an' let alone tracts, Bibles, an' religion," returned Stubley, "I'd have no objection to 'em, but what's the use o' religion to a drinkin', swearin', gamblin' lot like us?"

"It's quite clear that your notions about religion are muddled," said David Duffy, with a short laugh. "Why, what's the use o' physic to a sick man, Stubs?"

"To make him wuss," replied Stubs promptly.

"You might as well argify with a lobster as with Joe Stubs," said Bob Lumsden, who, although burdened with the cares of the cooking department, worked with the men at cleaning and packing.

"What does a boy like you know about lobsters, 'cept to cook 'em?" growled Stubley. "You mind your pots an' pans. That's all your brains are fit for -- if you have brains at all. Leave argification to men."

"That's just what I was advisin' Duffy to do, an' not waste his breath on the likes o' you," retorted the boy, with a grin.

The conversation was stopped at this point by the skipper ordering the men to shake out a reef, as the wind was moderating. By the time this was accomplished daybreak was lighting up the eastern horizon, and ere long the pale grey of the cold sea began to warm up a little under the influence of the not yet visible sun.

"Goin' to be fine," said Lockley, as he scanned the horizon with his glass.

"Looks like it," replied the mate.

Remarks were few and brief at that early hour, for the men, being pretty well fagged, preferred to carry on their monotonous work in silence.

As morning advanced the fleet was clearly seen in all directions and at all distances around, holding on the same course as the Lively Poll. Gradually the breeze moderated, and before noon the day had turned out bright and sunny, with only a few thin clouds floating in the wintry sky. By that time the fish-boxes, or trunks, were all packed, and the men availed themselves of the brief period of idleness pending the arrival of the steam-carrier from Billingsgate to eat a hearty breakfast.

This meal, it may be remarked, was a moveable feast, depending very much on the duties in hand and the arrival of the steamer. To get the fish ready and shipped for market is always regarded as his first and all-important duty by the deep-sea trawler, who, until it is performed, will not condescend to give attention to such secondary matters as food and repose. These are usually taken when opportunity serves. Pipes and recreation, in the form of games at cards, draughts, dominoes, and yarns, are also snatched at intervals between the periods of severe toil. Nevertheless, there are times when the fisherman's experience is very different. When prolonged calms render fishing impossible, then time hangs heavily on his hands, and -- in regard to the fleet of which we write and all those similarly circumstanced -- the only recreations available are sleeping, drinking, gambling, and yarn-spinning. True, such calms do not frequently occur in winter, but they sometimes do, and one of them prevailed on the afternoon of the particular winter's day, of which we treat.

After the departure of the carrier that day, the wind fell so much that the admiral deemed it advisable not to put down the nets. Before long the light air died away altogether, and the fleet was left floating idly, in picturesque groups and with flapping sails, on the glassy sea.

Among the groups thus scattered about, there was one smack which had quietly joined the fleet when the men were busy transhipping or "ferrying" the fish to the steam-carrier. Its rig was so similar to that of the other smacks that a stranger might have taken it for one of the fleet but the fishermen knew better. It was that enemy of souls, that floating grog-shop, that pirate of the North Sea, the coper.

"Good luck to 'ee," muttered Joe Stubley, whose sharp, because sympathetic, eye was first to observe the vessel.

"It's bad luck to you anyhow," remarked Bob the cook, who chanced to pass at the moment.

"Mind your own business, Lumpy, an' none o' your sauce, if you don't want a rope's-endin'," retorted the man.

"Ain't I just mindin' my own business? Why, wot is sauce but part of a cook's business?" returned the boy.

"I won't go to her," thought Stephen Lockley, who overheard the conversation, and in whose breast a struggle had been going on, for he also had seen the coper, and, his case-bottle having run dry, he was severely tempted to have it replenished.

"Would it not be as well, skipper, to go aboard o' the coper, as she's so near at hand!" said the mate, coming aft at the moment.

"Well, no, Peter; I think it would be as well to drop the coper altogether. The abominable stuff the Dutchmen sell us is enough to poison a shark. You know I'm not a teetotaller, but if I'm to be killed at all, I'd rather be killed by good spirits than bad."

"Right you are," replied Jay, "but, you see, a lot of us are hard up for baccy, and -- "

"Of course, of course; the men must have baccy," interrupted the skipper, "an' we don't need to buy their vile brandy unless we like. Yes, get the boat out, Jay, an' we'll go."

Stephen Lockley was not the first man who has deceived himself as to his motives. Tobacco was his excuse for visiting the floating den of temptation, but a craving for strong drink was his real motive. This craving had been created imperceptibly, and had been growing by degrees for some years past, twining its octopus arms tighter and tighter round his being, until the strong and hearty young fisherman was slowly but surely becoming an abject slave, though he had fancied himself heretofore as free as the breezes that whistled round his vessel. Now, for the first time, Lockley began to have uncomfortable suspicions about himself. Being naturally bold and candid, he turned sharply round, and, as it were, faced himself with the stern question, "Stephen, are you sure that it's baccy that tempts you aboard of the coper? Are you clear that schnapps has nothing to do with it?"

It is one of the characteristics of the slavery to which we refer, that although strong-minded and resolute men put pointed questions of this sort to themselves not unfrequently, they very seldom return answers to them. Their once vigorous spirits, it would seem, are still capable of an occasional heave and struggle -- a sort of flash in the pan -- but that is all. The influence of the depraved appetite immediately weighs them down, and they relapse into willing submission to the bondage. Lockley had not returned an answer to his own question when the mate reported that the boat was ready. Without a word he jumped into her, but kept thinking to himself, "We'll only get baccy, an' I'll leave the coper before the lads can do themselves any harm. I'll not taste a drop myself -- not a single drop o' their vile stuff."

The Dutch skipper of the coper had a round fat face and person, and a jovial, hearty manner. He received the visitors with an air of open-handed hospitality which seemed to indicate that nothing was further from his thoughts than gain.

"We've come for baccy," said Lockley, as he leaped over the bulwarks and shook hands, "I s'pose you've plenty of that?"

"Ya," the Dutchman had "plenty tabac -- ver sheep too, an' mit sooch a goot vlavour!"

He was what the Yankees would call a 'cute fellow, that Dutchman. Observing the emphasis with which Lockley mentioned tobacco, he understood at once that the skipper did not want his men to drink, and laid his snares accordingly.

"Com'," he said, in a confidential tone, taking hold of Lockley's arm, "com' b'low, an' you shall zee de tabac, an' smell him yourself."

Our skipper accepted the invitation, went below, and was soon busy commenting on the weed, which, as the Dutchman truly pointed out, was "so sheep as well as goot." But another smell in that cabin overpowered that of the tobacco. It was the smell of Hollands, or some sort of spirit, which soon aroused the craving that had gained such power over the fisherman.

"Have some schnapps!" said the Dutch skipper, suddenly producing a case-bottle as square as himself, and pouring out a glass.

"No, thank 'ee," said Stephen firmly.

"No!" exclaimed the other, with well-feigned surprise. "You not drink?"

"Oh yes, I drink," replied Lockley, with a laugh, "but not to-day."

"I not ask you to buy," rejoined the tempter, holding the spirits a little nearer to his victim's nose. "Joost take von leetle glass for goot vellowship."

It seemed rude to decline a proposal so liberally made, and with such a smiling countenance. Lockley took the glass, drank it off and went hurriedly on deck, followed by the Dutchman, with the case-bottle in one hand and the glass in the other. Of course the men had no objection to be treated. They had a small glass all round.

"That's the stuff for my money!" cried Stubley, smacking his lips. "I say, old chap, let's have a bottle of it. None o' your thimblefuls for me. I like a good swig when I'm at it."

"You'd better wait till we get aboard, Joe, before you begin," suggested Lockley, who was well aware of Joe's tendencies.

Joe admitted the propriety of this advice, but said he would treat his mates to one glass before starting, by "way o' wetting their whistles."

"Ya, joost von glass vor vet deir vistles," echoed the Dutchman, with a wink and a look which produced a roar of laughter. The glass was accepted by all, including Lockley, who had been quite demoralised by the first glass.

The victory was gained by the tempter for that time at least. The fishermen who went for baccy, remained for schnapps, and some of them were very soon more than half drunk. It was a fierce, maddening kind of spirit, which produced its powerful effects quickly.

The skipper of the Lively Poll kept himself better in hand than his men, but, being very sociable in disposition, and finding the Dutchman a humorous and chatty fellow, he saw no reason to hurry them away. Besides, his vessel was close alongside, and nothing could be done in the fishing way during the dead calm that prevailed.

While he and his men were engaged in a lively conversation about nothing in particular -- though they were as earnest over it as if the fate of empires depended on their judgment -- the Dutch skipper rose to welcome another boat's crew, which approached on the other side of the coper. So eager and fuddled were the disputants of the Lively Poll that they did not at first observe the newcomers.

It was the Fairy's boat, with Dick Martin in charge.

"Hallo, Dick, mein boy; gif me your vlipper."

A sign from Martin induced the Dutchman to lean over the side and speak in lower tones.

"Let's have a keg of it," said Dick, with a mysterious look. "Ned Bryce sent me for a good supply, an' here's fish to pay for it."

The fish -- which of course belonged to the owner of the Fairy, not to Ned Bryce -- were quickly passed up, and a keg of spirits passed down. Then the Dutchman asked if Dick or his men wanted tabac or schnapps for themselves.

"I vill take jersey, or vish, or sail, or boots, or vat you please in exchange. Com' aboard, anyhow, an' have von leetle glass."

Dick and his men having thus smartly transacted their chief business, leaped on deck, made fast their painter, let the boat drop astern, and were soon smoking and drinking amicably with the crew of the Lively Poll. Not long afterwards they were quarrelling. Then Dick Martin, who was apt to become pugnacious over his liquor, asserted stoutly that something or other "was." Joe Stubley swore that it "was not," whereupon Dick Martin planted his fist on Joe Stubley's nose and laid its growly owner flat on the deck.

Starting up, Joe was about to retaliate, when Lockley, seizing him by the neck thrust him over the side into the boat, and ordered his more or less drunken crew to follow. They did so with a bad grace, but the order was given in a tone which they well understood must not be disobeyed.

As they pushed off, Stubley staggered and fell into the sea. Another moment and he would have been beyond all human aid, but Lockley caught a glimpse of his shaggy black head as it sank. Plunging his long right arm down, and holding on to the boat with his left, he caught the drowning man by the hair. Strong and willing arms helped, and Stubley was hauled inboard -- restored to life, opportunity, and hope -- and flung into the bottom of the boat.

The oars were shipped, and they pulled for the Lively Poll. As they rode away they saw that other boats were proceeding towards the coper. The men in them were all anxious to buy baccy. No mention was made of drink. Oh dear no! They cared nothing for that, though, of course, they had no sort of objection to accept the wily Dutchman's generous offer of "von leetle glass vor goot vellowship."



Chapter Six.

The Power Of Sympathy.

One fine afternoon, not long after the visit to the coper, Bob Lumsden, alias Lumpy, was called from his culinary labours to assist in hauling in the net.

Now it is extremely interesting to note what a wonderful effect the power of loving sympathy can have on a human being. Lumpy was a human being -- though some of his mates insisted that he must have been descended from a cod-fish, because his mouth was so large. No doubt it was, and when the boy laughed heartily he was, indeed, apt to remind one of that fish; nevertheless it was a good, well-shaped mouth, though large, with a kindly expression about it, and a set of splendid white teeth inside of it. But, whether human or fishy in his nature, Bob Lumsden had been overwhelmed by a flood of sympathy ever since that memorable day when he had first caught a glimpse of the sweet, pale face of the little invalid Eve Mooney. It was but a brief glimpse, yet it had opened a new sluice in Lumpy's heart, through which the waters of tenderness gushed in a wild torrent.

One of the curious results of this flood was that Bob was always more prompt to the summons to haul up the trawl than he had ever been before, more energetic in clawing the net inboard, and more eager to see and examine the contents of the cod-end. The explanation is simple. He had overheard his skipper say how fond Eve was of shells -- especially of those which came from the bottom of the North Sea, and of all sorts of pretty and curious things, wherever they came from.

From that hour Bob Lumpy became a diligent collector of marine curiosities, and the very small particular corner of the vessel which he called his own became ere long quite a museum. They say that sympathy is apt to grow stronger between persons of opposite constitutions. If this be so, perhaps it was his nature -- his bold, hearty, gushing, skylarking spirit, his strong rugged frame, his robust health, his carroty hair, his appley cheeks, his eagle nose, his flashing eyes -- that drew him so powerfully to the helpless, tender little invalid, with her delicate frame and pale cheeks, straight little nose, bud of a mouth, and timid, though by no means cowardly, spirit.

On another occasion Bob overheard Lockley again talking about Eve. "I'm sorry for the poor thing," he said to Peter Jay, as they paced the deck together; "she's got such a wretched home, an' her mother's such a drunken bru -- "

Lockley checked himself, and did not finish the sentence.

"The doctor says," he resumed, "that if Eve had only a bath-chair or suthin' o' that sort, to get wheeled about in the fresh air, she'd very likely get better as she growed older -- specially if she had good victuals. You see, small as she is, and young as she looks, she's over fifteen. But even if she had the chair, poor thing! who would wheel it for her? It would be no use unless it was done regular, an' her mother can't do it -- or won't."

From that hour Bob Lumpy became a miser. He had been a smoker like the rest of the crew, but he gave up "baccy." He used to take an occasional glass of beer or spirits when on shore or on board the copers, but he became a total abstainer, much to his own benefit in every way, and as a result he became rich -- in an extremely small way.

There was a very small, thin, and dirty, but lively and intelligent boy in Yarmouth, who loved Bob Lumsden better, if possible, than himself. His name was Pat Stiver. The affection was mutual. Bob took this boy into his confidence.

One day, a considerable time after Bob's discovery of Eve, Pat, having nothing to do, sauntered to the end of Gorleston Pier, and there to his inexpressible joy, met his friend. Before he had recovered sufficiently from surprise to utter a word, Bob seized him by the arms, lifted him up, and shook him.

"Take care, Lumpy," cried the boy, "I'm wery tender, like an over-young chicken. You'd better set me down before I comes in pieces."

"Why, Stiver, you're the very man I was thinkin' of," said Lumpy, setting the boy on the edge of the pier, and sitting down beside him.

Stiver looked proud, and felt six inches taller.

"Listen," said Bob, with an earnest look that was apt to captivate his friends; "I want help. Will you do somethin' for me?"

"Anything," replied the boy with emphasis, "from pitch and toss to manslaughter!"

"Well, look here. You know Eve Mooney?"

"Do I know the blessedest angel in all Gorleston? In course I does. Wot of her?"

"She's ill -- very ill," said Lumpy.

"You might as well tell me, when it's daytime, that the sun's up," returned Pat.

"Don't be so awful sharp, Stiver, else I'll have to snub you."

"Which you've on'y got to frown, Bob Lumpy, an' the deed's done."

Bob gave a short laugh, and then proceeded to explain matters to his friend: how he had been saving up his wages for some time past to buy a second-hand bath-chair for Eve, because the doctor had said it would do her so much good, especially if backed up with good victuals.

"It's the wittles as bothers me, Stiver," said Bob, regarding his friend with a puzzled expression.

"H'm! well," returned the small boy seriously, "wittles has bothered me too, off an' on, pretty well since I was born, though I'm bound to confess I does get a full blow-out now an' -- "

"Hold on, Stiver; you're away on the wrong tack," cried Bob, interrupting. "I don't mean the difficulty o' findin' wittles, but how to get Eve to take 'em."

"Tell her to shut her eyes an' open her mouth, an' then shove 'em in," suggested Pat.

"I'll shove you into the sea if you go on talking balderdash," said Bob. "Now, look here, you hain't got nothin' to do, have you!"

"If you mean in the way o' my purfession, Bob, you're right. I purfess to do anything, but nobody as yet has axed me to do nothin'. In the ways o' huntin' up wittles, howsever, I've plenty to do. It's hard lines, and yet I ain't extravagant in my expectations. Most coves require three good meals a day, w'ereas I'm content with one. I begins at breakfast, an' I goes on a-eatin' promiskoously all day till arter supper -- w'en I can get it."

"Just so, Stiver. Now, I want to engage you professionally. Your dooties will be to hang about Mrs Mooney's, but in an offhand, careless sort o' way, like them superintendent chaps as git five or six hundred a year for doin' nuffin, an' be ready at any time to offer to give Eve a shove in the chair. But first you'll have to take the chair to her, an' say it was sent to her from -- "

"Robert Lumsden, Esquire," said Pat, seeing that his friend hesitated.

"Not at all, you little idiot," said Bob sharply. "You mustn't mention my name on no account."

"From a gentleman, then," suggested Pat.

"That might do; but I ain't a gentleman, Stiver, an' I can't allow you to go an' tell lies."

"I'd like to know who is if you ain't," returned the boy indignantly. "Ain't a gentleman a man wot's gentle? An' w'en you was the other day a-spreadin' of them lovely shells, an' crabs, an' sea-goin' kooriosities out on her pocket-hankercher, didn't I see that you was gentle?"

"I'll be pretty rough on you, Pat, in a minit, if you don't hold your jaw," interrupted Bob, who, however, did not seem displeased with his friend's definition of a gentleman. "Well, you may say what you like, only be sure you say what's true. An' then you'll have to take some nice things as I'll get for her from time to time w'en I comes ashore. But there'll be difficulties, I doubt, in the way of gettin' her to take wittles w'en she don't know who they comes from."

"Oh, don't you bother your head about that," said Pat. "I'll manage it. I'm used to difficulties. Just you leave it to me, an' it'll be all right."

"Well, I will, Pat; so you'll come round with me to the old furnitur' shop in Yarmouth, an' fetch the chair. I got it awful cheap from the old chap as keeps the shop w'en I told him what it was for. Then you'll bring it out to Eve, an' try to git her to have a ride in it to-day, if you can. I'll see about the wittles arter. Hain't quite worked that out in my mind yet. Now, as to wages. I fear I can't offer you none -- "

"I never axed for none," retorted Pat proudly.

"That's true Pat; but I'm not a-goin' to make you slave for nuthin'. I'll just promise you that I'll save all I can o' my wages, an' give you what I can spare. You'll just have to trust me as to that."

"Trust you, Bob!" exclaimed Pat, with enthusiasm, "look here, now; this is how the wind blows. If the Prime Minister o' Rooshia was to come to me in full regimentals an' offer to make me capting o' the Horse Marines to the Hemperor, I'd say, 'No thankee, I'm engaged,' as the young woman said to the young man she didn't want to marry."

The matter being thus satisfactorily settled, Bob Lumsden and his little friend went off to Yarmouth, intent on carrying out the first part of their plan.

It chanced about the same time that another couple were having a quiet chat together in the neighbourhood of Gorleston Pier. Fred Martin and Isa Wentworth had met by appointment to talk over a subject of peculiar interest to themselves. Let us approach and become eavesdroppers.

"Now, Fred," said Isa, with a good deal of decision in her tone, "I'm not at all satisfied with your explanation. These mysterious and long visits you make to London ought to be accounted for, and as I have agreed to become your wife within the next three or four months, just to please you, the least you can do, I think, is to have no secrets from me. Besides, you have no idea what the people here and your former shipmates are saying about you."

"Indeed, dear lass, what do they say?"

"Well, they say now you've got well they can't understand why you should go loafing about doin' nothin' or idling your time in London, instead of goin' to sea."

"Idlin' my time!" exclaimed Fred with affected indignation. "How do they know I'm idlin' my time? What if I was studyin' to be a doctor or a parson?"

"Perhaps they'd say that was idlin' your time, seein' that you're only a fisherman," returned Isa, looking up in her lover's face with a bright smile. "But tell me, Fred, why should you have any secret from me?"

"Because, dear lass, the thing that gives me so much pleasure and hope is not absolutely fixed, and I don't want you to be made anxious. This much I will tell you, however: you know I passed my examination for skipper when I was home last time, and now, through God's goodness, I have been offered the command of a smack. If all goes well, I hope to sail in her next week; then, on my return, I hope to -- to take the happiest. Well, well, I'll say no more about that, as we're gettin' near mother's door. But tell me, Isa, has Uncle Martin been worrying mother again when I was away?"

"No. When he found out that you had got the money that was left to her, and had bought an annuity for her with it, he went away, and I've not seen him since."

"That's well. I'm glad of that."

"But am I to hear nothing more about this smack, not even her name?"

"Nothing more just now, Isa. As to her name, it's not yet fixed. But, trust me, you shall know all in good time."

As they had now reached the foot of Mrs Martin's stair, the subject was dropped.

They found the good woman in the act of supplying Granny Martin with a cup of tea. There was obvious improvement in the attic. Sundry little articles of luxury were there which had not been there before.

"You see, my boy," said Mrs Martin to Fred, as they sat round the social board, "now that the Lord has sent me enough to get along without slavin' as I used -- to do, I takes more time to make granny comfortable, an' I've got her a noo chair, and noo specs, which she was much in want of, for the old uns was scratched to that extent you could hardly see through 'em, besides bein' cracked across both eyes. Ain't they much better, dear?"

The old woman, seated in the attic window, turned her head towards the tea-table and nodded benignantly once or twice; but the kind look soon faded into the wonted air of patient contentment, and the old head turned to the sea as the needle turns to the pole, and the soft murmur was heard, "He'll come soon now."



Chapter Seven.

A Rescue.

Never was there a fishing smack more inappropriately named than the Fairy, -- that unwieldy iron vessel which the fleet, in facetious content, had dubbed the "Ironclad," and which had the honour of being commanded by that free and easy, sociable -- almost too sociable -- skipper, Ned Bryce.

She was steered by Dick Martin on the day of which we now write. Dick, as he stood at the helm, with stern visage, bloodshot eyes, and dissipated look, was not a pleasant object of contemplation, but as he played a prominent part in the proceedings of that memorable day, we are bound to draw attention to him. Although he had spent a considerable portion of the night with his skipper in testing the quality of some schnapps which they had recently procured from a coper, he had retained his physical and mental powers sufficiently for the performance of his duties. Indeed, he was one of those so-called seasoned casks, who are seldom or never completely disabled by drink, although thoroughly enslaved, and he was now quite competent to steer the Fairy in safety through the mazes of that complex dance which the deep-sea trawlers usually perform on the arrival of the carrying-steamer.

What Bryce called a chopping and a lumpy sea was running. It was decidedly rough, though the breeze was moderate, so that the smacks all round were alternately presenting sterns and bowsprits to the sky in a violent manner that might have suggested the idea of a rearing and kicking dance. When the carrier steamed up to the Admiral, and lay to beside him, and the smacks drew towards her from all points of the compass, the mazes of the dance became intricate, and the risk of collisions called for careful steering.

Being aware of this, and being himself not quite so steady about the head as he could wish, Skipper Bryce looked at Martin for a few seconds, and then ordered him to go help to launch the boat and get the trunks out, and send Phil Morgan aft.

Phil was not a better seaman than Dick, but he was a more temperate man, therefore clearer brained and more dependable.

Soon the smacks were waltzing and kicking round each other on every possible tack, crossing and re-crossing bows and sterns; sometimes close shaving, out and in, down-the-middle-and-up-again fashion, which, to a landsman, might have been suggestive of the 'bus, cab, and van throng in the neighbourhood of that heart of the world, the Bank of England.

Sounds of hailing and chaffing now began to roll over the North Sea from many stentorian lungs.

"What cheer? what cheer?" cried some in passing.

"Hallo, Tim! how are 'ee, old man! What luck?"

"All right, Jim; on'y six trunks."

"Ha! that's 'cause ye fished up a dead man yesterday."

"Is that you, Ted?"

"Ay, ay, what's left o' me -- worse luck. I thought your mother was goin' to keep you at home this trip to mind the babby."

"So she was, boy, but the babby fell into a can o' buttermilk an' got drownded, so I had to come off again, d'ee see?"

"What cheer, Groggy Fox? Have 'ee hoisted the blue ribbon yet?"

"No, Stephen Lockley, I haven't, nor don't mean to, but one o' the fleet seems to have hoisted the blue flag."

Groggy Fox pointed to one of the surrounding vessels as he swept past in the Cormorant.

Lockley looked round in haste, and, to his surprise, saw floating among the smaller flags, at a short distance, the great twenty-feet flag of a mission vessel, with the letters MDSF (Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen) on it, in white on a blue ground.

"She must have lost her reckoning," muttered Lockley, as he tried to catch sight of the vessel to which the flag belonged -- which was not easy, owing to the crowd of smacks passing to and fro between it and him.

Just at that moment a hearty cheer was heard to issue from the Admiral's smack, the Cherub. At the same time the boat of the Lively Poll was launched into the sea, Duffy and Freeman and another hand tumbled into her, and the skipper had to give his undivided attention to the all-important matter of transhipping the fish.

Dozens of boats were by that time bobbing like corks on the heaving sea, all making for the attendant steamer. Other dozens, which had already reached her, were clinging on -- the men heaving the fish-boxes aboard, --  while yet others were pushing off from the smacks last arrived to join the busy swarm.

Among these was the boat of the Fairy, with Dick Martin and two men aboard. It was heavily laden -- too heavily for such a sea -- for their haul on the previous night had been very successful.

North Sea fishermen are so used to danger that they are apt to despise it. Both Bryce and Martin knew they had too many trunks in the boat, but they thought it a pity to leave five or six behind, and be obliged to make two trips for so small a number, where one might do. Besides, they could be careful. And so they were -- very careful; yet despite all their care they shipped a good deal of water, and the skipper stood on the deck of the Fairy watching them with some anxiety. Well he might, for so high were the waves that not only his own boat but all the others kept disappearing and re-appearing continually, as they rose on the crests or sank into the hollows.

But Skipper Bryce had eyes for only one boat. He saw it rise to view and disappear steadily, regularly, until it was about half-way to the steamer; then suddenly it failed to rise, and next moment three heads were seen amid the tumultuous waters where the boat should have been.

With a tremendous shout Bryce sprang to the tiller and altered the vessel's course, but, as the wind blew, he knew well it was not in his power to render timely aid. That peculiar cry which tells so unmistakably of deadly disaster was raised from the boats nearest to that which had sunk, and they were rowed towards the drowning men, but the boats were heavy and slow of motion. Already they were too late, for two out of the three men had sunk to rise no more -- dragged down by their heavy boots and winter clothing. Only one continued the struggle. It was Dick Martin. He had grasped an oar, and, being able to swim, kept his head up. The intense cold of the sea, however, would soon have relaxed even his iron grip, and he would certainly have perished, had it not been that the recently arrived mission vessel chanced to be a very short distance to windward of him. A slight touch of the helm sent her swiftly to his side. A rope was thrown. Martin caught it. Ready hands and eager hearts were there to grasp and rescue. In another moment he was saved, and the vessel swept on to mingle with the other smacks -- for Martin was at first almost insensible, and could not tell to which vessel of the fleet he belonged.

Yes, the bad man was rescued, though no one would have sustained much loss by his death; but in Yarmouth that night there was one woman, who little thought that she was a widow, and several little ones who knew not that they were fatherless. The other man who perished was an unmarried youth, but he left an invalid mother to lifelong mourning over the insatiable greed of the cold North Sea.

Little note was taken of this event in the fleet. It was, in truth, a by no means unusual disaster. If fish are to be found, fair weather or foul, for the tables on land, lives must be risked and lost in the waters of the sea. Loss of life in ferrying the fish being of almost daily occurrence, men unavoidably get used to it, as surgeons do to suffering and soldiers to bloodshed. Besides, on such occasions, in the great turmoil of winds and waves, and crowds of trawlers and shouting, it may be only a small portion of the fleet which is at first aware that disaster has occurred, and even these must not, cannot, turn aside from business at such times to think about the woes of their fellow-men.

Meanwhile Dick Martin had fallen, as the saying is, upon his feet. He was carried into a neatly furnished cabin, put between warm blankets in a comfortable berth, and had a cup of steaming hot coffee urged upon him by a pleasant-voiced sailor, who, while he inquired earnestly as to how he felt, at the same time thanked the Lord fervently that they had been the means of saving his life.



Chapter Eight.

Tells Of More Than One Surprise.

"Was that your boat that went down?" shouted Groggy Fox of the Cormorant, as he sailed past the Fairy, after the carrying-steamer had left, and the numerous fishing-smacks were gradually falling into order for another attack on the finny hosts of the sea.

They were almost too far apart for the reply to be heard, and possibly Bryce's state of mind prevented his raising his voice sufficiently, but it was believed that the answer was "Yes."

"Poor fellows!" muttered Fox, who was a man of tender feelings, although apt to feel more for himself than for any one else.

"I think Dick Martin was in the boat," said the mate of the Cormorant, who stood beside his skipper. "I saw them when they shoved off, and though it was a longish distance, I could make him out by his size, an' the fur cap he wore."

"Well, the world won't lose much if he's gone," returned Fox; "he was a bad lot."

It did not occur to the skipper at that time that he himself was nearly, if not quite, as bad a "lot." But bad men are proverbially blind to their own faults.

"He was a cross-grained fellow," returned the mate, "specially when in liquor, but I never heard no worse of 'im than that."

"Didn't you?" said Fox; "didn't you hear what they said of 'im at Gorleston? -- that he tried to do his sister out of a lot o' money as was left her by some cove or other in furrin parts. An' some folk are quite sure that it was him as stole the little savin's o' that poor widdy, Mrs Mooney, though they can't just prove it agin him. Ah, he is a bad lot, an' no mistake. But I may say that o' the whole bilin' o' the Martins. Look at Fred, now."

"Well, wot of him?" asked the mate, in a somewhat gruff tone.

"What of him!" repeated the skipper, "ain't he a hypocrite, with his smooth tongue an' his sly ways, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, an' now -- where is he?"

"Well, where is he!" demanded the mate, with increasing gruffness.

"Why, in course nobody knows where he is," retorted the skipper; "that's where it is. No sooner does he get a small windfall -- leastwise, his mother gets it -- than he cuts the trawlers, an' all his old friends without so much as sayin' 'Good-bye,' an' goes off to Lunnon or somewheres, to set up for a gentleman, I suppose."

"I don't believe nothin' o' the sort," returned the mate indignantly. "Fred Martin may be smooth-tongued and shy if you like, but he's no hypercrite -- "

"Hallo! there's that mission ship on the lee bow," cried Fox, interrupting his mate, and going over to the lee side of the smack, whence he could see the vessel with the great blue flag clearly. "Port your helm," he added in a deep growl to the man who steered. "I'll give her a wide berth."

"If she was the coper you'd steer the other way," remarked the mate, with a laugh.

"In course I would," retorted Fox, "for there I'd find cheap baccy and brandy."

"Ay, bad brandy," said the mate; "but, skipper, you can get baccy cheaper aboard the mission ships now than aboard the coper."

"What! at a shillin' a pound?"

"Ay, at a shillin' a pound."

"I don't believe it."

"But it's a fact," returned the mate firmly, "for Simon Brooks, as was in the Short-Blue fleet last week, told me it's a noo regulation --  they've started the sale o' baccy in the Gospel ships, just to keep us from going to the copers."

"That'll not keep me from going to the copers," said Groggy Fox, with an oath.

"Nor me," said his mate, with a laugh; "but, skipper, as we are pretty nigh out o' baccy just now, an' as the mission ship is near us, an' the breeze down, I don't see no reason why we shouldn't go aboard an' see whether the reports be true. We go to buy baccy, you know, an' we're not bound to buy everything the shop has to sell! We don't want their religion, an' they can't force it down our throats whether we will or no."

Groggy Fox vented a loud laugh at the bare supposition of such treatment of his throat, admitted that his mate was right, and gave orders to launch the boat. In a few minutes they were rowing over the still heaving but now somewhat calmer sea, for the wind had fallen suddenly, and the smacks lay knocking about at no great distance from each other.

It was evident from the bustle on board many of them, and the launching of boats over their bulwarks, that not a few of the men intended to take advantage of this unexpected visit of a mission vessel. No doubt their motives were various. Probably some went, like the men of the Cormorant, merely for baccy; some for medicine; others, perhaps, out of curiosity; while a few, no doubt, went with more or less of desire after the "good tidings," which they were aware had been carried to several of the other fleets that laboured on the same fishing-grounds.

Whatever the reasons, it was evident that a goodly number of men were making for the vessel with the great blue flag. Some had already reached her; more were on their way. The Cormorant's boat was among the last to arrive.

"What does MDSF stand for?" asked Skipper Fox, as they drew near.

"Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen," answered the mate, whose knowledge on this and other points of the Mission were due to his intercourse with his friend Simon Brooks of the Short-Blue. "But it means more than that," he continued. "When we are close enough to make 'em out, you'll see little letters above the MDSF which make the words I've just told you, an' there are little letters below the MDSF which make the words Mighty Deliverer, Saviour, Friend."

"Ay! That's a clever dodge," observed Groggy Fox, who, it need hardly be said, was more impressed with the ingenuity of the device than with the grand truth conveyed.

"But I say, mate, they seems to be uncommonly lively aboard of her."

This was obviously the case, for by that time the boat of the Cormorant had come so near to the vessel that they could not only perceive the actions of those on board, but could hear their voices. The curiosity of Skipper Fox and his men was greatly roused, for they felt convinced that the mere visit of a passing mission ship did not fully account for the vigorous hand-shakings of those on the deck, and the hearty hailing of newcomers, and the enthusiastic cheers of some at least of the little boats' crews as they pulled alongside.

"Seems to me as if they've all gone mad," remarked Groggy Fox, with a sarcastic grin.

"I would say they was all drunk, or half-seas over," observed the mate, "if it was a coper, but in a Gospel ship that's impossible, 'cause they're teetotal, you know. Isn't that the boat o' the Admiral that's pullin' alongside just now, skipper?"

"Looks like it, mate. Ay, an' that's Stephen Lockley of the Lively Poll close astarn of 'im -- an' ain't they kickin' up a rumpus now!"

Fox was right, for when the two little boats referred to ranged alongside of the vessel, and the men scrambled up the side on to her deck, there was an amount of greeting, and hand-shaking, and exclaiming in joyful surprise, which threw all previous exhibitions in that way quite into the shade, and culminated in a mighty cheer, the power of which soft people with shore-going throats and lungs and imaginations cannot hope to emulate or comprehend!

The cheer was mildly repeated with mingled laughter when the crowd on deck turned to observe the arrival of the Cormorant's boat.

"Why, it's the skipper o' the Ironclad!" exclaimed a voice. "No, it's not. It's the skipper o' the Cormorant," cried another.

"What cheer? what cheer, Groggy Fox?" cried a third, as the boat swooped alongside, and several strong arms were extended. "Who'd have looked for you here? There ain't no schnapps."

"All right, mates," replied Fox, with an apologetic smile, as he alighted on the deck and looked round; "I've come for baccy."

A short laugh greeted this reply, but it was instantly checked, for at the moment Fred Martin stepped forward, grasped the skipper's horny hand, and shook it warmly, as well as powerfully, for Fred was a muscular man, and had fully recovered his strength.

"You've come to the right shop for baccy," he said; "I've got plenty o' that, besides many other things much better. I bid you heartily welcome on board of the Sunbeam in the name of the Lord!"

For a few seconds the skipper of the Cormorant could not utter a word. He gazed at Fred Martin with his mouth partially, and his eyes wide, open. The thought that he was thus cordially received by the very man whose character he had so lately and so ungenerously traduced had something, perhaps, to do with his silence.

"A-are -- are you the skipper o' this here wessel!" he stammered.

"Ay, through God's goodness I am."

"A mission wessel!" said Fox, his amazement not a whit abated as he looked round.

"Just so, a Gospel ship," answered Fred, giving the skipper another shake of the hand.

"You didn't mistake it for a coper, did 'ee?" asked David Duffy, who was one of the visitors.

The laugh which followed this question drowned Groggy Fox's reply.

"And you'll be glad to hear," said Fred, still addressing Fox, "that the Sunbeam is a new mission ship, and has been appointed to do service for God in this fleet and no other; so you'll always be able to have books and baccy, mitts, helmets, comforters, medicines, and, best of all, Bibles and advice for body and soul, free gratis when you want 'em."

"But where's the doctor to give out the medicines," asked Fox, who began to moderate his gaze as he recovered self-possession.

"Well, mate," answered Fred, with a bashful air, "I am doctor as well as skipper. Indeed, I'm parson too -- a sort of Jack-of-all-trades! I'm not full fledged of course, but on the principle, I fancy, that 'half a loaf is better than no bread,' I've been sent here after goin' through a short course o' trainin' in surgery -- also in divinity; something like city missionaries and Scripture-readers; not that trainin', much or little, would fit any man for the great work unless he had the love of the Master in his heart. But I trust I have that."

"You have, Fred, thank God!" said the Admiral of the fleet.

"And now, Skipper Fox," continued Fred facetiously, "as I'm a sort of doctor, you must allow me to prescribe something for your complaint. Here, boy," he added, hailing one of his crew, "fetch Skipper Fox a draught o' that physic -- the brown stuff that you keep in the kettle."

"Ay, ay, sir," answered a youthful voice, and in another minute Pat Stiver forced his way through the crowd, bearing in his hand a large cup or bowl of coffee.

"It's not exactly the tipple I'm used to," said Fox, accepting the cup with a grin, and wisely resolving to make the best of circumstances, all the more readily that he observed other visitors had been, or still were, enjoying the same beverage. "Howsever, it's not to be expected that sick men shall have their physic exactly to their likin', so I thank 'ee all the same, Dr Martin!"

This reply was received with much approval, and the character of Groggy Fox immediately experienced a considerable rise in the estimation of his comrades of the fleet.

Attention was drawn from him just then by the approach of another boat.

"There is some genuine surgeon's work coming to you in that boat, Fred, if I mistake not," remarked Stephen Lockley, as he stood beside his old friend.

"Hasn't that man in the stern got his head tied up?"

"Looks like it."

"By the way, what of your uncle, Dick Martin?" asked the Admiral. "It was you that picked him up, wasn't it?"

This reference to the sad event which had occurred that morning solemnised the fishermen assembled on the Sunbeam's deck, and they stood listening with sympathetic expressions as Fred narrated what he had seen of the catastrophe, and told that his uncle was evidently nothing the worse of it, and was lying asleep in the cabin, where everything had been done for his recovery and comfort.

In the boat which soon came alongside was a fisherman who had met with a bad accident some days before. A block tackle from aloft had fallen on his head and cut it severely. His mates had bound it up in rough-and-ready fashion; but the wound had bled freely, and the clotted blood still hung about his hair. Latterly the wound had festered, and gave him agonising pain. His comrades being utterly ignorant as to the proper treatment, could do nothing for him. Indeed, the only effectual thing that could be done was to send the poor man home. This sudden and unexpected appearance of one of the mission ships was therefore hailed as a godsend, for it was well-known that these vessels contained medicines, and it was believed that their skippers were more or less instructed in the healing art. In this belief they were right; for in addition to the well-appointed medicine-chest, each vessel has a skipper who undergoes a certain amount of instruction, and possesses a practical and plain book of directions specially prepared under the supervision of the Board of Trade for the use of captains at sea.

One can imagine, therefore, what a relief it was to this poor wounded man to be taken down into the cabin and have his head at last attended to by one who "knew what he was about." The operation of dressing was watched with the deepest interest and curiosity by the fishermen assembled there, for it was their first experience of the value, even in temporal matters, of a Gospel ship. Their ears were open, too, as well as their eyes, and they listened with much interest to Fred Martin as he tried, after a silent prayer for the Holy Spirit's influence, to turn his first operation to spiritual account in his Master's interest.

"Tell me if I hurt you," he said, observing that his patient winced a little when he was removing the bandage.

"Go on," said the man quietly. "I ain't a babby to mind a touch of pain."

The cabin being too small to hold them all, some of the visitors clustered round the open skylight, and gazed eagerly down, while a few who could not find a point of vantage contented themselves with listening. Even Dick Martin was an observer at that operation, for, having been roused by the bustle around him, he raised himself on an elbow, and looking down from his berth, could both hear and see.

"There now," said Fred Martin, when at last the bandage was removed and the festering mass laid bare. "Hand the scissors, Pat."

Pat Stiver, who was assistant-surgeon on that occasion, promptly handed his chief the desired instrument, and stood by for further orders.

"I'll soon relieve you," continued Fred, removing the clotted hair, etcetera, in a few seconds, and applying a cleansing lotion. "I cut it off, you see, just as the Great Physician cuts away our sins, and washes us clean in the fountain of His own blood. You feel better already, don't you?"

"There's no doubt about that," replied the patient looking up with a great sigh of relief that told far more than words could convey.

We will not record all that was said and done upon that occasion. Let it suffice to say that the man's wound was put in a fair way of recovery without the expense and prolonged suffering of a trip home.

Thereafter, as a breeze was beginning to blow which bid fair to become a "fishing breeze," it became necessary for the visitors to leave in haste, but not before a few books, tracts, and worsted mittens had been distributed, with an earnest invitation from the skipper of the Sunbeam to every one to repeat the visit whenever calm weather should permit, and especially on Sundays, when regular services would be held on deck or in the hold.

On this occasion Bob Lumpy and Pat Stiver had met and joined hands in great delight, not unmingled with surprise.

"Well, who'd ever have expected to find you here?" said Bob.

"Ah, who indeed?" echoed Pat. "The fact is, I came to be near you, Bob."

"But how did it happen? Who got you the sitivation? Look alive! Don't be long-winded, I see they're gittin' our boat ready."

"This is 'ow it was, Bob. I was shovin' Eve about the roads in the bath-chair, as you know I've bin doin' ever since I entered your service, w'en a gen'lem'n come up and axed all about us. 'Would ye like a sitivation among the North Sea fishermen?' says he. 'The very ticket,' says I. 'Come to Lun'on to-night, then,' says he. 'Unpossible,' says I, fit to bu'st wi' disappointment; ''cos I must first shove Miss Eve home, an' git hold of a noo shover to take my place.' 'All right,' says he, laughin'; 'come when you can. Here's my address.' So away I goes; got a trustworthy, promisin' young feller as I've know'd a long time to engage for Miss Eve, an' off to Lun'on, an' --  here I am!"

"Time's up," cried the Admiral at this point, shaking hands with Fred Martin; while Bob Lumsden sprang from the side of his little friend, and there was a general move towards the boats.

"Good-bye, mate," said Skipper Fox, holding out his hand.

"Stop, friends," cried Fred, in a loud voice; "that's not the way we part on board o' the Sunbeam."

Taking off his hat and looking up, -- a sign that all understood, for they immediately uncovered and bowed their heads, -- the missionary skipper, in a few brief but earnest words, asked for a blessing on the work which he had been privileged that day to begin, that Satan might be foiled, and the name of Jesus be made precious among the fishermen of the North Sea.

Thereafter the boats scattered towards their various smacks, their crews rejoicing in this latest addition to the fleet. Even Groggy Fox gave it as his opinion that there might be worse things after all in the world than "mission wessels!"



Chapter Nine.

Beginning Of The Good Work.

The breeze which had begun to blow freshened as the day advanced, and the Admiral, directing his course to the nor'-east, made for the neighbourhood of the Dogger Bank. Having reached what he deemed suitable fishing-ground, he changed his course and gave the signal to "put to." With the precision of well-trained troops the smacks obeyed, and let down their trawls. The Sunbeam also let down her net, and shaped her course like the rest, thus setting an example of attention to secular duty. She trawled for fish so as to help to pay expenses, until such time as suitable weather and opportunity offered for the main and higher duty of fishing for men.

The first haul of the mission vessel was a great success, prophetic of the great successes in store, thought her skipper, as the cod-end was finally swung inboard in an almost bursting condition. When the lower end was opened, and the living fountain of fish gushed over the deck, there was a general exclamation of satisfaction, mingled with thanksgiving, from the crew, for fishes great and small were there in abundance of every sort that swims in the North Sea.

"All sorts and conditions of men" leaped into Fred Martin's mind, for he was thinking of higher things at the moment. "A good beginning and a good omen," he murmured.

"Wot a haul!" exclaimed Pat Stiver, who was nearly swept off his legs, and to whom the whole thing was an entirely new experience.

"Use your eyes less and your hands more, my boy," said Fink, the mate, setting the example by catching hold of a magnificent turbot that would have graced a lord mayor's feast, and commencing to clean it.

Pat was by no means a lazy boy. Recovering from his surprise, he set to work with all the vigour of a man of purpose, and joined the rest of the crew in their somewhat disagreeable duty.

They wrought with such goodwill that their contribution of trunks to the general supply was the largest put on board the steamer next day.

Calm and storm sometimes succeed each other rapidly on the North Sea. It was so on the present occasion. Before the nets could be cleared and let down for another take, the breeze had died away. The weather that was unsuited, however, for fishing, was very suitable for "ferrying" to the steamer; and when that all-important duty was done, the comparative calm that prevailed was just the thing for the work of the Sunbeam.

Well aware of this, Manx Bradley and other like-minded skippers, kept close to the mission ship, whose great blue flag was waving welcome to all. Boats were soon pulling towards her, their crews being influenced by a great variety of motives; and many men who, but for her presence, would have been gambling or drinking, or oppressed with having nothing to do, or whistling for a breeze, found an agreeable place of meeting on her deck.

On this occasion a considerable number of men who had received slight injuries from accidents came on board, so that Fred had to devote much of his time to the medical part of his work, while Fink, his mate, superintended the distribution of what may be styled worsted-works and literature.

"Hallo, Jim Freeman!" said Fred, looking round from the medicine shelves before which he stood searching for some drug; "you're the very man I want to see. Want to tempt you away from Skipper Lockley, an' ship with me in the Sunbeam."

"I'm not worth much for anybody just now," said Freeman, holding up his right hand, which was bound in a bloody handkerchief. "See, I've got what'll make me useless for weeks to come, I fear."

"Never fear, Jim," said Fred, examining the injured member, which was severely bruised and lacerated. "How got ye that?"

"Carelessness, Fred. The old story -- clapped my hand on the gunwale o' the boat when we were alongside the carrier."

"I'd change with 'ee, Jim, if I could," growled Joe Stubley, one of the group of invalids who filled the cabin at the time.

There was a general laugh, as much at Joe's lugubrious visage as at his melancholy tone.

"Why, what's wrong with you, Stubs?" asked Fred.

"DT," remarked the skipper of the Cormorant, who could hardly speak because of a bad cold, and who thus curtly referred to the drunkard's complaint of delirium tremens.

"Nothin' o' the sort!" growled Joe. "I've not seed a coper for a week or two. Brandy's more in your way, Groggy Fox, than in mine. No, it's mulligrumps o' some sort that's the matter wi' me."

"Indeed," said Fred, as he continued to dress the bruised hand. "What does it feel like, Stubs?"

"Feel like?" exclaimed the unhappy man, in a tone that told of anguish, "it feels like red-hot thunder rumblin' about inside o' me. Just as if a great conger eel was wallopin' about an' a-dinin' off my witals."

"Horrible, but not incurable," remarked Fred. "I'll give you some pills, boy, that'll soon put you all to rights. Now, then, who's next?"

While another of the invalids stepped forward and revealed his complaints, which were freely commented on by his more or less sympathetic mates, Fink had opened out a bale of worsted comforters, helmets, and mitts on deck, and, assisted by Pat Stiver, was busily engaged in distributing them. "Here you are -- a splendid pair of mitts, Jack," he said, tossing the articles to a huge man, who received them with evident satisfaction.

"Too small, I fear," said Jack, trying to force his enormous hand into one of them.

"Hold on! don't bu'st it!" exclaimed Pat sharply; there's all sorts and sizes here. "There's a pair, now, that would fit Goliath."

"Ah, them's more like it, little 'un," cried the big fisherman. "No more sea-blisters now, thanks to the ladies on shore," he added, as he drew the soft mittens over his sadly scarred wrists.

"Now then, who wants this?" continued Fink, holding up a worsted helmet; "splendid for the back o' the head and neck, with a hole in front to let the eyes and nose out."

"Hand over," cried David Duffy.

"I say, wot's this inside?" exclaimed one of the men, drawing a folded paper from one of his mittens and opening it.

"Read, an' you'll maybe find out," suggested the mate.

"'God, who giveth us richly all things to enjoy,'" said the fisherman, reading from the paper.

"Just so," said Fink, "that's what the lady as made the mitts wants to let you know so's you may larn to think more o' the Giver than the gifts."

"I wish," said another of the men testily, as he pulled a tract from inside one of his mitts, and flung it on the deck, "I wish as how these same ladies would let religion alone, an' send us them things without it. We want the mitts, an' comforters, an' helmets, but we don't want their humbuggin' religion."

"Shame, Dick!" said David Duffy, as he wound a comforter round his thick neck. "You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. We're bound to take the things as they've been sent to us, an' say 'Thank 'ee.'"

"If it wasn't for what you call 'humbuggin' religion,'" remarked Fink, looking Dick straight in the face, "it's little that we'd see o' comforters, or books, or mission ships on the North Sea. Why, d'ee think that selfishness, or greed, or miserliness, or indifference, or godlessness would ever take the trouble to send all them things to us? Can't you understand that the love of God in the heart makes men and women wish to try to keep God's commandments by bein' kind to one another, an' considering the poor, an' feedin' the hungry, an' clothin' the naked?"

"Right you are, Fink," said Lockley, with a nod of approval, which was repeated by several of those around.

"But, I say, you spoke of books, mate," remarked Bob Lumsden, who came forward at the moment, much to the satisfaction of his little friend Pat Stiver; "you han't showed us any books yet."

"One thing at a time, boy," returned the mate.

"We've got lots o' books too. Go below, Pat, an' ask the skipper to send up that big case o' books; say I've about finished givin' out the mitts an' mufflers."

"Just so, boy," put in his friend Bob; "say that the mate has distributed the soft goods, an' wants some hard facts now."

"Don't be cheeky, you young rascal!" cried the mate, hitting Bob on the nose with a well aimed pair of mittens.

"Thankee! On'y them things was meant for the hands not for the nose. Howsever, I won't quarrel with a gift, no matter what way it comes to me," retorted Bob, picking up the mitts and putting them in his pocket.

While he was speaking two men brought on deck a large box, which was quickly opened by the mate. The men crowded around with much interest and curiosity, for it was the first batch of books that had ever reached that fleet. The case was stuffed to the lid with old periodicals and volumes, of every shape, and size, and colour.

"W'y, they've bin an' sent us the whole British Museum, I do believe!" exclaimed David Duffy, whose younger brother chanced to be a porter in our great storehouse of literature.

"Here you are, lads!" cried Fink, going down on his knees and pulling out the contents. "Wollum of The Leisure Hour, Sunday Magazine, odd numbers o' The Quiver, wollum of The Boy's Own Paper, Young England, Home Words, and Good Words (to smother our bad words, you know). There you are, enough to make doctors or professors of every man Jack o' you, if you'll on'y take it all in."

"Professors!" growled Joe Stubley, who had come on deck, still suffering from his strange internal complaint. "More like to make fools on us. Wot do we want wi' books and larnin'!"

"Nothin' wotsumdever," answered Pat Stiver, with a look of the most patronising insolence. "You're right, Joe, quite right -- as you always are. Smacksmen has got no souls, no brains, no minds, no hintellects."

"They've got no use for books, bless you! All they wants is wittles an' grog -- "

The boy pulled up at this point, for Stubley made a rush at him, but Pat was too quick for him.

"Well said, youngster; give it him hot," cried one of the men approvingly, while the others laughed; but they were too much interested in the books to be diverted from these for more than a few seconds. Many of them were down on their knees beside the mate, who continued in a semi-jocular strain -- "Now then, take your time, my hearties; lots o' books here, and lots more where these came from. The British public will never run dry. I'm cheap John! Here they are, all for nothin', on loan; small wollum -- the title ain't clear, ah! -- The Little Man as Lost his Mother; big wollum -- Shakespeare; Pickwick; books by Hesba Stretton; Almanac; Missionary Williams; Polar Seas an' Regions; Pilgrim's Progress -- all sorts to suit all tastes -- Catechisms, Noo Testaments, Robinson Crusoe."

"Hold on there, mate; let's have a look at that!" cried Bob Lumsden eagerly -- so eagerly that the mate handed the book to him with a laugh.

"Come here, Pat," whispered Bob, dragging his friend out of the crowd to a retired spot beside the boat of the Sunbeam, which lay on deck near the mainmast. "Did you ever read Robinson Crusoe?"

"No, never -- never so much as 'eard of 'im."

"You can read, I suppose?"

"Oh yes; I can read well enough."

"What have you read?" demanded Bob.

"On'y bits of old noospapers," replied Pat, with a look of contempt, "an' I don't like readin'."

"Don't like it? Of course you don't, you ignorant curmudgeon, if noospapers is all you've read. Now, Pat, I got this book, not for myself but a purpus for you."

"Thankee for nothin'," said Pat; "I doesn't want it."

"Doesn't want it!" repeated Bob. "D'ee know that this is the very best book as ever was written?"

"You seems pretty cock-sure," returned Pat, who was in a contradictory mood that day; "but you know scholards sometimes differ in their opinions about books."

"Pat I'll be hard upon you just now if you don't look out!" said Bob seriously. "Howsever, you're not so far wrong, arter all. People does differ about books, so I'll only say that Robinson Crusoe is the best book as was ever written, in my opinion, an' so it'll be in yours, too, when you have read it; for there's shipwrecks, an' desert islands, an' savages, an' scrimmages, an' footprints, an' -- see here! That's a pictur of him in his hairy dress, wi' his goat, an' parrot, an' the umbrellar as he made hisself, a-lookin' at the footprint on the sand."

The picture, coupled with Bob Lumsden's graphic description, had the desired effect. His little friend's interest was aroused, and Pat finally accepted the book, with a promise to read it carefully when he should find time.

"But of that," added Pat, "I ain't got too much on hand."

"You've got all that's of it -- four and twenty hours, haven't you?" demanded his friend.

"True, Bob, but it's the spare time I'm short of. Howsever, I'll do my best."

While this literary conversation was going on beside the boat, the visitors to the Sunbeam had been provided with a good supply of food for the mind as well as ease and comfort for the body, and you may be very sure that the skipper and his men, all of whom were Christians, did not fail in regard to the main part of their mission, namely, to drop in seeds of truth as they found occasion, which might afterwards bear fruit to the glory of God and the good of man.



Chapter Ten.

The First Fight And Victory.

There was on board the Sunbeam, on this her first voyage, a tall, broad-shouldered, but delicate-looking young man, with a most woebegone expression and a yellowish-green countenance. To look at him was to pronounce him a melancholy misanthrope -- a man of no heart or imagination.

Never before, probably, did a man's looks so belie his true character. This youth was an enthusiast; an eager, earnest, hearty Christian, full of love to his Master and to all mankind, and a student for the ministry. But John Binning had broken down from over-study, and at the time we introduce him to the reader he was still further "down" with that most horrible complaint, sea-sickness.

Even when in the depth of his woe at this time, some flashes of Binning's true spirit gleamed fitfully through his misery. One of those gleams was on the occasion of Dick Martin being rescued. Up to that period, since leaving Yarmouth, Binning had lain flat on his back. On hearing of the accident and the rescue he had turned out manfully and tried to speak to the rescued man, but indescribable sensations quickly forced him to retire. Again, when the first visitors began to sing one of his favourite hymns, he leaped up with a thrill of emotion in his heart, but somehow the thrill went to his stomach, and he collapsed.

At last however, Neptune appeared to take pity on the poor student. His recovery -- at least as regarded the sea-sickness -- was sudden. He awoke, on the morning after the opening of the case of books, quite restored. He could hardly believe it. His head no longer swam; other parts of him no longer heaved. The first intimation that Skipper Martin had of the change was John Binning bursting into a hymn with the voice of a stentor. He rose and donned his clothes.

"You've got your sea legs at last, sir," said Fred Martin, as Binning came on deck and staggered towards him with a joyful salutation.

"Yes, and I've got my sea appetite, too, Mr Martin. Will breakfast be ready soon?"

"Just goin' on the table, sir. I like to hear that question. It's always a sure and good sign."

At that moment Pat Stiver appeared walking at an acute angle with the deck, and bearing a dish of smoking turbot. He dived, as it were, into the cabin without breaking the dish, and set it on the very small table, on which tea, bread, butter, and a lump of beef were soon placed beside it. To this sumptuous repast the skipper, the student, and the mate sat down. After a very brief prayer for blessing by the skipper, they set to work with a zest which perhaps few but seafaring men can fully understand. The student, in particular, became irrepressible after the first silent and ravenous attack.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, "the sea! the sea! the open sea! If you are ill, go to sea. If you are fagged, go to sea! If you are used up, seedy, washed-out, miserable, go to sea! Another slice of that turbot, please. Thanks."

"Mind your cup, sir," said the skipper, a few minutes after, in a warning voice; "with a breeze like this it's apt to pitch into your lap. She lays over a good deal because I've got a press of sail on her this morning."

"More than usual?" asked Binning.

"Yes. You see I'm trying to beat a coper that's close ahead of us just now. The Sunbeam is pretty swift on her heels, an' if the breeze holds -- ha! you've got it, sir?"

He certainly had got it, in his lap -- where neither cup, saucer, nor tea should be.

"You are right, skipper, and if your ready hands had not prevented it I should have got the teapot and sugar-basin also. But no matter. As I've had enough now, I'll go on deck and walk myself dry."

On deck a new subject of interest occupied the mind of the rapidly reviving student, for the race between the Sunbeam and the coper was not yet decided. They were trying which would be first to reach a group of smacks that were sailing at a considerable distance ahead on the port bow. At first the coper seemed to have the best of it, but afterwards the breeze freshened and the Sunbeam soon left it far astern. Seeing that the race was lost, the floating grog-shop changed her course.

"Ah, she'll steer for other fleets where there's no opposition," remarked the skipper.

"To win our first race is a good omen," said John Binning, with much satisfaction. "May the copers be thus beaten from every fleet until they are beaten from the North Sea altogether!"

"Amen to that," said Fred Martin heartily. "You feel well enough now, sir, to think of undertaking service to-morrow, don't you?"

"Think of it, my friend! I have done more than think," exclaimed the student; "I have been busy while in bed preparing for the Sabbath, and if the Master sends us calm weather I will surely help in the good work you have begun so well."

And the Master did send calm weather -- so calm and so beautiful that the glassy sea and fresh air and bright blue sky seemed typical of the quiet "rest that remaineth for the people of God." Indeed, the young student was led to choose that very text for his sermon, ignoring all his previous preparation, so impressed was he with the suitability of the theme. And when afterwards the boats of the various smacks came trooping over the sea, and formed a long tail astern of the Sunbeam, and when the capacious hold was cleared, and packed as full as possible with rugged weather-beaten men, who looked at the tall pale youth with their earnest inquiring gaze, like hungering men who had come there for something and would not be content to depart with nothing, the student still felt convinced that his text was suitable, although not a single word or idea regarding it had yet struggled in his mind to get free.

In fact the young man's mind was like a pent-up torrent, calm for the moment, but with tremendous and ever-increasing force behind the flood-gates, for he had before him men, many of whom had scarcely ever heard the Gospel in their lives, whose minds were probably free from the peculiar prejudices of landsmen, whose lives were spent in harsh, hard, cheerless toil, and who stood sorely in need of spiritual rest and deliverance from the death of sin. Many of these men had come there only out of curiosity; a few because they loved the Lord, and some because they had nothing better to do.

Groggy Fox was among them. He had come as before for "baccy," forgetting that the weed was not sold on Sundays, and had been prevailed on to remain to the service. Dick Martin was also there, in a retired and dark corner. He was curious to know, he remarked, what the young man had to talk about.

It was not till after prayer had been offered by the student that God opened the flood-gates. Then the stream gushed forth.

"It is," said the preacher -- in tones not loud, but so deep and impressive that every soul was at once enthralled -- "it is to the servants of the devil that the grand message comes. Not to the good, and pure, and holy is the blessed Gospel or good news sent, but, to the guilty, the sin-stricken, the bad, and the sin-weary God has sent by His blessed Spirit the good and glorious news that there is deliverance in Jesus Christ for the chief of sinners. Deliverance from sin changes godless men into the children of God, and there is rest for these. Do I need to tell toilers of the deep how sweet rest is to the tired-out body? Surely not, because you have felt it, and know all about it better than I do. But it is needful to tell you about rest for the soul, because some of you have never felt it, and know not what it is. Is there no man before me who has, some time or other, committed some grievous sin, whose soul groans under the burden of the thought, and who would give all he possesses if he had never put out his hand to commit that sin? Is there no one here under the power of that deadly monster --  strong drink -- who, remembering the days when he was free from bondage, would sing this day with joy unspeakable if he could only escape?"

"Yes," shouted a strong voice from a dark corner of the hold. "Thank God!" murmured another voice from a different quarter, for there were men in that vessel's hold who were longing for the salvation of other as well as their own souls.

No notice was taken of the interrupters. The preacher only paused for an instant as if to emphasise the words -- "Jesus Christ is able to save to the uttermost all who come to God through Him."

We will not dwell on this subject further than to say that the prayer which followed the sermon was fervent and short, for that student evidently did not think that he should be "heard for his much speaking!" The prayer which was thereafter offered by the Admiral of the fleet was still shorter, very much to the point, and replete with nautical phrases, but an uncalled-for petition, which followed that, was briefest of all. It came in low but distinct tones from a dark corner of the hold, and had a powerful effect on the audience; perhaps, also, on the Hearer of prayer. It was merely -- "God have mercy on me."

Whatever influence might have resulted from the preaching and the prayer on that occasion, there could be no doubt whatever as to the singing. It was tremendous! The well-known powers of Wesleyan throats would have been lost in it. Saint Paul's Cathedral organ could not have drowned it. Many of the men had learned at least the tunes of the more popular of Sankey's hymns, first from the Admiral and a few like-minded men, then from each other. Now every man was furnished with an orange-coloured booklet. Some could read; some could not. It mattered little. Their hearts had been stirred by that young student, or rather by the student's God. Their voices, trained to battle with the tempest, formed a safety-valve to their feelings. "The Lifeboat" was, appropriately, the first hymn chosen. Manx Bradley led with a voice like a trumpet, for joy intensified his powers. Fred Martin broke forth with tremendous energy. It was catching. Even Groggy Fox was overcome. With eyes shut, mouth wide open, and book upside down, he absolutely howled his determination to "leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore."

But skipper Fox was not the only man whose spirit was touched on that occasion. Many of the boats clung to the mission vessel till the day was nearly past, for their crews were loath to part. New joys, new hopes, new sensations had been aroused. Before leaving, Dick Martin took John Binning aside, and in a low but firm voice said -- "you're right, sir. A grievous sin does lie heavy on me. I robbed Mrs Mooney, a poor widdy, of her little bag o' savin's -- twenty pounds it was."

The latter part of this confession was accidentally overheard by Bob Lumsden. He longed to hear more, but Bob had been taught somehow that eavesdropping is a mean and dishonourable thing. With manly determination, therefore, he left the spot, but immediately sought and found his little friend Pat Stiver, intent on relieving his feelings.

"What d'ee think, Pat?" he exclaimed, in a low whisper, but with indignation in his eye and tone.

"I ain't thinkin' at all," said Pat.

"Would you believe it, Pat?" continued Bob, "I've just heerd that scoun'rel Dick Martin say that it was him as stole the money from Mrs Mooney -- from the mother of our Eve!"

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Pat, making his eyes remarkably wide and round.

"Yes, I does, an' I've long suspected him. Whether he was boastin' or not I can't tell, an' it do seem strange that he should boast of it to the young parson -- leastwise, unless it was done to spite him. But now mark me, Pat Stiver, I'll bring that old sinner to his marrow-bones before long, and make him disgorge too, if he hain't spent it all. I give you leave to make an Irish stew o' my carcase if I don't. Ay, ay, sir!"

The concluding words of Bob Lumsden's speech were in reply to an order from Skipper Lockley to haul the boat alongside. In a few minutes more the mission ship was forsaken by her strange Sabbath congregation, and left with all the fleet around her floating quietly on the tranquil sea.



Chapter Eleven.

A Consultation, A Feast, And A Plot.

There was -- probably still is -- a coffee-tavern in Gorleston where, in a cleanly, cheerful room, a retired fisherman and his wife, of temperance principles, supplied people with those hot liquids which are said to cheer without inebriating.

Here, by appointment, two friends met to discuss matters of grave importance. One was Bob Lumsden, the other his friend and admirer Pat Stiver. Having asked for and obtained two large cups of coffee and two slices of buttered bread for some ridiculously small sum of money, they retired to the most distant corner of the room, and, turning their backs on the counter, began their discussion in low tones.

Being early in the day, the room had no occupants but themselves and the fisherman's wife, who busied herself in cleaning and arranging plates, cups, and saucers, etcetera, for expected visitors.

"Pat," said Bob, sipping his coffee with an appreciative air, "I've turned a total abstainer."

"W'ich means?" inquired Pat.

"That I don't drink nothin' at all," replied Bob.

"But you're a-drinkin' now!" said Pat.

"You know what I mean, you small willain; I drink nothin' with spirits in it."

"Well, I don't see what you gains by that, Bob, for I heerd Fred Martin say you was nat'rally 'full o' spirit,' so abstainin' 'll make no difference."

"Pat," said Bob sternly, "if you don't clap a stopper on your tongue, I'll wollop you."

Pat became grave at once. "Well, d'ee know, Bob," he said, with an earnest look, "I do b'lieve you are right. You've always seemed to me as if you had a sort o' dissipated look, an' would go to the bad right off if you gave way to drink. Yes, you're right, an' to prove my regard for you I'll become a total abstainer too -- but, nevertheless, I can't leave off drinkin'."

"Can't leave off drinkin'!" echoed Bob.

Pat shook his head. "No -- can't. 'Taint possible."

"Why, wot do you mean?"

"Well, Bob, I mean that as I've never yet begun to drink, it ain't possible for me to leave it off, d'ee see, though I was to try ever so hard. Howsever, I'll become an abstainer all the same, just to keep company along wi' you."

Bob Lumsden gave a short laugh, and then, resuming his earnest air, said -- 

"Pat, I've found out that Dick Martin, the scoun'rel, has bin to Mrs Mooney's hut again, an' now I'm sartin sure it was him as stole the 'ooman's money -- not because I heerd him say so to Mr Binning, but because Eve told me she saw him flattenin' his ugly nose against her window-pane last night, an' recognised him at once for the thief. Moreover, he opened the door an' looked into the room, but seein' that he had given Eve a terrible fright, he drew back smartly an' went away."

"The willain!" exclaimed Pat Stiver, snapping his teeth as if he wanted to bite, and doubling up his little fists. It was evident that Bob's news had taken away all his tendency to jest.

"Now it's plain to me," continued Bob, "that the willain means more mischief. P'r'aps he thinks the old 'ooman's got more blunt hid away in her chest, or in the cupboard. Anyhow, he's likely to frighten poor Eve out of her wits, so it's my business to stop his little game. The question is, how is it to be done. D'ee think it would be of any use to commoonicate wi' the police?"

The shaking of Pat Stiver's head was a most emphatic answer.

"No," said he, "wotiver you do, have nothin' to do wi' the p'leece. They're a low-minded, pig-headed set, wi' their 'move on's,' an' their 'now then, little un's;' an' their grabbin's of your collars, without no regard to w'ether they're clean or not, an' their -- "

"Let alone the police, Pat," interrupted his friend, "but let's have your adwice about what should be done."

After a moment's consideration, the small boy advised that Mrs Mooney's hut should be watched.

"In course," he said, "Dick Martin ain't such a fool as to go an' steal doorin' the daytime, so we don't need to begin till near dark. You are big an' strong enough now, Bob, to go at a man like Dick an' floor him wi a thumpin' stick."

"Scarcely," returned Bob, with a gratified yet dubious shake of his head. "I'm game to try, but it won't do to risk gettin' the worst of it in a thing o' this sort."

"Well, but if I'm there with another thumpin' stick to back you up," said Pat, "you'll have no difficulty wotsumdever. An' then, if we should need help, ain't the 'Blue Boar' handy, an' there's always a lot o' hands there ready for a spree at short notice? Now, my adwice is that we go right off an' buy two thumpin' sticks -- yaller ones, wi' big heads like Jack the Giant Killer -- get 'em for sixpence apiece. A heavy expense, no doubt, but worth goin' in for, for the sake of Eve Mooney. And when, in the words o' the old song, the shades of evenin' is closin' o'er us, we'll surround the house of Eve, and 'wait till the brute rolls by!'"

"You're far too poetical, Pat, for a practical man, said his friend. Howsomediver, I think, on the whole, your adwice is not bad, so well try it on. But wot are we to do till the shades of evenin' comes on?"

"Amoose ourselves," answered Pat promptly.

"H'm! might do worse," returned his friend. "I s'pose you know I've got to be at Widow Martin's to take tea wi' Fred an' his bride on their return from their weddin' trip. I wonder if I might take you with me, Pat. You're small, an' I suppose you don't eat much."

"Oh, don't I, though?" exclaimed Pat.

"Well, no matter. It would be very jolly. We'd have a good blow-out, you know; sit there comfortably together till it began to git dark, and then start off to -- to -- "

"Go in an' win," suggested the little one.

Having thus discussed their plans and finished their coffee, the two chivalrous lads went off to Yarmouth and purchased two of the most formidable cudgels they could find, of the true Jack-the-Giant-Killer type, with which they retired to the Denes to "amoose" themselves.

Evening found them hungry and hearty at the tea-table of Mrs Martin --  and really, for the table of a fisherman's widow, it was spread with a very sumptuous repast; for it was a great day in the history of the Martin family. No fewer than three Mrs Martins were seated round it. There was old Granny Martin, who consented to quit her attic window on that occasion and take the head of the table, though she did so with a little sigh, and a soft remark that, "It would be sad if he were to come when she was not watching." Then there was widow Martin, Fred's mother -- whose bad leg, by the way, had been quite cured by her legacy.

And lastly, there was pretty Mrs Isa Martin, Fred's newly-married wife.

Besides these there were skipper Lockley of the Lively Poll, and his wife Martha -- for it will be remembered Martha was cousin to Isa, and Stephen's smack chanced to be in port at this time as well as the Sunbeam and the Fairy, alias the Ironclad, which last circumstance accounts for Dick Martin being also on shore. But Dick was not invited to this family gathering, for the good reason that he had not shown face since landing, and no one seemed to grieve over his absence, with the exception of poor old granny, whose love for her "wandering boy" was as strong and unwavering as was her love to the husband, for whose coming she had watched so long.

Bob Lumsden, it may be remarked, was one of the guests, because Lockley was fond of him; and Pat Stiver was there because Bob was fond of him! Both were heartily welcomed.

Besides the improvement in Mrs Martin's health, there was also vast improvement in the furniture and general appearance of the attic since the arrival of the legacy.

"It was quite a windfall," remarked Mrs Lockley, handing in her cup for more tea.

"True, Martha, though I prefer to call it a godsend," said Mrs Martin. "You see it was gettin' so bad, what wi' standin' so long at the tub, an' goin' about wi' the clo'es, that I felt as if I should break down altogether, I really did; but now I've been able to rest it I feel as if it was going to get quite strong again, and that makes me fit to look after mother far better. Have some more tea, granny!"

A mumbled assent and a pleased look showed that the old woman was fully alive to what was going on.

"Hand the butter to Isa, Pat. Thankee," said the ex-washerwoman. "What a nice little boy your friend is, Bob Lumpy! I'm so glad you thought of bringin' him. He quite puts me in mind of what my boy Fred was at his age -- on'y a trifle broader, an' taller, an stouter."

"A sort of lock-stock-an'-barrel difference, mother," said Fred, laughing.

"I dun know what you mean by your blocks, stocks, an' barrels," returned Mrs Martin, "but Pat is a sight milder in the face than you was, an I'm sure he's a better boy."

The subject of this remark cocked his ears and winked gently with one eye to his friend Bob, with such a sly look that the blooming bride, who observed it, went off into a shriek of laughter.

"An' only to think," continued Mrs Martin, gazing in undisguised admiration at her daughter-in-law, "that my Fred -- who seems as if on'y yesterday he was no bigger than Pat, should have got Isa Wentworth -- the best lass in all Gorleston -- for a wife! You're a lucky boy!"

"Right you are," responded Fred, with enthusiasm. "I go wi' you there, mother, but I'm more than a lucky boy -- I'm a highly favoured one, and I thank God for the precious gift; and also for that other gift, which is second only to Isa, the command of a Gospel ship on the North Sea."

A decided chuckle, which sounded like a choke, from granny, fortunately called for attentions from the bride at this point.

"But do 'ee really think your mission smack will do much good?" asked Martha Lockley, who was inclined to scepticism.

"I am sure of it," replied Fred emphatically. "Why, we've done some good work already, though we have bin but a short time wi' the fleet. I won't speak of ourselves, but just look at what has bin done in the way of saving drunkards and swearers by the Cholmondeley in the short-Blue Fleet, and by the old Ensign in the Fleet started by Mr Burdett-Coutts, the Columbia fleet, and in the other fleets that have got Gospel ships. It is not too much to say that there are hundreds of men now prayin' to God, singin' the praises o' the Lamb, an' servin' their owners better than they ever did before, who not long ago were godless drunkards and swearers."

"Men are sometimes hypocrites," objected Martha; "how d'ee know that they are honest, or that it will last?"

"Hypocrites?" exclaimed Fred, pulling a paper hastily from his pocket and unfolding it. "I think you'll admit that sharp men o' bussiness are pretty good judges o' hypocrites as well as of good men. Listen to what one of the largest firms of smack-owners says: 'Our men have been completely revolutionised, and we gladly become subscribers of ten guineas to the funds of the Mission.' Another firm says, 'What we have stated does not convey anything like our sense of the importance of the work you have undertaken.'"

"Ay, there's something in that," said Martha, who, like all sceptics, was slow to admit truth.

We say not this to the discredit of sceptics. On the contrary, we think that people who swallow what is called "truth" too easily, are apt to imbibe a deal of error along with it. Doubtless it was for the benefit of such that the word was given -- "Prove all things. Hold fast that which is good."

Fred then went to show the immense blessing that mission ships had already been to the North Sea fishermen -- alike to their souls and bodies; but we may not follow him further, for Bob Lumsden and Pat Stiver claim individual attention just now.

When these enterprising heroes observed that the shades of evening were beginning to fall, they rose to take their leave.

"Why so soon away, lads?" asked Fred.

"We're goin' to see Eve Mooney," answered Bob. "Whatever are the boys goin' to do wi' them thick sticks?" exclaimed Martha Lockley.

"Fit main an fore masts into a man-o'-war, I suppose," suggested her husband.

The boys did not explain, but went off laughing, and Lockley called after them -- 

"Tell Eve I've got a rare lot o' queer things for her this trip."

"And give her my dear love," cried Mrs Fred Martin.

"Ay, ay," replied the boys as they hurried away on their self-imposed mission.



Chapter Twelve.

The Enterprise Fails -- Remarkably.

The lads had to pass the "Blue Boar" on their way to Widow Mooney's hut, and they went in just to see, as Bob said, how the land lay, and whether there was a prospect of help in that quarter if they should require it.

Besides a number of strangers, they found in that den of iniquity Joe Stubley, Ned Bryce, and Groggy Fox -- which last had, alas! forgotten his late determination to "leave the poor old stranded wreck and pull for the shore." He and his comrades were still out among the breakers, clinging fondly to the old wreck.

The boys saw at a glance that no assistance was to be expected from these men. Stubley was violently argumentative, Fox was maudlinly sentimental, and Bryce was in an exalted state of heroic resolve. Each sought to gain the attention and sympathy of the other, and all completely failed, but they succeeded in making a tremendous noise, which seemed partially to satisfy them as they drank deeper.

"Come, nothin' to be got here," whispered Bob Lumsden, in a tone of disgust, as he caught hold of his friend's arm. "We'll trust to ourselves -- "

"An' the thumpin' sticks," whispered Pat, as they reached the end of the road.

Alas for the success of their enterprise if it had depended on those formidable weapons of war!

When the hut was reached the night had become so nearly dark that they ventured to approach it with the intention of peeping in at the front window, but their steps were suddenly arrested by the sight of a man's figure approaching from the opposite direction. They drew back, and, being in the shadow of a wall, escaped observation. The man advanced noiselessly, and with evident caution, until he reached the window, and peeped in.

"It's Dick," whispered Bob. "Can't see his figure-head, but I know the cut of his jib, even in the dark."

"Let's go at 'im, slick!" whispered Pat, grasping his cudgel and looking fierce.

"Not yet. We must make quite sure, an' nab him in the very act."

As he spoke the man went with stealthy tread to the door of the hut, which the drunken owner had left on the latch. Opening it softly, he went in, shut it after him, and, to the dismay of the boys, locked it on the inside.

"Now, Pat," said Bob, somewhat bitterly, "there's nothin' for it but the police."

Pat expressed strong dissent. "The p'leece," he said, "was useless for real work; they was on'y fit to badger boys an' old women."

"But what can we do?" demanded Bob anxiously, for he felt that time was precious. "You an' I ain't fit to bu'st in the door; an' if we was, Dick would be ready for us. If we're to floor him he must be took by surprise."

"Let's go an' peep," suggested the smaller warrior.

"Come on, then," growled the big one.

The sight that met their eyes when they peeped was indeed one fitted to expand these orbs of vision to the uttermost, for they beheld the thief on his knees beside the invalid's bed, holding her thin hand in his, while his head was bowed upon the ragged counterpane.

Bob Lumsden was speechless.

"Hold me; I'm a-goin' to bu'st," whispered Pat, by way of expressing the depth of his astonishment.

Presently Eve spoke. They could hear her faintly, yet distinctly, through the cracked and patched windows, and listened with all their ears.

"Don't take on so, poor man," she said in her soft loving tones. "Oh, I am so glad to hear what you say!"

Dick Martin looked up quickly.

"What!" he exclaimed, "glad to hear me say that I am the thief as stole your mother's money! that I'm a low, vile, selfish blackguard who deserves to be kicked out o' the North Sea fleet -- off the face o' the 'arth altogether?"

"Yes," returned Eve, smiling through her tears -- for she had been crying -- "glad to hear you say all that, because Jesus came to save people like you; but He does not call them such bad names. He only calls them the 'lost.'"

"Well, I suppose you're right, dear child," said the man, after a pause; "an' I do think the Blessed Lord has saved me, for I never before felt as I do now -- hatred of my old bad ways, and an awful desire to do right for His sake. If any o' my mates had told me I'd feel an' act like this a week ago, I'd have called him a fool. I can't understand it. I suppose that God must have changed me altogether. My only fear is that I'll fall back again into the old bad ways -- I'm so helpless for anything good, d'ee see."

"You forget," returned Eve, with another of her tearful smiles; "He says, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee' -- "

"No, I don't forget that," interrupted Dick quickly; "that is what the young preacher in the mission smack said, an' it has stuck to me. It's that as keeps me up. But I didn't come here to speak about my thoughts an' feelin's," he continued, rising and taking a chair close to the bed, on which he placed a heavy bag. "I come here, Eve, to make restitootion. There's every farthin' I stole from your poor mother. I kep' it intendin' to go to Lun'on, and have a good long spree -- so it's all there. You'll give it to her, but don't tell her who stole it. That's a matter 'tween you an' me an' the Almighty. Just you say that the miserable sinner who took it has bin saved by Jesus Christ, an' now returns it and axes her pardon."

Eve gladly promised, but while she was yet speaking, heavy footsteps were heard approaching the hut. The man started up as if to leave, and the two boys, suddenly awakening to the fact that they were eavesdropping, fled silently round the corner of the hut and hid themselves. The passer-by, whoever he was, seemed to change his mind, for the steps ceased to sound for a few moments, then they were heard again, with diminishing force, until they finally died away.

A moment later, and the key was heard to turn, and the door of the hut to open and close, after which the heavy tread of the repentant fisherman was heard as he walked quickly away.

The boys listened in silence till all was perfectly still.

"Well, now," said Bob, drawing a long breath, "who'd have thought that things would have turned out like this?"

"Never heard of sich a case in my life before," responded Pat Stiver with emphasis, as if he were a venerable magistrate who had been trying "cases" for the greater part of a long life. "Why, it leaves us nothin' wotiver to do! Even a p'leeceman might manage it! The thief has gone an' took up hisself, tried an' condemned hisself without a jury, pronounced sentance on hisself without a judge, an' all but hanged hisself without Jack Ketch, so there's nothin' for you an' me to do but go an' bury our thumpin' sticks, as Red Injins bury the war-hatchet, retire to our wigwams, an' smoke the pipe of peace."

"Wery good; let's go an' do it, then," returned Bob, curtly.

As it is not a matter of particular interest how the boys reduced this figurative intention to practice, we will leave them, and follow Dick Martin for a few minutes.

His way led him past the "Blue Boar," which at that moment, however, proved to be no temptation to him. He paused to listen. Sounds of revelry issued from its door, and the voice of Joe Stubley was heard singing with tremendous energy -- "Britons, never, never, never, shall be slaves," although he and all his companions were at that very moment thoroughly -- in one or two cases almost hopelessly -- enslaved to the most terrible tyrant that has ever crushed the human race!

Dick went on, and did not pause till he reached his sister's house. By that time the family party had broken up, but a solitary candle in the attic window showed that old Granny Martin was still on her watch-tower.

"Is that you, Dick?" said his sister, opening to his tap, and letting him in; but there was nothing of welcome or pleasure in the widow's tone.

The fisherman did not expect a warm welcome. He knew that he did not deserve it, but he cared not, for the visit was to his mother. Gliding to her side, he went down on his knees, and laid his rugged head on her lap. Granny did not seem taken by surprise. She laid her withered hand on the head, and said: "Bless you, my boy! I knew you would come, sooner or later; praise be to His blessed name."

We will not detail what passed between the mother and son on that occasion, but the concluding sentence of the old woman was significant: "He can't be long of coming now, Dick, for the promises are all fulfilled at last, and I'm ready."

She turned her head slowly again in the old direction, where, across the river and the sands, she could watch the moonbeams glittering on the solemn sea.

Three days later, and the skipper of the Sunbeam received a telegram telling him to prepare for guests, two of whom were to accompany him on his trip to the fleet.

It was a bright, warm day when the guests arrived -- a dozen or more ladies and gentlemen who sympathised with the Mission, accompanied by the Director.

"All ready for sea, Martin, I suppose?" said the latter, as the party stepped on board from the wharf, alongside of which the vessel lay.

"All ready, sir," responded Fred. "If the wind holds we may be with the fleet, God willing, some time to-morrow night."

The Sunbeam was indeed all ready, for the duties on board of her had been performed by those who did their work "as to the Lord, and not to men." Every rope was in its place and properly coiled away, every piece of brass-work about the vessel shone like burnished gold. The deck had been scrubbed to a state of perfect cleanliness, so that, as Jim Freeman said, "you might eat your victuals off it." In short, everything was trim and taut, and the great blue MDSF flag floated from the masthead, intimating that the Gospel ship was about to set forth on her mission of mercy, to fish for men.

Among the party who were conducted by Fred and the Director over the vessel were two clergymen, men of middle age, who had been labouring among all classes on the land: sympathising with the sad, rejoicing with the glad, praying, working, and energising for rich and poor, until health had begun to give way, and change of air and scene had become absolutely necessary. A week or so at the sea, it was thought, would revive them.

And what change of air could be more thorough than that from the smoke of the city to the billows of the North Sea? The Director had suggested the change. Men of God were sorely wanted out there, he said, and, while they renewed their health among the fresh breezes of ocean, they might do grand service for the Master among the long-neglected fishermen.

The reasoning seemed just. The offer was kind. The opportunity was good, as well as unique and interesting. The land-worn clergymen accepted the invitation, and were now on their way to the scene of their health-giving work, armed with waterproofs, sou'westers, and sea-boots.

"It will do you good, sir, both body and soul," said Skipper Martin to the elder of the two, when presented to him. "You'll find us a strange lot, sir, out there, but glad to see you, and game to listen to what you've got to say as long as ever you please."

When the visitors had seen all that was to be seen, enjoyed a cup of coffee, prayed and sung with the crew, and wished them God-speed, they went on shore, and the Sunbeam, hoisting her sails and shaking out the blue flag, dropped quietly down the river.

Other smacks there were, very much like herself, coming and going, or moored to the wharves, but as the visitors stood on the river bank and waved their adieux, the thought was forced upon them how inconceivably vast was the difference between those vessels which laboured for time and this one which toiled for eternity.

Soon the Sunbeam swept out upon the sea, bent over to the freshening breeze, and steered on her beneficent course towards her double fishing-ground.



Chapter Thirteen.

The Tide Begins To Turn, And Death Steps In.

Let us now, good reader, outstrip the Sunbeam, and, proceeding to the fleet in advance of her, pay a night visit to one or two of the smacks. We are imaginative creatures, you see, and the powers of imagination are, as you know, almost illimitable. Even now, in fact, we have you hovering over the dark sea, which, however, like the air above it, is absolutely calm, so that the numerous lanterns of the fishing-vessels around are flickering far down into the deep, like gleams of perpendicular lightning.

It is Saturday night, and the particular vessel over which we hover is the Lively Poll. Let us descend into her cabin.

A wonderful change has come over the vessel's crew since the advent of the mission smack. Before that vessel joined the fleet, the chief occupation of the men during the hours of leisure was gambling, diversified now and then with stories and songs more or less profane.

On the night of which we write almost universal silence pervaded the smack, because the men were profoundly engaged with book and pamphlet. They could all read, more or less, though the reading of one or two involved much spelling and knitting of the brows. But it was evident that they were deeply interested, and utterly oblivious of all around them. Like a schoolboy with a good story, they could not bear to be interrupted, and were prone to explosive commentary.

David Duffy, who had fallen upon a volume of Dickens, was growing purple in the face, because of his habit of restraining laughter until it forced its way in little squeaks through his nose. Stephen Lockley, who had evidently got hold of something more serious, sat on a locker, his elbows resting on his knees, the book in his hands, and a solemn frown on his face. Hawkson was making desperate efforts to commit to memory a hymn, with the tune of which he had recently fallen in love, and the meaning of which was, unknown to himself, slowly but surely entering deep into his awakening soul. Bob Lumsden, who read his pamphlet by the binnacle light on deck, had secured an American magazine, the humorous style of which, being quite new to him, set him off ever and anon into hearty ripples of laughter.

But they were not equally persevering, for Joe Stubley, to whom reading was more of a toil than a pleasure, soon gave in, and recurred to his favourite game of "checkers." The mate, Peter Jay, was slowly pacing the deck in profound meditation. His soul had been deeply stirred by some of the words which had fallen from the lips of John Binning, and perplexities as well as anxieties were at that time struggling fiercely in his mind.

"Well done, little marchioness!" exclaimed David Duffy, with eyes riveted on his book, and smiting his knee with his right palm, "you're a trump!"

"Shush!" exclaimed Lockley, with eyes also glued to his book, holding up his hand as if to check interruption. "There's somethin' in this, although I can't quite see it yet."

A roar of laughter on deck announced that Bob Lumsden had found something quite to his taste. "First-rate -- ha! ha! I wonder if it's all true."

"Hold your noise there," cried Hawkson; "who d'ee think can learn off a hymn wi' you shoutin' like a bo'sun's mate an' Duffy snortin' like a grampus?"

"Ah, just so," chimed in Stubley, looking up from his board. "Why don't you let it out, David? You'll bu'st the b'iler if you don't open a bigger safety-valve than your nose."

"Smack on the weather beam, that looks like the Gospel ship, sir," said the mate, looking down the hatchway.

The skipper closed his book at once and went on deck, but the night was so dark, and the smack in question so far off, that they were unable to make her out among the numerous lights of the fleet.

In another part of that fleet, not far distant, floated the Cormorant. Here too, as in many other smacks, the effects of the Sunbeam's beneficent influence had begun to tell. Groggy Fox's crew was noted as one of the most quarrelsome and dissipated in the fleet. On this particular Saturday night, however, all was quiet, for most of the men were busy with books, pamphlets, and tracts. One who had, as his mate said, come by a broken head, was slumbering in his berth, scientifically bandaged and convalescent, and Groggy himself, with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, was deep in a book which he pronounced to be "one o' the wery best wollums he had ever come across in the whole course of his life," leaving it to be inferred, perhaps, that he had come across a very large number of volumes in his day.

While he was thus engaged one of the men whispered in his ear, "A coper alongside, sir."

The skipper shut the "wery best wollum" at once, and ordered out the boat.

"Put a cask o' oysters in her," he said.

Usually his men were eager to go with their skipper, but on this night some of them were so interested in the books they were reading that they preferred to remain on board. Others went, and, with their skipper, got themselves "fuddled" on the proceeds of the owner's oysters. If oysters had not been handy, fish or something else would have been used instead, for Skipper Fox was not particular -- he was still clinging to "the poor old stranded wreck."

It was dawn when, according to their appropriate phrase, they "tumbled" over the side of the coper into their boat. As they bade the Dutchman good night they observed that he was looking "black as thunder" at the horizon.

"W-wat's wrong, ol' b-boy?" asked Groggy.

The Dutchman pointed to the horizon. "No use for me to shtop here, mit dat alongside!" he replied.

The fishermen turned their drunken eyes in the direction indicated, and, after blinking a few seconds, clearly made out the large blue flag, with its letters MDSF, fluttering in the light breeze that had risen with the sun.

With curses both loud and deep the Dutchman trimmed his sails, and slowly but decidedly vanished from the scene. Thus the tide began to turn on the North Sea!

The light breeze went down as the day advanced, and soon the mission vessel found herself surrounded by smacks, with an ever-increasing tail of boats at her stern, and an ever-multiplying congregation on her deck. It was a busy and a lively scene, for while they were assembling, Fred Martin took advantage of the opportunity to distribute books and medicines, and to bind up wounds, etcetera. At the same time the pleasant meeting of friends, who never met in such numbers anywhere else -- not even in the copers -- and the hearty good wishes and shaking of hands, with now and then expressions of thankfulness from believers --  all tended to increase the bustle and excitement, so that the two invalid clergymen began at once to experience the recuperative influence of glad enthusiasm.

"There is plenty to do here, both for body and soul," remarked one of these to Fred during a moment of relaxation.

"Yes, sir, thank God. We come out here to work, and we find the work cut out for us. A good many surgical cases, too, you observe. But we expect that. In five of the fleets there were more than two thousand cases treated last year aboard of the mission smacks, so we look for our share. In fact, during our first eight weeks with this fleet we have already had two hundred men applying for medicine or dressing of wounds."

"Quite an extensive practice, Dr Martin," said the clergyman, with a laugh.

"Ay, sir; but ours is the medical-missionary line. The body may be first in time, but the soul is first in importance with us."

In proof of this, as it were, the skipper now stopped all that had been going on, and announced that the real work of the day was going to begin; whereupon the congregation crowded into the hold until it was full. Those who could not find room clustered on deck round the open hatch and listened -- sometimes craned their necks over and gazed.

It was a new experience for the invalid clergymen, who received another bath of recuperative influence. Fervour, interest, intelligence seemed to gleam in the steady eyes of the men while they listened, and thrilled in their resonant voices when they sang. One of the clergymen preached as he had seldom preached before, and then prayed, after which they all sang; but the congregation did not move to go away. The brother clergyman therefore preached, and, modestly fearing that he was keeping them too long, hinted as much.

"Go on, sir," said the Admiral, who was there; "it ain't every day we gets a chance like this."

A murmur of assent followed, and the preacher went on; but we will not follow him. After closing with the hymn, "How sweet the name of Jesus sounds in a believer's ear," they all went on deck, where they found a glory of sunshine flooding the Sunbeam, and glittering on the still tranquil sea.

The meeting now resolved itself into a number of groups, among whom the peculiar work of the day was continued directly or indirectly. It was indeed a wonderful condition of things on board of the Gospel ship that Sunday -- wheels within wheels, spiritual machinery at work from stem to stern. A few, whose hearts had been lifted up, got out an accordion and their books, and "went in for" hymns. Among these Bob Lumsden and his friend Pat Stiver took an active part. Here and there couples of men leaned over the side and talked to each other in undertones of their Saviour and the life to come. In the bow Manx Bradley got hold of Joe Stubley and pleaded hard with him to come to Jesus, and receive power from the Holy Spirit to enable him to give up all his evil ways. In the stern Fred Martin sought to clear away the doubts and difficulties of Ned Bryce. Elsewhere the two clergymen were answering questions, and guiding several earnest souls to a knowledge of the truth, while down in the cabin Jim Freeman prevailed on several men and boys to sign the temperance pledge. Among these last was Groggy Fox, who, irresolute of purpose, was still holding back.

"'Cause why," said he; "I'll be sure to break it again. I can't keep it."

"I know that, skipper," said Fred, coming down at the moment. "In your own strength you'll never keep it, but in God's strength you shall conquer all your enemies. Let's pray, lads, that we may all be enabled to keep to our good resolutions."

Then and there they all knelt down, and Skipper Fox arose with the determination once again to "Leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore."

But that was a memorable Sunday in other respects, for towards the afternoon a stiff breeze sprang up, and an unusually low fall in the barometer turned the fishermen's thoughts back again to wordly cares. The various boats left the Sunbeam hurriedly. As the Lively Poll had kept close alongside all the time, Stephen Lockley was last to think of leaving. He had been engaged in a deeply interesting conversation with one of the clergymen about his soul, but at last ordered his boat to be hauled alongside.

While this was being done, he observed that another smack -- one of the so-called "ironclads" -- was sailing so as to cross the bows of his vessel. The breeze had by that time increased considerably, and both smacks, lying well over, were rushing swiftly through the water. Suddenly some part of the ironclad's tackling about the mainsail gave way, the head of the vessel fell to leeward; next moment she went crashing into the Lively Poll, and cut her down to the water's edge. The ironclad seemed to rebound and tremble for a moment, and then passed on. The steersman at once threw her up into the wind with the intention of rendering assistance, but in another minute the Lively Poll had sunk and disappeared for ever, carrying Peter Jay and Hawkson along with her.

Of course several boats pushed off at once to the rescue, and hovered about the spot for some time, but neither the men nor the vessel were ever seen again.

There was a smack at some distance, which was about to quit the fleet next morning and return to port. The skipper of it knew well which vessel had been run down, but, not being near enough to see all that passed, imagined that the whole crew had perished along with her. During the night the breeze freshened to a gale, which rendered fishing impossible. This vessel therefore left the fleet before dawn, and carried the news to Gorleston that the Lively Poll had been run down and sunk with all her crew.

It was Fred Martin's wife who undertook to break this dreadful news to poor Mrs Lockley.

Only those who have had such duty to perform can understand the struggle it cost the gentle-spirited Isa. The first sight of her friend's face suggested to Mrs Lockley the truth, and when words confirmed it she stood for a moment with a countenance pale as death. Then, clasping her hands tightly together, the poor woman, with a cry of despair, sank insensible upon the floor.



Chapter Fourteen.

The Last.

But the supposed death of Stephen Lockley did not soften the heart of his wife. It only opened her eyes a little. After the first stunning effect had passed, a hard, rebellious state of mind set in, which induced her to dry her tears, and with stern countenance reject the consolation of sympathisers. The poor woman's heart was breaking, and she refused to be comforted.

It was while she was in this condition that Mrs Mooney, of all people, took it into her head to visit and condole with her neighbour. That poor woman, although a sot, was warm-hearted, and the memory of what she had suffered when her own husband perished seemed to arouse her sympathies in an unusual degree. She was, as her male friends would have said, "screwed" when she knocked at Mrs Lockley's door.

The poor creature was recovering from a burst of passionate grief, and turned her large dark eyes fiercely on the would-be comforter as she entered.

"My dear Mrs Lockley," began Mrs Mooney, with sympathy beaming on her red countenance, "it do grieve me to see you like this -- a'most as much as wen my -- "

"You're drunk!" interrupted Mrs Lockley, with a look of mingled sternness and indignation.

"Well, my dear," replied Mrs Mooney, with a deprecatory smile, "that ain't an uncommon state o' things, an' you've no call to be 'ard on a poor widdy like yourself takin' a little consolation now an' then when she can get it. I just thought I'd like to comfort -- "

"I don't want no comfort," cried Mrs Lockley in a sharp tone. "Leave me. Go away!"

There was something so terrible in the mingled look of grief and anger which disturbed the handsome features of the young wife, that Mrs Mooney, partly awed and partly alarmed, turned at once and left the house. She did not feel aggrieved, only astonished and somewhat dismayed. After a few moments of meditation she set off, intending to relieve her feelings in the "Blue Boar." On her way she chanced to meet no less a personage than Pat Stiver, who, with his hands in his pockets and his big boots clattering over the stones, was rolling along in the opposite direction.

"Pat, my boy!" exclaimed the woman in surprise, "wherever did you come from?"

"From the North Sea," said Pat, looking up at his questioner with an inquiring expression. "I say, old woman, drunk again?"

"Well, boy, who denyses of it?"

"Ain't you ashamed of yourself?"

"No, I ain't. Why should I? Who cares whether I'm drunk or sober?"

"Who cares, you unnat'ral old bundle o' dirty clo'es? Don't Eve care? An' don't Fred Martin an' Bob Lumpy care? An' don't I care, worse than all of 'em put together, except Eve?"

"You, boy?" exclaimed the woman.

"Yes, me. But look here, old gal; where are you goin'? To have a drink, I suppose?"

"Jus' so. That's 'xactly where I'm a-steerin' to."

"Well, now," cried Pat, seizing the woman's hand, "come along, an' I'll give you somethin' to drink. Moreover, I'll treat you to some noos as'll cause your blood to curdle, an' your flesh to creep, an' your eyes to glare, an your hair to stand on end!"

Thus adjured, and with curiosity somewhat excited, Mrs Mooney suffered herself to be led to that temperance coffee-tavern in Gorleston to which we have already referred.

"Ain't it comf'r'able?" asked the boy, as his companion gazed around her. "Now then, missis," he said to the attendant, with the air of an old frequenter of the place, "coffee and wittles for two -- hot. Here, sit down in this corner, old lady, where you can take in the beauties o' the place all at one squint."

Almost before he had done speaking two large cups of hot coffee and two thick slices of buttered bread lay before them.

"There you are -- all ship-shape. Now drink, an' no heel-taps."

Mrs Mooney drank in dumb surprise, partly at the energy and cool impudence of the boy, and partly at the discovery that there was more comfort in hot coffee than she had expected.

"You've heard, in course, that the Lively Poll is at the bottom of the North Sea?" said Pat.

Mrs Mooney set down her cup with a sigh and a sudden expression of woe mingled with reproof, while she remarked that there was no occasion to be lighthearted on such a subject.

"That's all you know," retorted Pat. "Of course we was told the moment we came alongside the wharf this mornin', that somebody had bin blowin' half a gale o' lies about it, but Stephen Lockley ain't drownded, not he, an' don't mean to be for some time. He was aboard of the Sunbeam at the time his wessel went down an' all the rest of 'em, except poor Jay an' Hawkson, an' we've brought 'em all ashore. You see we got so damaged in a gale that came on to blow the wery next day that we've bin forced to run here for repairs. Skipper Lockley's away up at this here minit to see his wife -- leastwise, he's waitin' outside till one o' the parsons goes and breaks the noos to her. The skipper didn't see no occasion for that, an' said he could break the noos to her hisself, but the parson said he didn't know what the consikences might be, so Stephen he gave in, an' -- . Now, old girl, if you keep openin' of your mouth an' eyes at that rate you'll git lockjaw, an' never be able to go to sleep no more."

There was, indeed, some ground for the boy's remark, for his "noos" had evidently overwhelmed Mrs Mooney -- chiefly with joy, on account of her friend Mrs Lockley, to whom, even when "in liquor", she was tenderly attached. She continued to gaze speechless at Pat, who took advantage of the opportunity to do a little private business on his own account.

Taking a little bit of blue ribbon with a pin attached to it from his pocket, he coolly fixed it on Mrs Mooney's breast.

"There," said he gravely, "I promised Bob that I'd make as many conwerts as I could, so I've conwerted you!"

Utterly regardless of her conversion, Mrs Mooney suddenly sprang from her seat and made for the door.

"Hallo, old gal! where away now!" cried the boy, seizing her skirt and following her out, being unable to stop her.

"I'm a-goin' to tell Eve, an' won't she be glad, for she was awful fond o' Lockley!"

"All right, I'm with 'ee. Cut along."

"Mother!" exclaimed Eve, when the poor woman stood before her with eager excitement flushing her face to a ruddy purple. "Have you really put on the blue ribbon?"

The poor child's thin pretty little race flushed with hope for a moment.

"Oh, it ain't that, dear," said Mrs Mooney, "but Lockley ain't drownded arter all! He's -- he's -- "

Here Pat Stiver broke in, and began to explain to the bewildered girl. He was yet in the midst of his "noos," when the door was flung open, and Mrs Lockley hurried in.

"Forgive me, Mrs Mooney," she cried, grasping her friend's hand, "I shouldn't have spoke to you as I did, but my heart was very sore. Oh, it is breakin'!"

She sat down, covered her face with both hands, and sobbed violently. Her friends stood speechless and helpless. It was obvious that she must have left her house to make this apology before the clergyman who was to break the news had reached it. Before any one could summon courage to speak, a quick step was heard outside, and Lockley himself entered. He had been waiting near at hand for the clergyman to summon him, when he caught sight of his wife entering the hut.

Mrs Lockley sprang up -- one glance, a wild shriek, but not of despair --  and she would have fallen to the ground had not her husband's strong arms been around her.

It is believed that joy seldom or never kills. At all events it did not kill on this occasion, for Mrs Lockley and her husband were seen that same evening enjoying the hospitality of Mrs Martin, while their little one was being fondled on the knees of the old granny, who pointed through the attic window, and tried to arouse the child's interest in the great sea.

When Mrs Mooney succeeded in turning her attention to the blue ribbon on her breast, she laughed heartily at the idea of such a decoration --  much to the sorrow of Eve, who had prayed for many a day, not that her mother might put on that honourable badge, but that she might be brought to the Saviour, in whom are included all things good and true and strong. Nevertheless, it is to be noted that Mrs Mooney did not put the blue ribbon off. She went next day to have a laugh over it with Mrs Lockley. But the fisherman's wife would not laugh. She had found that while sorrow and suffering may drive one to despair in regard to God and self and all terrestrial things, joy frequently softens.

Surely it is the "goodness of God that leadeth to repentance." This life, as it were, from the dead proved to be life from death to herself, and she talked and prayed with her drunken friend until that friend gave her soul to Jesus, and received the Spirit of power by which she was enabled to "hold the fort," -- to adopt and keep the pledge of which her ribbon was but the emblem.

Although we have now described the end of the Lively Poll, it must not be supposed that the crew of that ill-fated smack was dispersed and swallowed up among the fishing fleets of the North Sea. On the contrary, though separated for the time, they came together again, -- ay, and held together for many a long day thereafter. And this is how it came about.

One morning, a considerable time after the events we have just narrated, Stephen Lockley invited his old comrades to meet him in the Gorleston coffee-tavern, and, over a rousing cup of "hot, with," delivered to them the following oration:

"Friends and former messmates. I ain't much of a speaker, so you'll excuse my goin' to the pint direct. A noble lady with lots o' tin an' a warm heart has presented a smack all complete to our Deep-Sea Fishermen Institootion. It cost, I'm told, about 2000 pounds, and will be ready to start as a Gospel ship next week. For no reason that I knows on, 'xcept that it's the Lord's will, they've appointed me skipper, with directions to choose my own crew. So, lads, I've got you here to ask if you're willin' to ship with me."

"I'm willin', of course," cried Pat Stiver eagerly, "an so's Bob Lumpy. I'll answer for him!"

There was a general laugh at this, but Bob Lumsden, who was present, chose to answer for himself, and said he was heartily willing. So said David Duffy, and so also said Joe Stubley.

"I on'y wish," added the latter, "that Jim Freeman was free to j'ine, but Fred Martin's not likely to let him go, for he's uncommon fond of him."

"He's doin' good work for the Master where he is," returned Lockley, "and we'll manage to catch as true and able a man among the North Sea fleets afore long. There's as good fish in the sea, you know, as ever came out of it. Our mission smack is to be called the Welcome."

"At this rate," observed Dick Martin, who was one of the party, "we'll soon have a mission ship to every fleet in the North Sea; that'll please our Director, won't it?"

"Ay, it will," said Lockley. "All the same, I heard the Director say only the other day, he wished people would remember that the mission needed funds to keep the smacks a-goin' as well as to build an' launch 'em. Howsever, we've no need to fear, for when the Master sends the men and the work, He's sure to find the means."

Two weeks after the date on which this harmonious meeting was held, a new vessel, laden with spiritual treasure, unfurled her sails, shook out her MDSF ensign, and, amid the good wishes, silent prayers, and ringing cheers of sympathetic friends on shore, went forth as a beacon of love and light and hope to irradiate the toilers on the dark North Sea.

Among those cheering and praying ones were Mrs Mooney -- a brand plucked from the burning -- and fragile Eve, with her weak, thin, helpless body and her robust heart, chosen to do herculean and gladiator service of sympathy and rescue in the Master's cause. And you may be sure that blooming Isa Martin was there, and her friend Martha Lockley; Manx Bradley, the Admiral, who, with other fishermen, chanced to be having their spell on shore at that time, was also there. Even old Granny Martin was there, in a sense, for she could see from her attic the great blue flag as it fluttered in the breeze, and she called her unfailing --  and no longer ailing daughter to come to the window and look at it and wish it God-speed; after which she turned her old eyes again to their wonted resting-place, where the great sea rolled its crested breakers beyond the sands.

It remains but to add that the Welcome was received by the fleet to which she was sent with an enthusiasm which fully justified her name, and that her crew found her thenceforth, both as to her sea-going qualities and the nature of her blessed work, a marvellous improvement on their former home, the Lively Poll.

<eob>

Uncle Wiggily And Old Mother Hubbard

By

Howard R. Garis



Chapter I

Uncle Wiggily And Mother Goose


There once lived in the woods an old rabbit gentleman named Uncle Wiggily Longears, and in the hollow-stump bungalow where he had his home there also lived Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, a muskrat lady housekeeper. Near Uncle Wiggily there were, in hollow trees, or in nests or in burrows under the ground, many animal friends of his -- rabbits, squirrels, puppy dogs, pussy cats, frogs, ducks, chickens and others, so that Uncle Wiggily and Nurse Jane were never lonesome.

Often Sammie or Susie Littletail, a small boy and girl rabbit, would hop over to the hollow-stump bungalow, and call:

"Uncle Wiggily! Uncle Wiggily! Can't you come out and play with us?"

Then the old rabbit gentleman, who was as fond of fun as a kitten, would put on his tall silk hat, take his red, white and blue striped barber-pole rheumatism crutch, that Nurse Jane had gnawed for him out of a corn-stalk, and he would go out to play with the rabbit children, about whom I have told you in other books.

Or perhaps Johnnie and Billie Bushytail, the squirrel boys, might ask Uncle Wiggily to go after hickory nuts with them, or maybe Lulu, Alice or Jimmie Wibblewobble, the duck children, would want their bunny uncle to see them go swimming.

So, altogether, Uncle Wiggily had a good time in his hollow-stump bungalow which was built in the woods. When he had nothing else to do Mr. Longears would go for a ride in his airship. This was made of a clothes-basket, with toy circus balloons on it to make it rise up above the trees. Or Uncle Wiggily might take a trip in his automobile, which had big bologna sausages on the wheels for tires. And whenever the rabbit gentleman wanted the automobile wheels to go around faster he sprinkled pepper on the sausages.

One day Uncle Wiggily said to Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy:

"I think I will go for a ride in my airship. Is there anything I can bring from the store for you?"

"Why, you might bring a loaf of bread and a pound of sugar," answered the muskrat lady.

"Very good," answered Uncle Wiggily, and then he took some soft cushions out to put in the clothes-basket part of his airship, so, in case the air popped out of the balloons, and he fell, he would land easy like, and soft.

Soon the rabbit gentleman was sailing off through the air, over the tree tops, his paws in nice, warm red mittens that Nurse Jane had knitted for him. For it was winter, you see, and Uncle Wiggily's paws would have been cold steering his airship, by the baby carriage wheel which guided it, had it not been for the mittens.

It did not take the bunny uncle long to go to the store in his airship, and soon, with the loaf of bread and pound of sugar under the seat, away he started for his hollow-stump bungalow again.

And, as he sailed on and over the tree tops, Uncle Wiggily looked far off, and he saw some black smoke rising in the air.

"Ha! That smoke seems to be near my hollow-stump bungalow," he said to himself. "I guess Nurse Jane is starting a fire in the kitchen stove to get dinner. I must hurry home."

Uncle Wiggily made his airship go faster, and then he saw, coming toward him, a big bird, with large wings.

"Why, that looks just like my old friend, Grandfather Goosey Gander," Uncle Wiggily thought to himself. "I wonder why he is flying so high? He hardly ever goes up so near the clouds.

"And he seems to have some one on his back," spoke Uncle Wiggily out loud this time, sort of talking to the loaf of bread and the pound of sugar. "A lady, too," went on the bunny uncle. "A lady with a tall hat on, something like mine, only hers comes to a point on top. And she has a broom with her. I wonder who it can be?"

And when the big white bird came nearer to the airship Uncle Wiggily saw that it was not Grandfather Goosey Gander at all, but another big gander, almost like his friend, whom he often went to see. And then the bunny uncle saw who it was on the bird's back.

"Why, it's Mother Goose!" cried Uncle Wiggily Longears. "It's Mother Goose! She looks just like her pictures in the book, too."

"Yes, I am Mother Goose," said the lady who was riding on the back of the big, white gander.

"I am glad to meet you, Mother Goose," spoke Mr. Longears. "I have often heard about you. I can see, over the tree tops, that Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, my muskrat lady housekeeper, is getting dinner ready. I can tell by the smoke. Will you not ride home with me? I will make my airship go slowly, so as not to get ahead of you and your fine gander-goose."

"Alas, Uncle Wiggily," said Mother Goose, scratching her chin with the end of the broom handle, "I cannot come home to dinner with you much as I would like it. Alas! Alas!"

"Why not?" asked the bunny uncle.

"Because I have bad news for you," said Mother Goose. "That smoke, which you saw over the tree tops, was not smoke from your chimney as Nurse Jane was getting dinner."

"What was it then?" asked Uncle Wiggily, and a cold shiver sort of ran up and down between his ears, even if he did have warm, red mittens on his paws. "What was that smoke?"

"The smoke from your burning bungalow," went on Mother Goose. "It caught fire, when Nurse Jane was getting dinner, and now --  -- "

"Oh! Don't tell me Nurse Jane is burned!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "Don't say that!"

"I was not going to," spoke Mother Goose, kindly. "But I must tell you that your hollow-stump bungalow is burned to the ground. There is nothing left but some ashes," and she made the gander, on whose back she was riding, fly close alongside of Uncle Wiggily's airship.

"My nice bungalow burned!" exclaimed the rabbit gentleman. "Well, I am very, very sorry for that. But still it might be worse. Nurse Jane might have been hurt, and that would have been quite too bad. I dare say I can get another bungalow."

"That is what I came to tell you about," said Mother Goose. "I was riding past when I saw your Woodland hollow-stump house on fire, and I went down to see if I could help. It was too late to save the bungalow, but I said I would find a place for you and Nurse Jane to stay to-night, or as long as you like, until you can build a new home."

"That is very kind of you," said Uncle Wiggily. "I hardly know what to do."

"I have many friends," went on Mother Goose. "You may have read about them in the book which tells of me. Any of my friends would be glad to have you come and live with them. There is the Old Woman Who Lives in a Shoe, for instance."

"But hasn't she so many children she doesn't know what to do?" asked Uncle Wiggily, as he remembered the story in the book.

"Yes," answered Mother Goose, "she has. I suppose you would not like it there."

"Oh, I like children," said Uncle Wiggily. "But if there are so many that the dear Old Lady doesn't know what to do, she wouldn't know what to do with Nurse Jane and me."

"Well, you might go stay with my friend Old Mother Hubbard," said Mother Goose.

"But if I went there, would not the cupboard be bare?" asked Uncle Wiggily, "and what would Nurse Jane and I do for something to eat?"

"That's so," spoke Mother Goose, as she reached up quite high and brushed a cobweb off the sky with her broom. "That will not do, either. I must see about getting Mother Hubbard and her dog something to eat. You can stay with her later. Oh, I have it!" suddenly cried the lady who was riding on the back of the white gander, "you can go stay with Old King Cole! He's a jolly old soul!"

Uncle Wiggily shook his head.

"Thank you very much, Mother Goose," he said, slowly. "But Old King Cole might send for his fiddlers three, and I do not believe I would like to listen to jolly music to-day when my nice bungalow has just burned down."

"No, perhaps not," agreed Mother Goose. "Well, if you can find no other place to stay to-night come with me. I have a big house, and with me live Little Bo Peep, Little Boy Blue, who is getting to be quite a big chap now, Little Tommie Tucker and Jack Sprat and his wife. Oh, I have many other friends living with me, and surely we can find room for you."

"Thank you," answered Uncle Wiggily. "I will think about it."

Then he flew down in his airship to the place where the hollow-stump bungalow had been, but it was not there now. Mother Goose flew down with her gander after Uncle Wiggily. They saw a pile of blackened and smoking wood, and near it stood Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady, and many other animals who lived in Woodland with Uncle Wiggily.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Nurse Jane. "It is my fault. I was baking a pudding in the oven, Uncle Wiggily. I left it a minute while I ran over to the pen of Mrs. Wibblewobble, the duck lady, to ask her about making a new kind of carrot sauce for the pudding, and when I came home the pudding had burned, and the bungalow was on fire."

"Never mind," spoke Uncle Wiggily, kindly, "as long as you were not burned yourself, Nurse Jane."

"But where will you sleep to-night?" asked the muskrat lady, sorrowfully.

"Oh," began Uncle Wiggily, "I guess I can --  -- "

"Come stay with us!" cried Sammie and Susie Littletail, the rabbit children.

"Or with us!" invited Johnnie and Billie Bushytail, the squirrels.

"And why not with us?" asked Nannie and Billie Wagtail, the goat children.

"We'd ask you to come with us," said Jollie and Jillie Longtail, the mouse children, "only our house is so small."

Many of Uncle Wiggily's friends, who had hurried up to see the hollow-stump bungalow burn, while he was at the store, now, in turn, invited him to stay with them.

"I, myself, have asked him to come with me," said Mother Goose, "or with any of my friends. We all would be glad to have him."

"It is very kind of you," said the rabbit gentleman. "And this is what I will do, until I can build me a new bungalow. I will take turns staying at your different hollow-tree homes, your nests or your burrows underground. And I will come and visit you also, Mother Goose, and all of your friends; at least such of them as have room for me.

"Yes, that is what I'll do. I'll visit around now that my hollow-stump home is burned. I thank you all. Come, Nurse Jane, we will pay our first visit to Sammie and Susie Littletail, the rabbits."

And while the other animals hopped, skipped or flew away through the woods, and as Mother Goose sailed off on the back of her gander, to sweep more cobwebs out of the sky, Uncle Wiggily and Nurse Jane went to the Littletail burrow, or underground house.

"Good-bye, Uncle Wiggily!" called Mother Goose. "I'll see you again, soon, sometime. And if ever you meet with any of my friends, Little Jack Horner, Bo Peep, or the three little pigs, about whom you may have read in my book, be kind to them."

"I will," promised Uncle Wiggily.

And he did, as you may read in the next chapter, when, if the sugar spoon doesn't tickle the carving knife and make it dance on the bread board, the story will be about Uncle Wiggily and the first little pig.



Chapter II

Uncle Wiggily And The First Pig


Uncle Wiggily Longears, the nice old gentleman rabbit, came out of the underground burrow house of the Littletail family, where he was visiting a while with the bunny children, Sammie and Susie, because his own hollow-stump bungalow had burned down.

"Where are you going, Uncle Wiggily?" asked Sammie Littletail, the rabbit boy, as he strapped his cabbage leaf books together, ready to go to school.

"Oh, I am just going for a little walk," answered Uncle Wiggily. "Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, asked me to get her some court plaster from the five and six cent store, and on my way there I may have an adventure. Who knows?"

"We are going to school," said Susie. "Will you walk part of the way with us, Uncle Wiggily?"

"To be sure I will!" crowed the old gentleman rabbit, making believe he was Mr. Cock A. Doodle, the rooster.

So Uncle Wiggily, with Sammie and Susie, started off across the snow-covered fields and through the woods. Pretty soon they came to the path the rabbit children must take to go to the hollow-stump school, where the lady mouse teacher would hear their carrot and turnip gnawing lessons.

"Good-by, Uncle Wiggily!" called Sammie and Susie. "We hope you have a nice adventure,"

"Good-by. Thank you, I hope I do," he answered.

Then the rabbit gentleman walked on, while Sammie and Susie hurried to school, and pretty soon Mr. Longears heard a queer grunting noise behind some bushes near him.

"Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!" came the sound.

"Hello! Who is there?" asked Uncle Wiggily.

"Why, if you please, I am here, and I am the first little pig," came the answer, and out from behind the bush stepped a cute little piggie boy, with a bundle of straw under his paw.

"So you are the first little pig, eh?" asked Uncle Wiggily. "How many of you are there altogether?"

"Three, if you please," grunted the first little pig. "I have two brothers, and they are the second and third little pigs. Don't you remember reading about us in the Mother Goose book?"

"Oh, of course I do!" cried Uncle Wiggily, twinkling his nose. "And so you are the first little pig. But what are you going to do with that bundle of straw?"

"I'm going to build me a house, Uncle Wiggily, of course," grunted the piggie boy. "Don't you remember what it says in the book? 'Once upon a time there were three little pigs, named Grunter, Squeaker and Twisty-Tail.' Well, I'm Grunter, and I met a man with a load of straw, and I asked him for a bundle to make me a house. He very kindly gave it to me, and now, I'm off to build it."

"May I come?" asked Uncle Wiggily. "I'll help you put up your house."

"Of course you may come -- glad to have you," answered the first little pig. "Only you know what happens to me; don't you?"

"No! What?" asked the rabbit gentleman. "I guess I have forgotten the story."

"Well, after I build my house of straw, just as it says in the Mother Goose story book, along comes a bad old wolf, and he blows it down," said the first little pig.

"Oh, how dreadful!" cried Uncle Wiggily, "but maybe he won't come to-day."

"Oh, yes, he will," said the first little pig. "It's that way in the book, and the wolf has to come."

"Well, if he does," said Uncle Wiggily, "maybe I can save you from him."

"Oh, I hope you can!" grunted Grunter. "It is no fun to be chased by a wolf."

So the rabbit gentleman and the piggie boy went on and on, until they came to the place where Grunter was to build his house of straw. Uncle Wiggily helped, and soon it was finished.

"Why, it is real nice and cozy in here," said Uncle Wiggily, when he had made a big pile of snow back of the straw house to keep off the north wind, and had gone in with the little piggie boy.

"Yes, it is cozy enough," spoke Grunter, "but wait until the bad wolf comes. Oh, dear!"

"Maybe he won't come," said the rabbit, hopeful like.

"Yes, he will!" cried Grunter. "Here he comes now."

And, surely enough, looking out of the window, the piggie boy and Uncle Wiggily saw a bad wolf running over the snow toward them. The wolf knocked on the door of the straw house and cried:

"Little pig! Little pig! Let me come in."

"No! No! By the hair of my chinny-chin-chin. I will not let you in!" answered Grunter, just like in the book.

"Then I'll puff and I'll blow, and I'll blow your house in!" howled the wolf. Then he puffed and he blew, and, all of a sudden, over went the straw house. But, just as it was falling down, Uncle Wiggily cried:

"Quick, Grunter, come with me! I'll dig a hole for us in the pile of snow that I made back of your house and in there we'll hide where the wolf can't find us!" Then the rabbit gentleman, with his strong paws, just made for digging, burrowed a hole in the snow-bank, and as the straw house toppled down, into this hole he crawled with Grunter.

"Now I've got you!" cried the wolf, as he blew down the first little pig's straw house. But when the wolf looked he couldn't see Grunter or Uncle Wiggily at all, because they were hiding in the snow-bank.

"Well, well!" howled the wolf. "This isn't like the book at all! Where is that little pig?"

But the wolf could not find Grunter, and soon the bad creature went away, fearing to catch cold in his eyes. Then Uncle Wiggily and Grunter came out of the snow-bank and were safe, and Uncle Wiggily took Grunter home to the rabbit house to stay until Mother Goose came, some time afterward, to get the first little pig boy.

"Thank you very much, Uncle Wiggily," said Mother Goose, "for being kind to one of my friends."

"Pray don't mention it. I had a fine adventure, besides saving a little pig," said the rabbit gentleman. "I wonder what will happen to me to-morrow?"

And we shall soon see for, if the snowball doesn't wrap itself up in the parlor rug to hide away from the jam tart, when it comes home from the moving pictures, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the second little pig.



Chapter III

Uncle Wiggily And The Second Pig


"There! It's all done!" exclaimed Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the nice muskrat lady housekeeper, who, with Uncle Wiggily Longears, the rabbit gentleman, was staying in the Littletail rabbit house, since the hollow-stump bungalow had burned down.

"What's all done?" asked Uncle Wiggily, looking over the tops of his spectacles.

"These jam tarts I baked for Billie and Nannie Wagtail, the goat children," said Nurse Jane. "Will you take them with you when you go out for a walk, Uncle Wiggily, and leave them at the goat house?"

"I most certainly will," said the rabbit gentleman, very politely. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Nurse Jane?"

But the muskrat lady wanted nothing more, and, wrapping up the jam tarts in a napkin so they would not catch cold, she gave them to Mr. Longears to take to the two goat children.

Uncle Wiggily was walking along, wondering what sort of an adventure he would have that day, or whether he would meet Mother Goose again, when all at once he heard a voice speaking from behind some bushes.

"Yes, I think I will build my house here," the voice said. "The wolf is sure to find me anyhow, and I might as well have it over with. I'll make my house here."

Uncle Wiggily looked over the bushes, and there he saw a funny little animal boy, with some pieces of wood on his shoulder.

"Hello!" cried Uncle Wiggily, making his nose twinkle in a most jilly-jolly way. "Who are you, and what are you going to do?"

"Why, I am Squeaker, the second little pig, and I am going to make a house of wood," was the answer. "Don't you remember how it reads in the Mother Goose book? 'Once upon a time there were three little pigs, named Grunter, Squeaker and --  -- '"

"Oh, yes, I remember!" Uncle Wiggily said. "I met your brother Grunter yesterday, and helped him build his straw house."

"That was kind of you," spoke Squeaker. "I suppose the bad old wolf got him, though. Too bad! Well, it can't be helped, as it is that way in the book."

"Little pig! Little pig! Let me come in!"

Uncle Wiggily didn't say anything about having saved Grunter, for he wanted to surprise Squeaker, so the rabbit gentleman just twinkled his nose again and asked:

"May I have the pleasure of helping you build your house of wood?"

"Indeed you may, thank you," said Squeaker. "I suppose the old wolf will be along soon, so we had better hurry to get the house finished."

Then the second little pig and Uncle Wiggily built the wooden house. When it was almost finished Uncle Wiggily went out near the back door, and began piling up some cakes of ice to make a sort of box.

"What are you doing?" asked Squeaker.

"Oh, I'm just making a place where I can put these jam tarts I have for Nannie and Billie Wagtail," the rabbit gentleman answered. "I don't want the wolf to get them when he blows down your house."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Squeaker. "I rather wish, now, he didn't have to blow over my nice wooden house, and get me. But he has to, I s'pose, 'cause it's in the book."

Still, Uncle Wiggily didn't say anything, but he just sort of blinked his eyes and twinkled his pink nose, until, all of a sudden, Squeaker looked across the snowy fields, and he cried:

"Here comes the bad old wolf now!"

And, surely enough, along came the growling, howling creature. He ran up to the second little pig's wooden house, and, rapping on the door with his paw, cried:

"Little pig! Little pig! Let me come in!"

"No, no! By the hair on my chinny-chin-chin I will not let you in," said the second little pig, bravely.

"Then I'll puff and I'll blow, and I'll puff and I'll blow, and blow your house in!" howled the wolf.

Then he puffed out his cheeks, and he took a long breath and he blew with all his might and main and suddenly:

"Cracko!"

Down went the wooden house of the second little piggie, and only that Uncle Wiggily and Squeaker jumped to one side they would have been squashed as flat as a pancake, or even two pancakes.

"Quick!" cried the rabbit gentleman in the piggie boy's ear. "This way! Come with me!"

"Where are we going?" asked Squeaker, as he followed the rabbit gentleman over the cracked and broken boards, which were all that was left of the house.

"We are going to the little cabin that I made out of cakes of ice, behind your wooden house," said Uncle Wiggily. "I put the jam tarts in it, but there is also room for us, and we can hide there until the bad wolf goes off."

"Well, that isn't the way it is in the book," said the second little pig. "But --  -- "

"No matter!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "Hurry!" So he and Squeaker hid in the ice cabin back of the blown-down house, and when the bad wolf came poking along among the broken boards, to get the little pig, he couldn't find him. For Uncle Wiggily had closed the door of the ice place, and as it was partly covered with snow the wolf could not see through.

"Oh, dear!" howled the wolf. "That's twice I've been fooled by those pigs! It isn't like the book at all. I wonder where he can have gone?"

But he could not find Squeaker or Uncle Wiggily either, and finally the wolf's nose became so cold from sniffing the ice that he had to go home to warm it, and so Uncle Wiggily and Squeaker were safe.

"Oh, I don't know how to thank you," said the second little piggie boy as the rabbit gentleman took him home to Mother Goose, after having left the jam tarts at the home of the Wagtail goats.

"Pray do not mention it," spoke Uncle Wiggily, modest like, and shy. "It was just an adventure for me."

He had another adventure the following day, Uncle Wiggily did. And if the dusting brush doesn't go swimming in the soap dish, and get all lather so that it looks like a marshmallow cocoanut cake, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the third little pig.



Chapter IV

Uncle Wiggily And The Third Pig


Uncle Wiggily Longears sat in the burrow, or house under the ground, where he and Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady, lived with the Littletail family of rabbits since the hollow-stump bungalow had burned.

"Oh, dear!" sounded a grunting, woofing sort of voice over near one window.

"Oh, dear!" squealed another voice from under the table.

"Well, well! What is the matter with you two piggie boys?" asked Uncle Wiggily, as he took down from the sideboard his red, white and blue barber-pole striped rheumatism crutch that Nurse Jane had gnawed for him out of a cornstalk.

"What's the trouble, Grunter and Squeaker?" asked the rabbit gentleman.

"We are lonesome for our brother," said the two little piggie boys No. 1 and No. 2. "We want to see Twisty-Tail."

For the first and second little pigs, after having been saved by Uncle Wiggily, and taken home to Mother Goose, had come back to pay a visit to the bunny gentleman.

"Well, perhaps I may meet Twisty-Tail when I go walking to-day," spoke Uncle Wiggily. "If I do I'll bring him home with me."

"Oh, goodie!" cried Grunter and Squeaker. For they were the first and second little pigs, you see. Uncle Wiggily had saved Grunter from the bad wolf when the growling creature blew down Grunter's straw house. And, in almost the same way, the bunny uncle had saved Squeaker, when his wooden house was blown over by the wolf. But Twisty-Tail, the third little pig, Uncle Wiggily had not yet helped.

"I'll look for Twisty-Tail to-day," said the rabbit gentleman as he started off for his adventure walk, which he took every afternoon and morning.

On and on went Uncle Wiggily Longears over the snow-covered fields and through the wood, until just as he was turning around the corner near an old red stump, the rabbit gentleman heard a clinkity-clankity sort of a noise, and the sound of whistling.

"Ha! Some one is happy!" thought the bunny uncle. "That's a good sign -- whistling. I wonder who it is?"

He looked around the stump corner and he saw a little animal chap, with blue rompers on, and a fur cap stuck back of his left ear, and this little animal chap was whistling away as merrily as a butterfly eating butterscotch candy.

"Why, that must be the third little pig!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily. "Hello!" called the rabbit gentleman. "Are you Twisty-Tail?"

"That's my name," answered the little pig, "and, as you see, I am building my house of bricks, just as it tells about in the Mother Goose book."

And, surely enough, Twisty-Tail was building a little house of red bricks, and it was the tap-tap-tapping of his trowel, or mortar-shovel, that made the clinkity-clankity noise.

"Do you know me, Uncle Wiggily?" asked the piggie boy. "You see I am in a book. 'Once upon a time there were three little pigs, and --  -- '"

"I know all about you," interrupted Uncle Wiggily. "I have met Mother Goose, and also your two brothers."

"They didn't know how to build the right kind of houses, and so the wolf got them," said Twisty-Tail. "I am sorry, but it had to happen that way, just as it is in the book."

Uncle Wiggily smiled, but said nothing.

"I met a man with a load of bricks, and I begged some of them to build my house," said Twisty-Tail. "No wolf can get me. No, sir-ee! I'll build my house very strong, not weak like my brothers'. No, indeed!"

"I'll help you build your house," offered Uncle Wiggily, kindly, and just as he and Twisty-Tail finished the brick house and put on the roof it began to rain and freeze.

"We are through just in time," said Twisty-Tail, as he and the rabbit gentleman hurried inside. "I don't believe the wolf will come out in such weather."

But just as he said that and looked from the window, the little piggie boy gave a cry, and said:

"Oh, here comes the bad animal now! But he can't get in my house, or blow it over, 'cause the book says he didn't."

The wolf came up through the freezing rain and knocking on the third piggie boy's brick house, said:

"Little pig! Little pig! Let me come in!"

"No! No! By the hair of my chinny-chin-chin, I will not let you in!" grunted Twisty-Tail.

"Then I'll puff and I'll blow, and I'll blow your house in!" howled the wolf.

"You can't! The book says so!" laughed the little pig. "My house is a strong, brick one. You can't get me!"

"Just you wait!" growled the wolf. So he puffed out his cheeks, and he blew and he blew, but he could not blow down the brick house, because it was so strong.

"Well, I'm in no hurry," the wolf said. "I'll sit down and wait for you to come out."

So the wolf sat down on his tail to wait outside the brick house. After a while Twisty-Tail began to get hungry.

"Did you bring anything to eat, Uncle Wiggily?" he asked.

"No, I didn't," answered the rabbit gentleman. "But if the old wolf would go away I'd take you where your two brothers are visiting with me in the Littletail family rabbit house and you could have all you want to eat."

Rut the wolf would not go away, even when Uncle Wiggily asked him to, most politely, making a bow and twinkling his nose.

"I'm going to stay here all night," the wolf growled. "I am not going away. I am going to get that third little pig!"

"Are you? Well, we'll see about that!" cried the rabbit gentleman. Then he took a rib out of his umbrella, and with a piece of his shoe lace (that he didn't need) for a string he made a bow like the Indians used to have.

"If I only had an arrow now I could shoot it from my umbrella-bow, hit the wolf on the nose and make him go away," said Uncle Wiggily. Then he looked out of the window and saw where the rain, dripping from the roof, had frozen into long, sharp icicles.

"Ha!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "An icicle will make the best kind of an arrow! Now I'll shoot the wolf, not hard enough to hurt him, but just hard enough to make him run away."

Reaching out the window Uncle Wiggily broke off a sharp icicle. He put this ice arrow in his bow and, pulling back the shoe string, "twang!" he shot the wolf on the nose.

"Oh, wow! Oh, double-wow! Oh, custard cake!" howled the wolf. "This isn't in the Mother Goose book at all. Not a single pig did I get! Oh, my nose! Ouch!"

Then he ran away, and Uncle Wiggily and Twisty-Tail could come safely out of the brick house, which they did, hurrying home to the bunny house where Grunter and Squeaker were, to get something to eat. So everything came out right, you see, and Uncle Wiggily saved the three little pigs, one after the other.

And if the canary bird doesn't go swimming in the rice pudding, and eat out all the raisin seeds, so none is left for the parrot, I'll tell you next of Uncle Wiggily and Little Boy Blue.



Chapter V

Uncle Wiggily And Little Boy Blue


"Uncle Wiggily, are you very busy to-day?" asked Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, who, with the old rabbit gentleman, was on a visit to the Bushytail family of squirrels in their hollow-tree home.

After staying a while with the Littletail rabbits, when his hollow-stump bungalow had burned down, the bunny uncle went to visit Johnnie and Billie Bushytail.

"Are you very busy, Uncle Wiggily?" asked the muskrat lady.

"Why, no, Nurse Jane, not so very," answered the bunny uncle. "Is there something you would like me to do for you?" he asked, with a polite bow.

"Well, Mrs. Bushytail and I have just baked some pies," said the muskrat lady, "and we thought perhaps you might like to take one to your friend, Grandfather Goosey Gander."

"Fine!" cried Uncle Wiggily, making his nose twinkle like a star on a Christmas tree in the dark. "Grandpa Goosey will be glad to get a pie. I'll take him one."

"We have it all ready for you," said Mrs. Bushytail, the squirrel mother of Johnnie and Billie, as she came in the sitting-room. "It's a nice hot pie, and it will keep your paws warm, Uncle Wiggily, as you go over the ice and snow through the woods and across the fields."

"Fine!" cried the bunny uncle again. "I'll get ready and go at once."

Uncle Wiggily put on his warm fur coat, fastened his tall silk hat on his head, with his ears sticking up through holes cut in the brim, so it would not blow off, and then, taking his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch, that Nurse Jane had gnawed for him out of a cornstalk, away he started. He carried the hot apple pie in a basket over his paw.

"Grandpa Goosey will surely like this pie," said Uncle Wiggily to himself, as he lifted the napkin that was over it to take a little sniff. "It makes me hungry myself. And how nice and warm it is," he went on, as he put one cold paw in the basket to warm it; warm his paw I mean, not the basket.

Over the fields and through the woods hopped the bunny uncle. It began to snow a little, but Uncle Wiggily did not mind that, for he was well wrapped up.

When he was about halfway to Grandpa Goosey's house Uncle Wiggily heard, from behind a pile of snow, a sad sort of crying voice.

"Hello!" exclaimed the bunny uncle, "that sounds like some one in trouble. I must see if I can help them."

Uncle Wiggily looked over the top of the pile of snow, and, sitting on the ground, in front of a big icicle, was a boy all dressed in blue. Even his eyes were blue, but you could not very well see them, as they were filled with tears.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" said Uncle Wiggily, kindly. "This is quite too bad! What is the matter, little fellow; and who are you?"

"I am Little Boy Blue, from the home of Mother Goose," was the answer, "and the matter is that it's lost!"

"What is lost?" asked Uncle. "If it's a penny I will help you find it."

"It isn't a penny," answered Boy Blue. "It's the hay stack which I have to sleep under. I can't find it, and I must see where it is or else things won't be as they are in the Mother Goose book. Don't you know what it says?" And he sang:

"Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn, There are sheep in the meadow and cows in the corn. Where's Little Boy Blue, who looks after the sheep? Why he's under the hay stack, fast asleep.

"Only I can't go to sleep under the hay stack, Uncle Wiggily, because I can't find it. And, oh, dear! I don't know what to do!" and Little Boy Blue cried harder than ever, so that some of his tears froze into little round marbles of ice, like hail stones.

"There, there, now!" said Uncle Wiggily, kindly. "Of course you can't find a hay stack in the winter. They are all covered with snow."

"Are they?" asked Boy Blue, real surprised like.

"Of course, they are!" cried Uncle Wiggily, in his most jolly voice. "Besides, you wouldn't want to sleep under a hay stack, even if there was one here, in the winter. You would catch cold and have the sniffle-snuffles."

"That's so, I might," Boy Blue said, and he did not cry so hard now. "But that isn't all, Uncle Wiggily," he went on, nodding at the rabbit gentleman. "It isn't all my trouble."

"What else is the matter?" asked the bunny uncle.

"It's my horn," spoke the little boy who looked after the cows and sheep. "I can't make any music tunes on my horn. And I really have to blow my horn, you know, for it says in the Mother Goose book that I must. See, I can't blow it a bit." And Boy Blue put his horn to his lips, puffed out his cheeks and blew as hard as he could, but no sound came out.

"Let me try," said Uncle Wiggily. The rabbit gentleman took the horn and he, also, tried to blow. He blew so hard he almost blew off his tall silk hat, but no sound came from the horn.

"Ah, I see what the trouble is!" cried the bunny uncle with a jolly laugh, looking down inside the "toot-tooter." "It is so cold that the tunes are all frozen solid in your horn. But I have a hot apple pie here in my basket that I was taking to Grandpa Goosey Gander. I'll hold the cold horn on the hot pie and the tunes will thaw out."

"Oh, have you a pie in there?" asked Little Boy Blue. "Is it the Christmas pie into which Little Jack Horner put in his thumb and pulled out a plum?"

"Not quite, but nearly the same," laughed Uncle Wiggily. "Now to thaw out the frozen horn."

The bunny uncle put Little Boy Blue's horn in the basket with the hot apple pie. Soon the ice was melted out of the horn, and Uncle Wiggily could blow on it, and play tunes, and so could Boy Blue. Tootity-toot-toot tunes they both played.

"Now you are all right!" cried the bunny uncle. "Come along with me and you may have a piece of this pie for yourself. And you may stay with Grandpa Goosey Gander until summer comes, and then blow your horn for the sheep in the meadow and the cows in the corn. There is no need, now, for you to stay out in the cold and look for a haystack under which to sleep."

"No, I guess not," said Boy Blue. "I'll come with you, Uncle Wiggily. And thank you, so much, for helping me. I don't know what would have happened only for you."

"Pray do not mention it," politely said Uncle Wiggily with a laugh. Then he and little Boy Blue hurried on through the snow, and soon they were at Grandpa Goosey's house with the warm apple pie, and oh! how good it tasted! Oh, yum-yum!

And if the church steeple doesn't drop the ding-dong bell down in the pulpit and scare the organ, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and Higgledee Piggledee.



Chapter VI

Uncle Wiggily And Higgledee Piggledee


One day Uncle Wiggily Longears, the nice old gentleman rabbit, was sitting in an easy chair in the hollow-stump house of the Bushytail squirrel family, where he was paying a visit to Johnnie and Billie Bushytail, the two squirrel boys.

There came a knock on the door, but the bunny uncle did not pay much attention to it, as he was sort of taking a little sleep after his dinner of cabbage soup with carrot ice cream on top.

Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, went out in the hall, and when she came back, with her tail all tied up in a pink ribbon, (for she was sweeping) she said:

"Uncle Wiggily, a friend of yours has come to see you."

"A friend of mine!" cried Uncle Wiggily, awakening so suddenly that his nose stopped twinkling. "I hope it isn't the bad old fox from the Orange Mountains."

"No," answered Nurse Jane with a smile, "it is a lady."

"A lady?" exclaimed the old rabbit gentleman, getting up quickly, and looking in the glass to see that his ears were not criss-crossed. "Who can it be?"

"It is Mother Goose," went on Nurse Jane. "She says you were so kind as to help Little Boy Blue the other day, when his horn was frozen, and you thawed it on the warm pie, that perhaps you will now help her. She is in trouble."

"In trouble, eh?" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily, sort of smoothing down his vest, fastidious like and stylish. "I didn't know she blew a horn."

"She doesn't," said Nurse Jane. "But I'll bring her in and she can tell you, herself, what she wants."

"Oh, Uncle Wiggily!" cried Mother Goose, as she set her broom down in one corner, for she never went out unless she carried it with her. She said she never could tell when she might have to sweep the cobwebs out of the sky. "Oh, Uncle Wiggily, I am in such a lot of trouble!"

"Well, I will be very glad to help you if I can," said the bunny uncle. "What is it?"

"It's about Higgledee Piggledee," answered Mother Goose.

"Higgledee Piggledee!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily, "why that sounds like --  -- "

"She's my black hen," went on Mother Goose. "You know how the verse goes in the book about me and my friends."

And, taking off her tall peaked hat, which she wore when she rode on the back of the old gander, Mother Goose sang:

"Higgledee Piggledee, my black hen, She lays eggs for gentlemen. Sometimes nine and sometimes ten. Higgledee Piggledee, my black hen. Gentlemen come every day, To see what my black hen doth lay."

"Well," asked Uncle Wiggily, "what is the trouble? Has Higgledee Piggledee stopped laying? If she has I am afraid I can't help you, for hens don't lay many eggs in winter, you know."

"Oh, it isn't that!" said Mother Goose, quickly. "Higgledee Piggledee lays as many eggs as ever for gentlemen -- sometimes nine and sometimes ten. But the trouble is the gentlemen don't get them."

"Don't they come for them?" asked Uncle Wiggily, sort of puzzled like and wondering.

"Oh, yes, they come every day," said Mother Goose, "but there are no eggs for them. Some one else is getting the eggs Higgledee Piggledee lays."

"Do you s'pose she eats them herself?" asked the old rabbit gentleman, in a whisper. "Hens sometimes do, you know."

"Not Higgledee Piggledee," quickly spoke Mother Goose. "She is too good to do that. She and I are both worried about the missing eggs, and as you have been so kind I thought perhaps you could help us."

"I'll try," Uncle Wiggily said.

"Then come right along to Higgledee Piggledee's coop," invited Mother Goose. "Maybe you can find out where her eggs go to. She lays them in her nest, comes off, once in a while, to get something to eat, but when she goes back to lay more eggs the first ones are gone."

Uncle Wiggily twinkled his nose, tied his ears in a hard knot, as he always did when he was thinking, and then, putting on his fur coat and taking his rheumatism crutch with him, he went out with Mother Goose.

Uncle Wiggily rode in his airship, made of a clothes-basket, with toy circus balloons on top, and Mother Goose rode on the back of a big gander, who was a brother to Grandfather Goosey Gander. Soon they were at the hen coop where Higgledee Piggledee lived.

"Oh, Uncle Wiggily, I am so glad you came!" cackled the black hen. "Did Mother Goose tell you about the egg trouble?"

"She did, Higgledee Piggledee, and I will see if I can stop it. Now, you go on the nest and lay some eggs and then we will see what happens," spoke Uncle Wiggily.

So Higgledee Piggledee, the black hen, laid some eggs for gentlemen, and then she went out in the yard to get some corn to eat, just as she always did. And, while she was gone, Uncle Wiggily hid himself in some straw in the hen coop. Pretty soon the old gentleman heard a gnawing, rustling sound and up out of a hole in the ground popped two big rats, with red eyes.

"Did Higgledee Piggledee lay any eggs today?" asked one rat, in a whisper.

"Yes," spoke the other, "she did."

"Then we will take them," said the first rat. "Hurray! More eggs for us! No gentlemen will get these eggs because we'll take them ourselves. Hurray!"

He got down on his back, with his paws sticking up in the air. Then the other rat rolled one of the black hen's eggs over so the first rat could hold it in among his four legs. Next, the second rat took hold of the first rat's tail and began pulling him along, egg and all, just as if he were a sled on a slippery hill, the rat sliding on his back over the smooth straw. And the eggs rode on the rat-sled as nicely as you please.

"Ha!" cried Uncle Wiggily, jumping suddenly out of his hiding-place. "So this is where Higgledee Piggledee's eggs have been going, eh? You rats have been taking them. Scatt! Shoo! Boo! Skedaddle! Scoot!"

And the rats were so scared that they skedaddled away and shooed themselves and did everything else Mr. Longears told them to do, and they took no eggs that day. Then Uncle Wiggily showed Mother Goose the rat hole, and it was stopped up with stones so the rats could not come in the coop again. And ever after that Higgledee Piggledee, the black hen, could lay eggs for gentlemen, sometimes nine and sometimes ten, and there was no more trouble as there had been before Uncle Wiggily caught the rats and made them skedaddle.

So Mother Goose and the black hen thanked Uncle Wiggily very much. And if the stylish lady who lives next door doesn't take our feather bed to wear on her hat when she goes to the moving pictures, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and Little Bo Peep.



Chapter VII

Uncle Wiggily And Little Bo Peep


"What are you going to do, Nurse Jane?" asked Uncle Wiggily Longears, the rabbit gentleman, as he saw the muskrat lady housekeeper going out in the kitchen one morning, with an apron on, and a dab of white flour on the end of her nose.

"I am going to make a chocolate cake with carrot icing on top," replied Miss Fuzzy Wuzzy.

"Oh, good!" cried Uncle Wiggily, and almost before he knew it he started to clap his paws, just as Sammie and Susie Littletail, the rabbit children, might have done, and as they often did do when they were pleased about anything. "I just love chocolate cake!" cried the bunny uncle, who was almost like a boy-bunny himself.

"Do you?" asked Nurse Jane. "Then I am glad I am going to make one," and, going into the kitchen of the hollow-stump bungalow, she began rattling away among the pots, pans and kettles.

For now Nurse Jane and Uncle Wiggily were living together once more in their own hollow-stump bungalow. It had burned down, you remember, but Uncle Wiggily had had it built up again, and now he did not have to visit around among his animal friends, though he still called on them every now and then.

"Oh, dear!" suddenly cried Nurse Jane from the kitchen. "Oh, dear!"

"What is the matter, Miss Fuzzy Wuzzy?" asked the bunny uncle. "Did you drop a pan on your paw?"

"No, Uncle Wiggily," answered the muskrat lady. "It is worse than that. I can't make the chocolate cake after all, I am sorry to say."

"Oh, dear! That is too bad! Why not?" asked the bunny uncle, in a sad and sorrowful voice.

"Because there is no chocolate," went on Nurse Jane. "Since we came to our new hollow-stump bungalow I have not made any cakes, and to-day I forgot to order the chocolate from the store for this one."

"Never mind," said Uncle Wiggily, kindly. "I'll go to the store and get the chocolate for you. In fact, I would go to two stores and part of another one for the sake of having a chocolate cake."

"All right," spoke Nurse Jane. "If you get me the chocolate I'll make one."

Putting on his overcoat, with his tall silk hat tied down over his ears so they would not blow away -- I mean so his hat would not blow off -- and with his rheumatism crutch under his paw, off started the old gentleman rabbit, across the fields and through the woods to the chocolate store.

After buying what he wanted for Nurse Jane's cake, the old gentleman rabbit started back for the hollow-stump bungalow. On the way, he passed a toy store, and he stopped to look in the window at the pop-guns, the spinning-tops, the dolls, the Noah's Arks, with the animals marching out of them, and all things like that.

"It makes me young again to look at toys," said the bunny uncle. Then he went on a little farther until, all at once, as he was passing a bush, he heard from behind it the sound of crying.

"Ha! Some one in trouble again," said Uncle Wiggily. "I wonder if it can be Little Boy Blue?" He looked, but, instead of seeing the sheep-boy, whom he had once helped, Uncle Wiggily saw a little girl.

"Ha! Who are you?" the bunny uncle asked, "and what is the matter?"

"I am Little Bo Peep," was the answer, "and I have lost my sheep, and don't know where to find them."

"Why, let them alone, and they'll come home, wagging their tails behind them," said Uncle Wiggily quickly, and he laughed jolly like and happy, because he had made a rhyme to go with what Bo Peep said.

"Yes, I know that's the way it is in the Mother Goose book," said Little Bo Peep, "but I've waited and waited, and let them alone ever so long, but they haven't come home. And now I'm afraid they'll freeze."

"Ha! That's so. It is pretty cold for sheep to be out," said Uncle Wiggily, as he looked across the snow-covered field, and toward the woods where there were icicles hanging down from the trees.

"Look here, Little Bo Peep," went on the bunny uncle. "I think your sheep must have gone home long ago, wagging their tails behind them. And you, too, had better run home to Mother Goose. Tell her you met me and that I sent you home. And, if I find your sheep, I'll send them along, too. So don't worry."

"Oh, but I don't like to go home without my sheep," said Bo Peep, and tears came into her eyes. "I ought to bring them with me. But today I went skating on Crystal Lake, up in the Lemon-Orange Mountains, and I forgot all about my sheep. Now I am afraid to go home without them. Oh, dear!"

Uncle Wiggily thought for a minute, then he said:

"Ha! I have it! I know where I can get you some sheep to take home with you. Then Mother Goose will say it is all right. Come with me."

"Where are you going?" asked Bo Peep.

"To get you some sheep." And Uncle Wiggily led the little shepardess girl back to the toy store, in the window of which he had stopped to look a while ago.

"Give Bo Peep some of your toy woolly sheep, if you please," said Uncle Wiggily to the toy store man. "She can take them home with her, while her own sheep are safe in some warm place, I'm sure. But now she must have some sort of sheep to take home with her in place of the lost ones, so it will come out all right, as it is in the book. And these toy woolly sheep will do as well as any; won't they, Little Bo Peep?"

"Oh, yes, they will; thank you very much, Uncle Wiggily," answered Bo Peep, making a pretty little bow. Then the rabbit gentleman bought her ten little toy, woolly sheep, each one with a tail which Bo Peep could wag for them, and one toy lamb went: "Baa! Baa! Baa!" as real as anything, having a little phonograph talking machine inside him.

"Now I can go home to Mother Goose and make believe these are my lost sheep," said Bo Peep, "and it will be all right."

"And here is a piece of chocolate for you to eat," said Uncle Wiggily. Then Bo Peep hurried home with her fleecy toy sheep, and, later on, she found her real ones, all nice and warm, in the barn where the Cow with the Crumpled Horn lived. Mother Goose laughed in her jolliest way when she saw the toy sheep Uncle Wiggily had bought Bo Peep.

"It's just like him!" said Mother Goose.

And if the goldfish doesn't climb out of his tank and hide in the sardine tin, where the stuffed olives can't find him, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and Tommie Tucker.



Chapter VIII

Uncle Wiggily And Tommie Tucker


"Oh, Uncle Wiggily!" called Susie Littletail, the rabbit girl, one day, as she went over to see her bunny uncle in his hollow-stump bungalow. "Oh, Uncle Wiggily! Isn't it too bad?"

"Isn't what too bad?" asked the old gentleman rabbit, as he scratched his nose with his left ear, and put his glasses in his pocket, for he was tired of reading the paper, and felt like going out for a walk.

"Too bad about my talking and singing doll, that I got for Christmas," said Susie. "She won't sing any more. Something inside her is broken."

"Broken? That's too bad!" said Uncle Wiggily, kindly. "Let me see. What's her name?"

"Sallieann Peachbasket Shortcake," answered Susie.

"What a funny name," laughed the bunny uncle.

Uncle Wiggily took Susie's doll, which had been given her at Christmas, and looked at it. Inside the doll was a sort of phonograph, or talking machine -- a very small one, you know -- and when you pushed on a little button in back of the doll's dress she would laugh and talk. But, best of all, when she was in working order, she would sing a verse, which went something like this:

"I hope you'll like my little song, I will not sing it very long. I have two shoes upon my feet, And when I'm hungry, then I eat."

Uncle Wiggily wound up the spring in the doll's side, and then he pressed the button -- like a shoe button -- in her back. But this time Susie's doll did not talk, she did not laugh, and, instead of singing, she only made a scratchy noise like a phonograph when it doesn't want to play, or like Bully No-Tail, the frog boy, when he has a cold in his head.

"Oh, dear! This is quite too bad!" said Uncle Wiggily. "Quite indeed."

"Isn't it!" exclaimed Susie. "Do you think you can fix her, Uncle?"

Mr. Longears turned the doll upside down and shook her. Things rattled inside her, but even then she did not sing.

"Oh, dear!" cried Susie, her little pink nose going twinkle-inkle, just as did Uncle Wiggily's. "What can we do?"

"You leave it to me, Susie," spoke the old rabbit gentleman. "I'll take the doll to the toy shop, where I bought Little Bo Peep's sheep, and have her mended."

"Oh, goodie!" cried Susie, clasping her paws. "Now I know it will be all right," and she kissed Uncle Wiggily right between his ears.

"Well, I'm sure I hope it will be all right after that," said the bunny uncle, laughing, and feeling sort of tickled inside.

Off hopped Uncle Wiggily to the toy shop, and there he found the same monkey-doodle gentleman who had sold him the toy woolly sheep for Little Bo Peep.

"Here is more trouble," said Uncle Wiggily. "Can you fix Susie's doll so she will sing, for the doll is a little girl one, just like Susie, and her name is Sallieann Peachbasket Shortcake."

The monkey-doodle man in the toy store looked at the doll.

"I can fix her," he said. Going in his back-room workshop, where there were rocking-horses that needed new legs, wooden soldiers who had lost their guns, and steamboats that had forgotten their whistles, the toy man soon had Susie's doll mended again as well as ever. So that she said: "Papa! Mama! I love you! I am hungry!" And she laughed: "Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!" and she sang:

"I am a little dollie, 'Bout one year old. Please take me where it's warm, for I Am feeling rather cold. If you're not in a hurry, It won't take me very long, To whistle or to sing for you My pretty little song."

"Hurray!" cried Uncle Wiggily when he heard this. "Susie's dolly is all right again. Thank you, Mr. Monkey-Doodle, I'll take her to Susie." Then Uncle Wiggily paid the toy-store keeper and hurried off with Susie's doll.

Uncle Wiggily had not gone very far before, all at once from around the corner of a snowbank he heard a sad, little voice crying:

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

"My goodness!" said the bunny uncle. "Some one else is in trouble. I wonder who it can be this time?"

He looked, and saw a little boy standing in the snow.

"Hello!" cried Uncle Wiggily, in his jolly voice. "Who are you, and what's the matter?"

"I am Little Tommie Tucker," was the answer. "And the matter is I'm hungry."

"Hungry, eh?" asked Uncle Wiggily. "Well, why don't you eat?"

"I guess you forgot about me and the Mother Goose book," spoke the boy. "I'm in that book, and it says about me:

"'Little Tommie Tucker, Must sing for his supper. What shall he eat? Jam and bread and butter.'"

"Well?" asked Uncle Wiggily. "Why don't you sing?"

"I -- I can't!" answered Tommie. "That's the trouble. I have caught such a cold that I can't sing. And if I don't sing Mother Goose won't know it is I, and she won't give me any supper. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! And I am so hungry!"

"There now, there! Don't cry," kindly said the bunny uncle, patting Tommie Tucker on the head. "I'll soon have you singing for your supper."

"But how can you when I have such a cold?" asked the little boy. "Listen. I am as hoarse as a crow."

And, truly, he could no more sing than a rusty gate, or a last year's door-knob.

"Ah, I can soon fix that!" said Uncle Wiggily. "See, here I have Susie Littletail's talking and singing doll, which I have just had mended. Now you take the doll in your pocket, go to Mother Goose, and when she asks you to sing for your supper, just push the button in the doll's back. Then the doll will sing and Mother Goose will think it is you, and give you bread and jam."

"Oh, how fine!" cried Tommie Tucker. "I'll do it!"

"But afterward," said Uncle Wiggily, slowly shaking his paw at Tommie, "afterward you must tell Mother Goose all about the little joke you played, or it would not be fair. Tell her the doll sang and not you."

"I will," said Tommie. He and Uncle Wiggily went to Mother Goose's house, and when Tommie had to sing for his supper the doll did it for him. And when Mother Goose heard about it she said it was a fine trick, and that Uncle Wiggily was very good to think of it.

Then the bunny uncle took Susie's mended doll to her, and the next day Tommie's cold was all better and he could sing for his supper himself, just as the book tells about.

And if the little mouse doesn't go to sleep in the cat's cradle and scare the milk bottle so it rolls off the back stoop, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and Pussy Cat Mole.



Chapter IX

Uncle Wiggily And Pussy Cat Mole


"Oh, dear! I don't believe he's ever coming!" said Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, as she stood at the window of the hollow-stump bungalow one day, and looked down through the woods.

"For whom are you looking, Nurse Jane?" asked Uncle Wiggily Longears, the rabbit gentleman. "If it's for the letter-man, I think he went past some time ago."

"No, I wasn't looking for the letter-man," said the muskrat lady. "I am expecting a messenger-boy cat to bring home my new dress from the dressmaker's, but I don't see him."

"A new dress, eh?" asked Uncle Wiggily. "Pray, what is going on?"

"My dress is going on me, as soon as it comes home, Uncle Wiggily," the muskrat lady answered, laughingly. "And then I am going on over to the house of Mrs. Wibblewobble, the duck lady. She and I are going to have a little tea party together, if you don't mind."

"Mind? Certainly not! I'm glad to have you go out and enjoy yourself," said Uncle Wiggily, jolly like and also laughing.

"But I can't go if my new dress doesn't come," went on Nurse Jane. "That is, I don't want to."

"Look here!" said the bunny uncle, "I'll tell you what I'll do, Nurse Jane, I'll go for your dress myself and bring it home. I have nothing to do. I'll go get your dress at the dressmaker's."

"Will you, really?" cried the muskrat lady. "That will be fine! Then I can curl my whiskers and tie a new pink bow for my tail. You are very good, Uncle Wiggily."

"Oh, not at all! Not at all!" the rabbit gentleman said, modest like and shy. Then he hopped out of the hollow-stump bungalow and across the fields and through the woods to where Nurse Jane's dressmaker made dresses.

"Oh, yes, Nurse Jane's dress!" exclaimed Mrs. Spin-Spider, who wove silk for all the dresses worn by the lady animals of Woodland. "Yes, I have just finished it. I was about to call a messenger-boy cat and send it home, but now you are here you may take it. And here is some cloth I had left over. Nurse Jane might want it if ever she tears a hole in her dress."

Uncle Wiggily put the extra pieces of cloth in his pocket, and then Mrs. Spin-Spider wrapped Nurse Jane's dress up nicely for him in tissue paper, as fine as the web which she had spun for the silk, and the rabbit gentleman started back to the hollow-stump bungalow.

Mrs. Spin-Spider lived on Second Mountain, and, as Uncle Wiggily's bungalow was on First Mountain, he had quite a way to go to get home. And when he was about half way there he passed a little house near a gray rock that looked like an eagle, and in the house he heard a voice saying:

"Oh, dear! Oh, isn't it too bad? Now I can't go!"

"Ha! I wonder who that can be?" thought the rabbit gentleman. "It sounds like some one in trouble. I will ask if I can do anything to help."

The rabbit gentleman knocked on the door of the little house, and a voice said:

"Come in!"

Uncle Wiggily entered, and there in the middle of the room he saw a pussy cat lady holding up a dress with a big hole burned in it.

"I beg your pardon, but who are you and what is the matter?" politely asked the bunny uncle, making a low bow.

"My name is Pussy Cat Mole," was the answer, "and you can see the trouble for yourself. I am Pussy Cat Mole; I jumped over a coal, and --  -- "

"In your best petticoat burned a great hole," finished Uncle Wiggily. "I know you, now. You are from Mother Goose's book and I met you at a party in Belleville, where they have a bluebell flower on the school to call the animal children to their lessons."

"That's it!" meowed Pussy Cat Mole. "I am glad you remember me, Uncle Wiggily. It was at a party I met you, and now I am going to another. Or, rather, I was going until I jumped over a coal, and in my best petticoat burned a great hole. Now I can't go," and she held up the burned dress, sorrowful like and sad.

"How did you happen to jump over the coal?" asked Uncle Wiggily.

"Oh, it fell out of my stove," said Pussy Cat Mole, "and I jumped over it in a hurry to get the fire shovel to take it up. That's how I burned my dress. And now I can't go to the party, for it was my best petticoat, and Mrs. Wibblewobble, the duck lady, asked me to be there early, too; and now -- Oh, dear!" and Pussy Cat Mole felt very badly, indeed.

"Mrs. Wibblewobble's!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "Why, Nurse Jane is going there to a little tea party, too! This is her new dress I am taking home."

"Has she burned a hole in it?" asked the pussy cat lady.

"No, she has not, I am glad to say," the bunny uncle replied. "She hasn't had it on, yet."

"Then she can go to the party, but I can't," said Pussy Cat Mole, sorrowfully. "Oh, dear!"

"Yes, you can go!" suddenly cried Uncle Wiggily. "See here! I have some extra pieces of cloth, left over when Mrs. Spin-Spider made Nurse Jane's dress. Now you can take these pieces of cloth and mend the hole burned by the coal in your best petticoat. Then you can go to the party."

"Oh, so I can," meowed the pussy cat. So, with a needle and thread, and the cloth she mended her best petticoat.

All around the edges and over the top of the burned hole the pussy cat lady sewed the left-over pieces of Nurse Jane's dress which was almost the same color. Then, when the mended place was pressed with a warm flat-iron, Uncle Wiggily cried:

"You would never know there had been a burned hole!"

"That's fine!" meowed Pussy Cat Mole. "Thank you so much, Uncle Wiggily, for helping me!"

"Pray do not mention it," said the rabbit gentleman, bashful like and casual. Then he hurried to the hollow-stump bungalow with Nurse Jane's dress, and the muskrat lady said he had done just right to help mend Pussy Cat Mole's dress with the left-over pieces. So she and Nurse Jane both went to Mrs. Wibblewobble's little tea party, and had a good time.

And so, you see, it came out just as it did in the book: Pussy Cat Mole jumped over a coal, and in her best petticoat burned a great hole. But the hole it was mended, and my story is ended. Only never before was it known how the hole was mended. Uncle Wiggily did it.

And, if the apple doesn't jump out of the peach dumpling and hide in the lemon pie when the knife and fork try to play tag with it, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and Jack and Jill, and it will be a Valentine story.



Chapter X

Uncle Wiggily And Jack And Jill


Uncle Wiggily Longears, the nice old gentleman rabbit, was asleep in an easy chair in his hollow-stump bungalow one morning when he heard some one calling:

"Hi, Jack! Ho, Jill! Where are you? Come at once, if you please!"

"Ha! What's that? Some one calling me?" asked the bunny uncle, sitting up so suddenly that he knocked over his red, white and blue striped barber-pole rheumatism crutch that Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, had gnawed for him out of a corn-stalk. "Is any one calling me?" asked Mr. Longears.

"No," answered Miss Fuzzy Wuzzy. "That's Mother Goose calling Jack and Jill to get a pail of water."

"Oh! is that all?" asked the rabbit gentleman, rubbing his pink eyes and making his nose twinkle like the sharp end of an ice cream cone. "Just Mother Goose calling Jack and Jill; eh? Well, I'll go out and see if I can find them for her."

Uncle Wiggily was always that way, you know, wanting to help some one. This time it was Mother Goose. His new hollow-stump bungalow was built right near where Mother Goose lived, with all her big family; Peter-Peter Pumpkin-Eater, Little Jack Horner, Bo Peep and many others.

"Ho, Jack! Hi, Jill! Where are you?" called Mother Goose, as Uncle Wiggily came out of his hollow stump.

"Can't you find those two children?" asked the rabbit gentleman, making a polite good morning bow.

"I am sorry to say I cannot," answered Mother Goose. "They were over to see the Old Woman Who Lives in a Shoe, a while ago, but where they are now I can't guess, and I need a pail of water for Simple Simon to go fishing in, for to catch a whale."

"Oh, I'll get the water for you," said Uncle Wiggily, taking the pail. "Perhaps Jack and Jill are off playing somewhere, and they have forgotten all about getting the water."

"And I suppose they'll forget about tumbling down hill, too," went on Mother Goose, sort of nervous like. "But they must not. If they don't fall down, so Jack can break his crown, it won't be like the story in my book, and everything will be upside down."

"So Jack has to break his crown; eh?" asked Uncle Wiggily. "That's too bad. I hope he won't hurt himself too much."

"Oh, he's used to it by this time," Mother Goose said. "He doesn't mind falling, nor does Jill mind tumbling down after."

"Very well, then, I'll get the pail of water for you," spoke the bunny uncle, "and Jack and Jill can do the tumbling-down-hill part."

Uncle Wiggily took the water pail and started for the hill, on top of which was the well owned by Mother Goose. As the bunny uncle was walking along he suddenly heard a voice calling to him from behind a bush.

"Oh, Uncle Wiggily, will you do me a favor?"

"I certainly will," said Mr. Longears, "but who are you, and where are you?"

"Here I am, over here," the voice went on. "I'm Jack, and will you please give this to Jill when you see her?"

Out from behind the bush stepped Jack, the little Mother Goose boy. In his hand he held a piece of white birch bark, prettily colored red, green and pink, and on it was a little verse which read:

"Can you tell me, pretty maid, Tell me and not be afraid, Who's the sweetest girl, and true? --  I can; for she's surely you!"

"What's this? What's this?" asked Uncle Wiggily, in surprise. "What's this?"

"It's a valentine for Jill," said Jack. "To-day is Valentine's Day, you see, but I don't want Jill to know I sent it, so I went off here and hid until I could see you to ask you to take it to her."

"All right, I'll do it," Uncle Wiggily said, laughing. "I'll take your valentine to Jill for you. So that's why you weren't 'round to get the pail of water; is it?"

"Yes," answered Jack. "I wanted to finish making my valentine. As soon as you give it to Jill I'll get the water."

"Oh, never mind that," said the bunny uncle. "I'll get the water, just you do the falling-down-hill part. I'm too old for that."

"I will," promised Jack. Then Uncle Wiggily went on up the hill, and pretty soon he heard some one else calling him, and, all of a sudden, out from behind a stump stepped Jill, the little Mother Goose girl.

"Oh, Uncle Wiggily!" said Jill, bashfully holding out a pretty red leaf, shaped like a heart, "will you please give this to Jack. I don't want him to know I sent it."

"Of course, I'll give it to him," promised the rabbit gentleman. "It's a valentine, I suppose, and here is something for you," and while Jill was reading the valentine Jack had sent her, Uncle Wiggily looked at the red heart-shaped leaf. On it Jill had written in blue ink:

"One day when I went to school, Teacher taught to me this rule: Eight and one add up to nine; So I'll be your valentine."

"My, that's nice!" said Uncle Wiggily, laughing. "So that's why you're hiding off here for, Jill, to make a valentine for Jack?"

"That's it," Jill answered, blushing sort of pink, like the frosting on a strawberry cake. "But I don't want Jack to know it."

"I'll never tell him," said Uncle Wiggily.

So he went on up the hill to get a pail of water for Mother Goose. And on his way back he gave Jill's valentine to Jack, who liked it very much.

"And now, since you got the water, Jill and I will go tumble down hill," said Jack, as he found the little girl, where she was reading his valentine again. Up the hill they went, near the well of water, and Jack fell down, and broke his crown, while Jill came tumbling after, while Uncle Wiggily looked on and laughed. So it all happened just as it did in the book, you see.

Mother Goose was very glad Uncle Wiggily had brought the water for Simple Simon to go fishing in, and that afternoon she gave a valentine party for Sammie and Susie Littletail, the Bushytail squirrel brothers, Nannie and Billie Wagtail, the goats, and all the other animal friends of Uncle Wiggily. And every one had a fine time.

And if the cup doesn't jump out of the saucer and hide in the spoonholder, where the coffee cake can't find it, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and little Jack Horner.



Chapter XI

Uncle Wiggily And Jack Horner


"Well, I think I'll go for a walk," said Uncle Wiggily Longears, the rabbit gentleman, one afternoon, when he was sitting out on the front porch of his hollow-stump bungalow. He had just eaten a nice dinner that Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, had gotten ready for him.

"Go for a walk!" exclaimed Nurse Jane. "Why, Mr. Longears, excuse me for saying so, but you went walking this morning."

"I know I did," answered the bunny uncle, "but no adventure happened to me then. I don't really count it a good day unless I have had an adventure. So I'll go walking again, and perhaps I may find one. If I do, I'll come home and tell you all about it."

"All right," said Nurse Jane. "You are a funny rabbit, to be sure! Going off in the woods, looking for adventures when you might sit quietly here on the bungalow front porch."

"That's just it!" laughed Uncle Wiggily. "I don't like to be too quiet. Off I go!"

"I hope you have a nice adventure!" Nurse Jane called after him.

"Thank you," answered Uncle Wiggily, politely.

Away over the fields and through the woods went the bunny uncle, looking on all sides for an adventure, when, all of a sudden he heard behind him a sound that went:

"Honk! Honk! Honkity-honk-honk!"

"Ha! That must be a wild goose!" thought the rabbit gentleman.

So he looked up in the air, over his head, where the wild geese always fly, but, instead of seeing any of the big birds, Uncle Wiggily felt something whizz past him, and again he heard the loud "Honk-honk!" noise, and then he sneezed, for a lot of dust from the road flew up his nose.

"My!" he heard some one cry. "We nearly ran over a rabbit! Did you see?"

And a big automobile, with real people in it, shot past. It was the horn of the auto that Uncle Wiggily had heard, and not a wild goose.

"Ha! That came pretty close to me," thought Uncle Wiggily, as the auto went on down the road. "I never ride my automobile as fast as that, even when I sprinkle pepper on the bologna sausage tires. I don't like to scare any one."

Perhaps the people in the auto did not mean to so nearly run over Uncle Wiggily. Let us hope so.

The old gentleman rabbit hopped on down the road, that was between the woods and the fields, and, pretty soon, he saw something bright and shining in the dust, near where the auto had passed.

"Oh, maybe that's a diamond," he said, as he stooped over to pick it up. But it was only a shiny button-hook, and not a diamond at all. Some one in the automobile had dropped it.

"Well, I'll put it in my pocket," said Uncle Wiggily to himself. "It may come in useful to button Nurse Jane's shoes, or mine."

The bunny gentleman went on a little farther, and, pretty soon, he came to a tiny house, with a red chimney sticking up out of the roof.

"Ha! I wonder who lives there?" said Uncle Wiggily.

He stood still for a moment, looking through his glasses at the house and then, all of a sudden, he saw a little lady, with a tall, peaked hat on, run out and look up and down the road. Her hat was just like an ice cream cone turned upside down. Only don't turn your ice cream cone upside down if it has any cream in it, for you might spill your treat.

"Help! Help! Help!" cried the lady, who had come out of the house with the red chimney.

"Ha! That sounds like trouble!" said Uncle Wiggily. "I think I had better hurry over there and see what it is all about."

He hopped over toward the little house, and, when he reached it he saw that the little lady who was calling for help was Mother Goose herself.

"Oh, Uncle Wiggily!" exclaimed Mother Goose. "I am so glad to see you! Will you please go for help for me?"

"Why, certainly I will," answered the bunny gentleman. "But what kind of help do you want; help for the kitchen, or a wash-lady help or --  -- "

"Neither of those," said Mother Goose. "I want help so Little Jack Horner can get his thumb out of the pie."

"Get his thumb out of the pie!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "What in the world do you mean?"

"Why, you see it's this way," went on Mother Goose. "Jack Horner lives here. You must have heard about him. He is in my book. His verse goes like this:

"Little Jack Horner Sat in a corner, Eating a Christmas pie. He put in his thumb, And pulled out a plum, And said what a great boy am I.

"That's the boy I mean," cried Mother Goose. "But the trouble is that Jack can't get his thumb out. He put it in the pie, to pull out the plum, but it won't come out -- neither the plum nor the thumb. They are stuck fast for some reason or other. I wish you'd go for Dr. Possum, so he can help us."

"I will," said Uncle Wiggily. "But is Jack Horner sitting in a corner, as it says in the book?"

"Oh, he's doing that all right," answered Mother Goose. "But, corner or no corner, he can't pull out his thumb."

"I'll get the doctor at once," promised the bunny uncle. He hurried over to Dr. Possum's house, but could not find him, as Dr. Possum was, just then, called to see Jillie Longtail, who had the mouse-trap fever.

"Dr. Possum not in!" cried Mother Goose, when Uncle Wiggily had hopped back and told her. "That's too bad! Oh, we must do something for Jack. He's crying and going on terribly because he can't get his thumb out."

Uncle Wiggily thought for a minute. Then, putting his paw in his pocket, he felt the button-hook which had dropped from the automobile that nearly ran over him.

"Ha! I know what to do!" cried the bunny uncle, suddenly.

"What?" asked Mother Goose.

"I'll pull out Jack's thumb myself, with this button-hook," said Mr. Longears. "I'll make him all right without waiting for Dr. Possum."

Into the room, where, in the corner, Jack was sitting, went the bunny gentleman. There he saw the Christmas-pie boy, with his thumb away down deep under the top crust.

"Oh, Uncle Wiggily!" cried Jack. "I'm in such trouble. Oh, dear! I can't get my thumb out. It must be caught on the edge of the pan, or something!"

"Don't cry," said Uncle Wiggily, kindly. "I'll get it out for you."

"I wish you'd go for Dr. Possum."

So he put the button-hook through the hole in the top pie crust, close to Jack's thumb. Then, getting the hook on the plum, Uncle Wiggily, with his strong paws, pulled and pulled and pulled, and --  -- 

All of a sudden out came the plum and Jack Homer's thumb, and they weren't stuck fast any more.

"Oh, thank you, so much!" said Jack, as he got up out of his corner.

"Pray don't mention it," spoke Uncle Wiggily, politely. "I am glad I could help you, and it also makes an adventure for me."

Then Jack Horner, went back to his corner and ate the plum that stuck to his thumb. And Uncle Wiggily, putting the button-hook back in his pocket, went on to his hollow-stump bungalow. He had had his adventure.

So everything came out all right, you see, and if the snow-shovel doesn't go off by itself, sliding down hill with the ash can, when it ought to be boiling the cups and saucers for supper, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and Mr. Pop-Goes.



Chapter XII

Uncle Wiggily And Mr. Pop-Goes


"Uncle Wiggily," said Mrs. Littletail, the rabbit lady, one morning, as she came in the dining-room where Mr. Longears was reading the cabbage leaf paper after breakfast, "Uncle Wiggily, I don't like you to go out in such a storm as this, but I do need some things from the store, and I have no one to send."

"Why, I'll be only too glad to go," cried the bunny uncle, who was spending a few days visiting the Littletail family in their underground burrow-house. "It isn't snowing very hard," and he looked out through the window, which was up a little way above ground to make the burrow light. "What do you want, Mrs. Littletail?" he asked.

"Oh, I want a loaf of bread and some sugar," said the bunny mother of Sammie and Susie Littletail.

"And you shall certainly have what you want!" cried Uncle Wiggily, as he got ready to go to the store. Soon he was on his way, wearing his fur coat, and hopping along on his corn-stalk rheumatism crutch, while his pink nose was twinkling in the frosty air like a red lantern on the back of an automobile.

"A loaf of home-made bread and three and a half pounds of granulated sugar," said Uncle Wiggily to the monkey-doodle gentleman who kept the grocery store. "And the best that you have, if you please, as it's for Mrs. Littletail."

"You shall certainly have the best!" cried the monkey-doodle gentleman, with a jolly laugh. And while he was wrapping up the things for Uncle Wiggily to carry home, all at once there sounded in the store a loud:

"Pop!"

"My! What's that?" asked Uncle Wiggily, surprised like and excited. "I heard a bang like a gun. Are there any hunter-men, with their dogs about? If there are I must be careful."

"No, that wasn't a gun," said the monkey-doodle gentleman. "That was only one of the toy balloons in my window. I had some left over from last year, so I blew them up and put them in my window to make it look pretty. Now and then one of them bursts." And just then, surely enough, "Pop! Bang!" went another toy balloon, bursting and shriveling all up.

Uncle Wiggily looked in the front window of the store and saw some blown-up balloons that had not burst.

"I'll take two of those," he said to the monkey-doodle gentleman. "Sammie and Susie Littletail will like to play with them."

"Better take two or three," said the monkey-doodle gentleman. "I'll let you have them cheap, as they are old balloons, and they will burst easily."

So he let the air out of four balloons and gave them to Uncle Wiggily to take home to the bunny children.

The rabbit gentleman started off through the snow-storm toward the underground house, but he had not gone very far before, just as he was coming out from behind a big stump, he heard voices talking.

"Now, I'll tell you how we can get those rabbits," Uncle Wiggily heard one voice say. "I'll crawl down in the burrow, and as soon as they see me they'll be scared and run out -- Uncle Wiggily, Mrs. Littletail, the two children, Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy and all. Then you can grab them, Mr. Bigtail! I am glad I happened to meet you!"

"Ah, ha!" thought Uncle Wiggily. "Mr. Bigtail! I ought to know that name. It's the fox, and he and some one else seem to be after us rabbits. But I thought the fox promised to be good and let me alone. He must have changed his mind."

Uncle Wiggily peeked cautiously around the stump, taking care to make no noise, and there he saw a fox and another animal talking. And the rabbit gentleman saw that it was not the fox who had promised to be good, but another one, of the same name, who was bad.

"Yes, I'll go down the hole and drive out the rabbits and you can grab them," said the queer animal.

"That's good," growled the fox, "but to whom have I the honor of speaking?" That was his way of asking the name of the other animal, you see.

"Oh, I'm called Mr. Pop-Goes," said the other.

"Mr. Pop-Goes! What a queer name," said the fox, and all the while Uncle Wiggily was listening with his big ears, and wondering what it all meant.

"Oh, Pop-Goes isn't all my name," said the queer animal. "Don't you know the story in the book? The monkey chased the cobbler's wife all around the steeple. That's the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel. I'm Mr. Pop-Goes, the weasel, you see. I'm 'specially good at chasing rabbits."

"Oh, I see!" barked Mr. Bigtail, the fox. "Well, I'll be glad if you can help me get those rabbits. I've been over to that Uncle Wiggily's hollow-stump bungalow, but he isn't around."

"No, he's visiting the Littletail rabbits," said Mr. Pop-Goes, the weasel. "But we'll drive him out."

Then Uncle Wiggily felt very badly, indeed, for he knew that a weasel is the worst animal a rabbit can have after him. Weasels are very fond of rabbits. They love them so much they want to eat them, and Uncle Wiggily did not want to be eaten, even by Mr. Pop-Goes.

"Oh, dear!" he thought. "What can I do to scare away the bad fox and Mr. Pop-Goes, the weasel? Oh, dear!" Then he thought of the toy balloons, that made a noise like a gun when they were blown up and burst. "The very thing!" thought the rabbit gentleman.

Carefully, as he hid behind the stump, Uncle Wiggily took out one of the toy balloons. Carefully he blew it up, bigger and bigger and bigger, until, all at once:

"Bang!" exploded the toy balloon, even making Uncle Wiggily jump. And as for the fox and Mr. Pop-Goes, the weasel, why they were so kerslostrated (if you will kindly excuse me for using such a word) that they turned a somersault, jumped up in the air, came down, turned a peppersault, and started to run.

"Did you hear that noise?" asked the weasel. "That was a pop, and whenever I hear a pop I have to go! And I'm going fast!"

"So am I!" barked the fox. "That was a hunter with a gun after us, I guess. We'll get those rabbits some other time."

"Maybe you will, and maybe not!" laughed Uncle Wiggily, as he hurried on to the burrow with the bread, sugar and the rest of the toy balloons, with which Sammie and Susie had lots of fun.

So you see Mr. Pop-Goes, the weasel, didn't get Uncle Wiggily after all, and if the pepper caster doesn't throw dust in the potato's eyes, and make it sneeze at the rag doll, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and Simple Simon.



Chapter XIII

Uncle Wiggily And Simple Simon


"There!" exclaimed Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, who, with Uncle Wiggily Longears, the rabbit gentleman, was visiting at the Littletail rabbit burrow one day. "There they are, Uncle Wiggily, all nicely wrapped up for you to carry."

"What's nicely wrapped up?" asked the bunny uncle. "And what do you want me to carry?" And he looked over the tops of his spectacles at the muskrat lady, sort of surprised and wondering.

"I want you to carry the jam tarts, and they are all nicely wrapped up," went on Nurse Jane. "Don't you remember, I said I was going to make some for you to take over to Mrs. Wibblewobble, the duck lady?"

"Oh, of course!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "The jam tarts are for Lulu, Alice and Jimmie Wibblewobble, the duck children. I remember now. I'll take them right over."

"They are all nicely wrapped up in a clean napkin," went on the muskrat lady, "so be careful not to squash them and squeeze out the jam, as they are very fresh."

"I'll be careful," promised the old rabbit gentleman, as he put on his fur coat and took down off the parlor mantle his red, white and blue striped barber-pole rheumatism crutch, made of a corn-stalk.

"Oh, wait a minute, Uncle Wiggily! Wait a minute!" cried Mrs. Littletail, the bunny mother of Sammie and Susie, the rabbit children, as Mr. Longears started out. "Where are you going?"

"Over to Mrs. Wibblewobble, the duck lady's house, with some jam tarts for Lulu, Alice and Jimmie," answered Uncle Wiggily.

"Then would you mind carrying, also, this little rubber plant over to her?" asked Mrs. Littletail. "I told Mrs. Wibblewobble I would send one to her the first chance I had."

"Right gladly will I take it," said Uncle Wiggily. So Mrs. Littletail, the rabbit lady, wrapped the pot of the little rubber plant, with its thick, shiny green leaves, in a piece of paper, and Uncle Wiggily, tucking it under one paw, while with the other he leaned on his crutch, started off over the fields and through the woods, with the jam tarts in his pocket. Over toward the home of the Wibblewobble duck family he hopped.

Mr. Longears, the nice old rabbit gentleman, had not gone very far before, all at once, from behind a snow-covered stump, he heard a voice saying:

"Oh, dear! I know I'll never find him! I've looked all over and I can't see him anywhere. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What shall I do?"

"My! That sounds like some one in trouble," Uncle Wiggily said to himself. "I wonder if that is any of my little animal friends? I must look."

So the rabbit gentleman peeked over the top of the stump, and there he saw a queer-looking boy, with a funny smile on his face, which was as round and shiny as the bottom of a new dish pan. And the boy looked so kind that Uncle Wiggily knew he would not hurt even a lollypop, much less a rabbit gentleman.

"Oh, hello!" cried the boy, as soon as he saw Uncle Wiggily. "Who are you?"

"I am Mr. Longears," replied the bunny uncle. "And who are you?"

"Why, I'm Simple Simon," was the answer. "I'm in the Mother Goose book, you know."

"Oh, yes, I remember," said Uncle Wiggily. "But you seem to be out of the book, just now."

"I am," said Simple Simon. "The page with my picture on it fell out of the book, and so I ran away. But I can't find him anywhere and I don't know what to do."

"Who is it you can't find?" asked the rabbit.

"The pie-man," answered the funny, round-faced boy. "Don't you remember, it says in the book, 'Simple Simon met a pie-man going to the fair?'"

"Oh, yes, I remember," Uncle Wiggily answered. "What's next?"

"Well, I can't find him anywhere," said Simple Simon. "I guess the pie-man didn't fall out of the book when I did."

"That's too bad," spoke Uncle Wiggily, kindly.

"It is," said Simple Simon. "For you know he ought to ask me for my penny, when I want to taste of his pies, and indeed, I haven't any penny -- not any, and I'm so hungry for a piece of pie!" And Simple Simon began to cry.

"Oh, don't cry," said Uncle Wiggily. "See, in my pocket I have some jam tarts. They are for Lulu, Alice and Jimmie Wibblewobble, the ducks, but there are enough to let you have one."

"Why, you are a regular pie-man yourself; aren't you?" laughed Simple Simon, as he ate one of Nurse Jane's nice jam tarts.

"Well, you might call me that," said the bunny uncle. "Though I s'pose a tart-man would be nearer right."

"But there's something else," went on Simple Simon. "You know in the Mother Goose book I have to go for water, in my mother's sieve. But soon it all ran through." And then, cried Simple Simon, "Oh, dear, what shall I do?" And he held out a sieve, just like a coffee strainer, full of little holes. "How can I ever get water in that?" he asked. "I've tried and tried, but I can't. No one can! It all runs through!"

Uncle Wiggily thought for a minute. Then he cried:

"I have it! I'll pull some leaves off the rubber plant I am taking to Mrs. Wibblewobble. We'll put the leaves in the bottom of the sieve, and, being of rubber, water can't get through them. Then the sieve will hold water, or milk either, and you can bring it to your mother."

"Oh, fine!" cried Simple Simon, licking the sticky squeegee jam off his fingers. So Uncle Wiggily put some rubber plant leaves in the bottom of the sieve, and Simple Simon, filling it full of water, carried it home to his mother, and not a drop ran through, which, of course, wasn't at all like the story in the book.

"But that isn't my fault," said Uncle Wiggily, as he took the rest of the jam tarts to the Wibblewobble children. "I just had to help Simple Simon." Which was very kind of Uncle Wiggily, I think; don't you? It didn't matter if, just once, something happened that wasn't in the book.

And Mrs. Wibblewobble didn't at all mind some of the leaves being off her rubber plant. So you see we should always be kind when we can; and if the canary bird doesn't go to sleep in the bowl with the goldfish, and forget to whistle like an alarm clock in the morning, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the crumple-horn cow.



Chapter XIV

Uncle Wiggily And The Crumple-Horn Cow


"Where are you going, Uncle Wiggily?" asked Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, as she saw the rabbit gentleman starting out from his hollow-stump bungalow one day. He was back again from his visit to Sammie and Susie Littletail.

"Oh, I'm just going for a walk," answered Mr. Longears. "I have not had an exciting adventure since I carried the valentines for Jack and Jill, before they tumbled down hill, and perhaps to-day I may find something else to make me lively, and happy and skippy like."

"Too much hopping and skipping is not good for you," the muskrat lady said.

"Yes, I think it is, if you will excuse me for saying so," spoke Uncle Wiggily politely. "It keeps my rheumatism from getting too painful."

Then, taking his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch from inside the talking machine horn, Uncle Wiggily started off.

Over the fields and through the woods went the rabbit gentleman, until, pretty soon, as he was walking along, wondering what would happen to him that day, he heard a voice saying:

"Moo! Moo! Moo-o-o-o-o!"

"Ah! That sounds rather sad and unhappy like," spoke the rabbit gentleman to himself. "I wonder if it can be any one in trouble?"

So he peeked through the bushes and there he saw a nice cow, who was standing with one foot in the hollow of a big stump.

"Moo! Moo!" cried the cow. "Oh, dear, will no one help me?"

"Why, of course, I'll help you," kindly said Uncle Wiggily. "What is the matter, and who are you?"

"Why, I am the Mother Goose cow with the crumpled horn," was the answer, "and my foot is caught so tightly in the hole of this stump that I cannot get it out."

"Why, I'll help you, Mrs. Crumpled-horn Cow," said Uncle Wiggily, kindly. Then, with his rheumatism crutch, the rabbit gentleman pushed loose the cow's hoof from where it was caught in the stump, and she was all right again.

"Oh, thank you so much, Uncle Wiggily," spoke the crumpled-horn cow. "If ever I can do you a favor I will."

"Thank you," said the rabbit gentleman, politely. "I'm sure you will. But how did you happen to get your hoof caught in that stump?"

"Oh, I was standing on it, trying to see if I could jump over the moon," was the answer.

"Jump over the moon!" cried the rabbit gentleman. "You surprise me! Why in the world --  -- "

"It's this way, you see," spoke the crumpled-horn lady cow. "In the Mother Goose book it says: 'Hi-diddle-diddle, the cat's in the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.' Well, if one cow did that, I don't see why another one can't. I got up on the stump, to try and jump over the moon, but my foot slipped and I was caught fast.

"I suppose I should not have tried it, for I am the cow with the crumpled horn. You have heard of me, I dare say. I'm the cow with the crumpled horn, that little Boy Blue drove out of the corn. I tossed the dog that worried that cat that caught the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built."

"Oh, I remember you now," said Uncle Wiggily.

"And this is my crumpled horn," went on the cow, and she showed the rabbit gentleman how one of her horns was all crumpled and crooked and twisted, just like a corkscrew that is used to pull hard corks out of bottles.

"Well, thank you again for pulling out my foot," said the cow, as she turned away. "Now I must go toss that dog once more, for he's always worrying the cat."

So the cow went away, and Uncle Wiggily hopped on through the woods and over the fields. He had had an adventure, you see, helping the cow, and later on he had another one, for he met Jimmie Wibblewobble, the boy duck, who had lost his penny going to the store for a cornmeal-flavored lollypop. Uncle Wiggily found the penny in the snow, and Jimmie was happy once more.

The next day when Uncle Wiggily awakened in his hollow-stump bungalow, and tried to get out of bed, he was so lame and stiff that he could hardly move.

"Oh, dear!" cried the rabbit gentleman. "Ouch! Oh, what a pain!"

"What is it?" asked Nurse Jane. "What's the matter?"

"My rheumatism," answered Uncle Wiggily. "Please send to Dr. Possum and get some medicine. Ouch! Oh, my!"

"I'll go for the medicine myself," Nurse Jane said, and, tying her tail up in a double bow-knot, so she would not step on it, and trip, as she hurried along, over to Dr. Possum's she went.

The doctor was just starting out to go to see Nannie Wagtail, the little goat girl, who had the hornache, but before going there Dr. Possum ran back into his office, got a big bottle of medicine, which he gave to Nurse Jane, saying:

"When you get back to the hollow-stump bungalow pull out the cork and rub some on Uncle Wiggily's pain."

"Rub the cork on?" asked Nurse Jane, sort of surprised like.

"No, rub on some of the medicine from the bottle," answered Dr. Possum, laughing as he hurried off.

Uncle Wiggily had a bad pain when Nurse Jane got back.

"I'll soon fix you," said the muskrat lady. "Wait until I get the cork out of this bottle." But that was more easily said than done. Nurse Jane tried with all her might to pull out the cork with her paws and even with her teeth. Then she used a hair pin, but it only bent and twisted itself all up in a knot.

"Oh, hurry with the medicine!" begged Uncle Wiggily. "Hurry, please!"

"I can't get the cork out," said Nurse Jane. "The cork is stuck in the bottle."

"Let me try," spoke the bunny uncle. But he could not get the cork out, either, and his pain was getting worse all the while.

Just then came a knock on the bungalow door, and a voice said:

"I am the cow with the crumpled horn. I just met Dr. Possum, and he told me Uncle Wiggily had the rheumatism. Is there anything I can do for him? I'd like to do him a favor as he did me one."

"Yes, you can help me," said the rabbit gentleman. "Can you pull a tight cork out of a bottle?"

"Indeed I can!" mooed the cow. "Just watch me!" She put her crooked, crumpled horn, which was just like a corkscrew, in the cork, and, with one twist, out it came from the bottle as easily as anything. Then Nurse Jane could rub some medicine on Uncle Wiggily's rheumatism, which soon felt much better.

So you see Mother Goose's crumpled-horn cow can do other things besides tossing cat-worrying dogs. And if the fried egg doesn't go to sleep in the dish pan, so the knives and forks can't play tag there, I'll tell you next of Uncle Wiggily and Old Mother Hubbard.



Chapter XV

Uncle Wiggily And Old Mother Hubbard


"Uncle Wiggily, have you anything special to do this morning?" asked Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper for the rabbit gentleman, as she saw him get up from the breakfast table in his hollow-stump bungalow.

"Anything special? Why, no, I guess not," answered the bunny uncle. "I was going out for a walk, and perhaps I may meet with an adventure on the way, or I may help some friends of Mother Goose, as I sometimes do."

"You are always being kind to some one," said Nurse Jane, "and that is what I want you to do now. I have just made an orange cake, and --  -- "

"An orange cake?" cried Uncle Wiggily, his pink nose twinkling. "How nice! Where did you get the oranges?"

"Up on the Orange Mountains, to be sure," answered the muskrat lady, with a laugh. "I have made two orange cakes, to tell the exact truth, which I always do. There is one for us and I wanted to send one to Dr. Possum, who was so good to cure you of the rheumatism, when the cow with the crumpled horn pulled the hard cork out of the medicine bottle for us."

"Send an orange cake to Dr. Possum? The very thing! Oh, fine!" cried the bunny uncle. "I'll take it right over to him. Put it in a basket, so it will not take cold, Nurse Jane."

The muskrat lady wrapped the orange cake in a clean napkin, and then put it in the basket for Uncle Wiggily to carry to Dr. Possum.

Off started the old rabbit gentleman, over the woods and through the fields -- oh, excuse me just a minute. He did not go over the woods this time. He only did that when he had his airship, which he was not using to-day, for fear of spilling the oranges out of the cake. So he went over the fields and through the woods to Dr. Possum's office.

"Well, I wonder if I will have any adventure to-day?" thought the old rabbit gentleman, as he hopped along. "I hope I do, for --  -- "

And then he suddenly stopped thinking and listened, for he heard a dog barking, and a voice was sadly saying:

"Oh, dear! It's too bad, I know it is, but I can't help it. It's that way in the book, so you'll have to go hungry."

Then the dog barked again and Uncle Wiggily said:

"More trouble for some one. I hope it isn't the bad dog who used to bother me. I wonder if I can help any one?"

He looked around, and, nearby, he saw a little wooden house on the top of a hill. The barking and talking was coming from that house.

"I'll go up and see what is the matter?" said the rabbit gentleman. "Perhaps I can help."

He looked through a window of the house before going in, and he saw a lady, somewhat like Mother Goose, wearing a tall, peaked hat, like an ice cream cone turned upside down. And with her was a big dog, who was looking in an open cupboard and barking. And the lady was singing:

"Old Mother Hubbard Went to the cupboard To get her poor dog a bone. But, when she got there, The cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none."

"And isn't there anything else in the house to eat, except a bone, Mother Hubbard?" the dog asked. "I'm so hungry?"

"There isn't, I'm sorry to say," she answered. "But I'll go to the baker's to get you some bread --  -- "

"And when you come back you will think I am dead," said the dog, quickly. "I'll look so, anyhow," he went on, "for I am so hungry. Isn't there any way of getting me anything to eat without going to the baker's? I don't care much for bread, anyhow."

"How would you like a piece of orange cake?" asked Uncle Wiggily, all of a sudden, as he walked in Mother Hubbard's house. "Excuse me," said the bunny uncle, "but I could not help hearing what your dog said. I know how hard it is to be hungry, and I have an orange cake in my basket. It is for Dr. Possum, but I am sure he would be glad to let your dog have some."

"That is very kind of you," said Mother Hubbard.

"And I certainly would like orange cake," spoke the dog, making a bow and wagging his nose -- I mean his tail.

"Then you shall have it," said Uncle Wiggily, opening the basket. He set the orange cake on the table, and the dog began to eat it, and Mother Hubbard also ate some, for she was hungry, too, and, what do you think? Before Uncle Wiggily, or any one else knew it, the orange cake was all gone -- eaten up -- and there was none for Dr. Possum.

"Oh, see what we have done!" cried Mother Hubbard, sadly. "We have eaten all your cake, Uncle Wiggily. I'm sure we did not mean to, but with a hungry dog --  -- "

"Pray do not mention it," said the rabbit gentleman, politely. "I know just how it is. I have another orange cake of my own at home. I'll go get that for Dr. Possum. He won't mind which one he has."

"No. I can't let you do that," spoke Mother Hubbard. "You were too kind to be put to all that trouble. Next door to me lives Paddy Kake, the baker-man. I'll have him bake you a cake as fast as he can, and you can take that to Dr. Possum. How will that do?"

"Why, that will be just fine!" said Uncle Wiggily, twinkling his pink nose at the dog, who was licking up the last of the cake crumbs with his red tongue.

So Mother Hubbard went next door, where lived Paddy Kake, the baker. And she said to him:

"Paddy Kake, Paddy Kake, baker-man, Bake me a cake as fast as you can. Into it please put a raisin and plum, And mark it with D. P. for Dr. Possum."

"I will," said Paddy Kake. "I'll do it right away."

And he did, and as soon as the cake was baked Uncle Wiggily put it in the basket where the orange one had been, and took it to Dr. Possum, who was very glad to get it. For the raisin and plum cake was as good as the orange one Mother Hubbard and her dog had eaten.

So you see everything came out all right after all, and if the cork doesn't pop out of the ink bottle and go to sleep in the middle of the white bedspread, like our black cat, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and Little Miss Muffet.



Chapter XVI

Uncle Wiggily And Miss Muffet


"Rat-a-tat-tat!" came a knock on the door of the hollow-stump bungalow, where Uncle Wiggily Longears, the rabbit gentleman, lived with Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper. "Rat-a-tat-tat!"

"Come in," called Nurse Jane, who was sitting by a window, mending a pair of Uncle Wiggily's socks, which had holes in them.

The door opened, and into the bungalow stepped a little girl. Oh, she was such a tiny thing that she was not much larger than a doll.

"How do you do, Nurse Jane," said the little girl, making a low bow, and shaking her curly hair.

"Why, I am very well, thank you," the muskrat lady said. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm very well, too, Nurse Jane."

"Ha! You seem to know me, but I am not so sure I know you," said Uncle Wiggily's housekeeper. "Are you Little Bo Peep?"

"No, Nurse Jane," answered the little girl, with a smile.

"Are you Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?" Nurse Jane wanted to know.

"I am not Mistress Mary," answered the little girl.

"Then who are you?" Nurse Jane asked.

"I am little Miss Muffet, if you please, and I have come to sit on a tuffet, and eat some curds and whey. I want to see Uncle Wiggily, too, before I go away."

"All right," spoke Nurse Jane. "I'll get you the tuffet and the curds and whey," and she went out to the kitchen. The muskrat lady noticed that Miss Muffet said nothing about the spider frightening her away.

"Perhaps she doesn't like to talk about it," thought Miss Fuzzy Wuzzy, "though it's in the Mother Goose book. Well, I'll not say anything, either."

So she got the tuffet for little Miss Muffet; a tuffet being a sort of baby footstool. And, indeed, the little girl had to sit on something quite small, for her legs were very short.

"And here are your curds and whey," went on Nurse Jane, bringing in a bowl. Curds and whey are very good to eat. They are made from milk, sweetened, and are something like a custard in a cup.

So little Miss Muffet, sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey, just as she ought to have done.

"And," said Nurse Jane to herself, "I do hope no spider will come sit beside her to frighten Miss Muffet away, before Uncle Wiggily sees her, for she is a dear little child."

Pretty soon some one was heard hopping up the front steps of the bungalow, and Nurse Jane said:

"There is Uncle Wiggily now, I think."

"Oh, I'm glad!" exclaimed little Miss Muffet, as she handed the muskrat lady the empty bowl of curds and whey. "I want to see him very specially."

In came hopping the nice old rabbit gentleman, and he knew Little Miss Muffet right away, and was very glad to see her.

"Oh, Uncle Wiggily!" cried the little girl. "I have been waiting to see you. I want you to do me a very special extra favor; will you?"

"Why, of course, if I can," answered the bunny uncle, with a polite bow. "I am always glad to do favors."

"You can easily do this one," said Little Miss Muffet. "I want you to come --  -- "

And just then Uncle Wiggily saw a big spider crawling over the floor toward the little girl, who was still on her tuffet, having finished her curds and whey.

"And if she sees that spider, sit down beside her, it surely will frighten her away," thought Uncle Wiggily, "and I will not be able to find out what she wants me to do for her. Let me see, she hasn't yet noticed the spider. I wonder if I could get her out of the room while I asked the spider to kindly not to do any frightening, at least for a while?"

So Uncle Wiggily, who was quite worried, sort of waved his paw sideways at the spider, and twinkled his pink nose and said "Ahem!" which meant that the spider was to keep on crawling, and not go near Miss Muffet. Uncle Wiggily himself was not afraid of spiders.

"Yes, Uncle Wiggily," went on little Miss Muffet, who had not yet seen the spider. "I want you to come to --  -- " and then she saw the rabbit gentleman making funny noses behind her back, and waving his paw at something, and Miss Muffet cried:

"Why, what in the world is the matter, Uncle Wiggily? Have you hurt yourself?"

"No, no," the rabbit gentleman quickly exclaimed. "It's the spider. She's crawling toward you, and I don't want her to sit down beside you, and frighten you away."

Little Miss Muffet laughed a jolly laugh.

"Oh, Uncle Wiggily!" she cried. "I'm not at all afraid of spiders! I'd let a dozen of them sit beside me if they wanted to, for I know they will not harm me, if I do not harm them. And besides, I knew this spider was coming all the while."

"You did?" cried Nurse Jane, surprised like.

"To be sure I did. She is Mrs. Spin-Spider, and she has come to measure me for a new cobweb silk dress; haven't you, Mrs. Spin-Spider?"

"Yes, child, I have," answered the lady spider. "No one need be afraid of me."

"I'm not," Uncle Wiggily said, "only I did not want you to frighten Miss Muffet away before she had her curds and whey."

"Oh, I had them," the little girl said. "Nurse Jane gave them to me before you came in, Uncle Wiggily. But now let me tell you what I came for, and then Mrs. Spin-Spider can measure me for a new dress. I came to ask if you would do me the favor to come to my birthday party next week. Will you?"

"Of course I will!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "I'll be delighted."

"Good!" laughed Little Miss Muffet. Then along came Mrs. Spin-Spider, and sat down beside her and did not frighten the little girl away, but, instead, measured her for a new dress.

So from this we may learn that cobwebs are good for something else than catching flies, and in the next chapter, if the piano doesn't come upstairs to lie down on the brass bed so the pillow has to go down in the coal bin to sleep, I'll tell you about Uncle Wiggily and the first little kitten.



Chapter XVII

Uncle Wiggily And The First Kitten


Uncle Wiggily Longears, the nice old rabbit gentleman, was asleep in his easy chair by the fire which burned brightly on the hearth in his hollow-stump bungalow. Mr. Longears was dreaming that he had just eaten a piece of cherry pie for lunch, and that the cherry pits were dropping on the floor with a "rat-a-tat-tat!" when he suddenly awakened and heard some one knocking on the front door.

"Ha! Who is there? Come in!" cried the rabbit gentleman, hardly awake yet. Then he happened to think:

"I hope it isn't the bad fox, or the skillery-scalery alligator, whom I have invited in. I ought not to have been so quick."

But it was none of these unpleasant creatures who had knocked on Uncle Wiggily's door. It was Mrs. Purr, the nice cat lady, and when the rabbit gentleman had let her in she looked so sad and sorrowful that he said:

"What is the matter, Mrs. Purr? Has anything happened?"

"Indeed there has, Mr. Longears," the cat lady answered. "You know my three little kittens, don't you?"

"Why, yes, I know them," replied the bunny uncle. "They are Fuzzo, Muzzo and Wuzzo. I hope they are not ill?"

"No, they are not ill," said the cat lady, mewing sadly, "but they have run away, and I came to see if you would help me get them back."

"Run away! Your dear little kittens!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "You don't mean it! How did it happen?"

"Well, you know my little kittens had each a new pair of mittens," said Mrs. Purr.

"Yes, I read about that in the Mother Goose book," said the rabbit gentleman. "It must be nice to have new mittens."

"My little kittens thought so," went on Mrs. Purr. "Their grandmother, Pussy Cat Mole, knitted them."

"I have met Pussy Cat Mole," said Uncle Wiggily. "After she jumped over a coal, and in her best petticoat burned a great hole, I helped her mend it so she could go to the party."

"I heard about that; it was very good of you," mewed Mrs. Purr. "But about my little kittens, when they got their mittens, what do you think they did?"

"Why, I suppose they went out and played in the snow," Uncle Wiggily said. "I know that is what I would have done, when I was a little rabbit, if I had had a new pair of mittens."

"I only wish they had done that," Mrs. Purr said. "But, instead, they went and ate some cherry pie. The red pie-juice got all over their new mittens, and when they saw it they became afraid I would scold them, and they ran away. I was not home when they ate the pie and soiled their mittens, but the cat lady who lives next door told me.

"Now I want to know if you will try to find my three little kittens for me; Fuzzo, Wuzzo and Muzzo? I want them to come home so badly!"

"I'll go look for them," promised the old rabbit gentleman. So taking his red, white and blue rheumatism crutch, off he started over the fields and through the woods. Mrs. Purr went back home to get supper, in case her kittens, with their pie-soiled mittens, should come back by themselves before Uncle Wiggily found them.

On and on went the old rabbit gentleman. He looked on all sides and through the middle for any signs of the lost kittens, but he saw none for quite a while. Then, all at once, he heard a mewing sound over in the bushes, and he said:

"Ha! There is the first little kitten!" And there, surely enough she was -- Fuzzo!

"Oh, dear!" Fuzzo was saying, "I don't believe I'll ever get them clean!"

"What's the matter now?" asked the rabbit gentleman, though he knew quite well what it was, and only pretended he did not. "Who are you and what is the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm in such trouble," said the first little kitten. "My sisters and I ate some pie in our new mittens. We soiled them badly with the red pie-juice. Weren't we naughty kittens?"

"Well, perhaps just a little bit naughty," Uncle Wiggily said. "But you should not have run away from your mamma. She feels very badly. Where are Muzzo and Wuzzo?"

"I don't know!" answered Fuzzo. "They ran one way and I ran another. I'm trying to get the pie-juice out of my mittens, but I can't seem to do it."

"How did you try?" Uncle Wiggily wanted to know.

"Weren't we naughty kittens?"

"I am rubbing my mittens up and down on the rough bark of trees and on stones," answered Fuzzo. "I thought that would take the pie stains out, but it doesn't."

"Of course not!" laughed Uncle Wiggily. "Now you come with me. I am going to take you home. Your mother sent me to look for you."

"Oh, but I'm afraid to go home," mewed Fuzzo. "My mother will scold me for soiling my nice, new mittens. It says so in the book."

"No, she won't!" laughed Uncle Wiggily. "You just leave it to me. But first you come to my hollow-stump bungalow."

So Fuzzo, the first little kitten, put one paw in Uncle Wiggily's, and carrying her mittens in the other, along they went together.

"Where are you, Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy?" called the rabbit gentleman, when they reached his hollow-stump bungalow. "I want you to make some nice, hot, soapy suds and water, and wash this first little kitten's mittens. Then they will be clean, and she can take them home with her."

So the muskrat lady made some nice, hot, soap-bubbily suds and in them she washed the kitten's mittens. Then, when they were dry, Uncle Wiggily took the mittens, and also Fuzzo to Mrs. Purr's house.

"Oh, how glad I am to have you back!" cried the cat mother. "I wouldn't have scolded you, Fuzzo, for soiling your mittens. You must not be afraid any more."

"I won't," promised the first little kitten, showing her nice, clean mittens.

And then Uncle Wiggily said he would go find the other two lost baby cats. And so, if the milkman doesn't put goldfish in the ink bottle, to make the puppy dog laugh when he goes to bed, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the second kittie.



Chapter XVIII

Uncle Wiggily And The Second Kitten


"Well, where are you going now, Uncle Wiggily?" asked Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, of the rabbit gentleman, one day as she saw him starting out of his hollow-stump bungalow, after he had found the first of the little kittens who had soiled their mittens.

"I am going to look for the second little lost kitten," replied the bunny uncle, "though where she may be I don't know. Her name is Muzzo."

"Why, her name is almost like mine, isn't it?" asked Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy.

"A little like it," said Uncle Wiggily. "Poor little Muzzo! She and the other two kittens ran off after they had soiled their mittens, eating cherry pie when their mother, Mrs. Purr, was not at home."

"It is very good of you to go looking for them," said Nurse Jane.

"Oh, I just love to do things like that," spoke the rabbit gentleman. "Well, good-by. I'll see if I can't find the second kitten now."

Away started the rabbit gentleman, over the fields and through the woods, looking on all sides for the second lost kitten, whose name was Muzzo.

"Where are you, kittie?" called Uncle Wiggily. "Where are you, Muzzo? Come to me! Never mind if your mittens are soiled by cherry-pie-juice. I'll find a way to clean them."

But no Muzzo answered. Uncle Wiggily looked everywhere, under bushes and in the tree tops; for sometimes kitty cats climb trees, you know; but no Muzzo could he find. Then Uncle Wiggily walked a little farther, and he saw Billie Wagtail, the goat boy, butting his head in a snow-bank.

"What are you doing, Billie?" asked the rabbit gentleman.

"Oh, just having some fun," answered Billie, standing up on his hind legs.

"You haven't seen a little lost kitten, with cherry-pie-juice on her new mittens, have you?" asked the rabbit gentleman.

"No, I am sorry to say I have not," said Billie, politely. "Did you lose one?"

"No, she lost herself," said Uncle Wiggily, and he told about Muzzo.

"I'll help you look for her," offered the goat boy, so he and Uncle Wiggily started off together to try to find poor little lost Muzzo, and bring her home to her mother, Mrs. Purr.

Pretty soon, as the rabbit gentleman and the goat boy were walking along they heard a little mewing cry behind a pile of snow, and Uncle Wiggily said:

"That sounds like Muzzo now."

"Perhaps it is. Let's look," said Billie Wagtail.

He and the bunny uncle looked over the pile of snow, and there, surely enough, they saw a little white pussy cat sitting on a stone, looking at her mittens, which were all covered with red pie-juice.

"Oh, dear!" the little pussy was saying. "I don't know how to get them clean! What shall I do? I can't go home with my mittens all soiled, or my mamma will whip me."

Of course, Mrs. Purr, the cat lady, would not do anything like that, but Muzzo thought she would.

"What are you trying to do to clean your mittens, Muzzo?" asked Uncle Wiggily.

"Oh, how you surprised me!" exclaimed the second little lost kitten. "I did not know you were here."

"Billie Wagtail and I came to look for you," said Uncle Wiggily. "But what about your mittens?"

"Oh, I have been dipping them in snow, trying to clean them," said Muzzo. "Only the pie-juice will not come out."

"Of course not," spoke Uncle Wiggily, with a laugh. "It needs hot soap-suds and water to clean them. You come home to my bungalow and we will get some."

"Oh, I am so cold and tired I can't go another step," said the second little kitten, who had run away from home after she soiled her mittens. "I just can't."

"Well, then, I don't know how you are going to get your mittens washed, out here in the cold and snow," said the rabbit gentleman.

"Ha! I know a way!" said Billie Wagtail, the goat boy.

"How?" asked Uncle Wiggily.

"I'll get an empty tomato can," spoke Billie. "I know where there is one, for I was eating the paper off it, to get the paste, just before you came along."

Goats like to eat paper off tomato cans, you know, because the paper is stuck on with sweet paste, and that is as good to goat children as candy is to you.

"I'll go get the tomato can," said Billie, "and you can make a fire, Uncle Wiggily."

"And then what?" asked the rabbit gentleman.

"Then we will melt some snow, and make some hot water," went on Billie. "I have a cake of soap in my pocket, that I just bought at the store for my mother.

"With the hot water in the can, and the soap, we can make a suds, and wash Muzzo's mittens out here as well as at your bungalow."

"So we can, Billie!" cried the bunny uncle. "You go get the empty tomato tin and I'll make the fire. You needn't try to wash your soiled mittens in the snow any more, Muzzo," he said to the second lost kittie. "We will do it for you, in soapy water, which is better."

Soon Uncle Wiggily made a fire. Back came Billie Wagtail with the tomato can. Some snow was put in it, and it was set over the blaze. Soon the snow melted into water, and then when the water was hot Uncle Wiggily made a soapy suds as Nurse Jane had done.

"Now I can wash my mittens!" cried Muzzo, and she did. And when they were nice and clean she went home with them, and oh! how glad her mother was to see her!

"Never run away again, Muzzo," said the cat lady.

"I won't," promised the kitten. "But where is Wuzzo?"

"She is still lost," said Mrs. Purr.

"But I will go find her, too," said Uncle Wiggily.

And if the apple pie doesn't go out snowballing with the piece of cheese, and forget to come back to dinner, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the third little kitten.



Chapter XIX

Uncle Wiggily And The Third Kitten


Uncle Wiggily Longears, the nice old gentleman rabbit, came walking slowly up the front path that led to his hollow-stump bungalow. He was limping a little on his red, white and blue striped barber-pole rheumatism crutch that Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, had gnawed for him out of a corn-stalk.

"Well, I'm glad to be home again," said the rabbit uncle, sitting down on the front porch to rest a minute. And just then the door in the hollow stump opened, and Nurse Jane, looking out, said:

"Oh, here he is now, Mrs. Purr."

With that a cat lady came to the door and she said:

"Oh, Uncle Wiggily! I thought you never would come back. Did you find her?"

"Find who?" asked the rabbit gentleman. "I was not looking for any one. I have just been down to Lincoln Park to see some squirrels who live in a hollow tree. They are second cousins to Johnnie and Billie Bushytail, the squirrels who live in our woods. I had a nice visit with them."

"Then you didn't find Wuzzo, my third little lost kitten, did you?" asked Mrs. Purr, the cat mother.

"What! Is Wuzzo still lost?" asked the bunny uncle, in great surprise. "I thought she had come home."

"No, she hasn't," said Mrs. Purr. "You know you found my other kittens, Fuzzo and Muzzo, for me, but Wuzzo, the third little kitten, is still lost. She has been away all night, and I came over here the first thing this morning to see if you would not kindly go look for her. But you had already left and I have been waiting here ever since for you to come back."

"Yes, I stayed longer with the park squirrels than I meant to," said Uncle Wiggily. "But now I am back I will start off and try to find Wuzzo. It's too bad your three little kittens ran away."

They had, you know, as I told you in the two stories before this one. The three little kittens ate cherry pie with their new mittens on. And they soiled their mittens. Then they were so afraid their mother, Mrs. Purr, would scold them that they all ran away.

But Mrs. Purr was a kind cat, and would not have scolded at all. And when she found her little kittens were gone she asked Uncle Wiggily to find them.

"And you did find the first two, Fuzzo and Muzzo," said the cat lady. "So I am sure you can find the third one, Wuzzo."

"I hope I can," Uncle Wiggily said. "I remember now I started off to find her, but my rheumatism hurt me so I had to come back to my bungalow. Then I forgot all about Wuzzo. But I'm all right now, and I'll start off."

So away over the fields and through the woods went Uncle Wiggily, looking for the third little lost kitten. When he had found the two others he had helped them wash the pie-juice off their mittens, so they were nice and clean. And then the kittens were not afraid to go home.

Uncle Wiggily looked all over for the third little kitten, under bushes, up in trees (for cats climb trees, you know), and even behind big rocks Uncle Wiggily looked. But no Wuzzo could he find.

At last, when the rabbit gentleman came to a big hollow log that was lying on the ground, he sat down on it to rest, and, all of a sudden, he heard a voice inside the log speaking. And the voice asked:

"Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?"

"I've been to London to see the Queen," answered another voice.

"Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you do there?"

"I frightened a little mouse, under her chair," came the answer, and this time it was a little pussy cat kitten speaking, Uncle Wiggily was certain.

The old rabbit gentleman looked in one end of the hollow log, and there surely enough, he saw Wuzzo, the third lost kitten.

And besides Wuzzo, Uncle Wiggily saw Neddie Stubtail, the little bear boy, who always slept in a hollow log all Winter. But this time Neddie was awake, for it was near Spring.

"Wuzzo, Wuzzo! Is that you? What are you doing there?" asked Uncle Wiggily. "Don't you know your poor mother is looking all over for you, and that she has sent me to find you? Why don't you come home?"

"I -- I'm afraid to," said Wuzzo, crawling out of the hollow log, and Neddie, the boy bear also crawled out, saying:

"Hello, Uncle Wiggily!"

"How do you do, Neddie," spoke the bunny uncle. "How long has Wuzzo been staying with you?"

"She just ran in my hollow log," said the little bear chap, "and her tail, brushing against my nose, tickled me so that I sneezed and awakened from my Winter sleep."

"Where have you been all night, since you ran away, Wuzzo?" asked Uncle Wiggily.

"Well," answered the third little kitten. "After Fuzzo, Muzzo and I soiled our mittens with cherry pie we all ran away."

"Yes, I know that part," spoke the bunny uncle. "It was not right to do, but I have found the two other lost kitties. I couldn't find you, though. Why was that?"

"Because I met Mother Goose," said Wuzzo, "and she asked me to go to London to see the Queen. She took me through the air on the back of her big gander, and we flew as quickly as you could have gone in your airship."

"You went to London to see the Queen!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily, in surprise. "Well, well! What did you do there?"

"I frightened a little mouse under her chair, just as Mother Goose wanted me to do," said Wuzzo. "Then the big gander flew with me to these woods and went back to get Mother Goose, who stayed to talk with the Queen. So here I am, but I don't know the way home."

"Oh, I'll take you home all right," said Uncle Wiggily. "But first we must wash your mittens."

"Oh, I did that for her, in the log," said Neddie Stubtail, laughing. "With my red tongue I licked off all the sweet cherry-pie-juice, which I liked very much. So, now the mittens are clean."

"Good!" cried the bunny uncle. "Now we will go to your mother, Wuzzo. She will be glad to know that you frightened a little mouse under the Queen's chair."

So Uncle Wiggily took the third little kitten home, and thus they were all found. And if the cat on our roof doesn't jump down the chimney, and scare the lemon pie so it turns into an apple dumpling, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the Jack horse.



Chapter XX

Uncle Wiggily And The Jack Horse


"Well, where are you going to-day, Uncle Wiggily?" asked Nurse Jane Fuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, as she saw the rabbit gentleman putting on his tall silk hat, and taking his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch down off the mantel.

"I am going over to see Nannie and Billy Wagtail, the goat children," answered the bunny uncle. "I have not seen them in a long while."

"But they'll be at school," said Nurse Jane.

"I'll wait until they come home, then," said Uncle Wiggily. "And while I'm waiting I'll talk to Uncle Butter, the nice old gentleman goat."

So off started Uncle Wiggily over the fields and through the woods.

Pretty soon he came to the house where the family of Wagtail goats lived. They were given that name because they wagged their little short tails so very fast, sometimes up and down, and again sideways.

"Why, how do you do, Uncle Wiggily?" asked Mrs. Wagtail, as she opened the door for the rabbit gentleman. "Come and sit down."

"Thank you," he answered. "I called to see Nannie and Billie. But I suppose they are at school."

"Yes, they are studying their lessons."

"Well, I'll come in then, and talk to Uncle Butter, for I suppose you are busy."

"Yes, I am, but not too busy to talk to you, Mr. Longears," said the goat lady. "Uncle Butter is away, pasting up some circus posters on the billboard, and I wish he'd come back, for I want him to go to the store for me."

"Couldn't I go?" asked Uncle Wiggily, politely. "I have nothing special to do, and I often go to the store for Nurse Jane. I'd like to go for you."

"Very well, you may," said Mrs. Wagtail. "I want for supper some papers off a tomato can, and a few more off a can of corn, and here is a basket to put them in. And you might bring a bit of brown paper, so I can make soup of it."

"I will," said Uncle Wiggily, starting off with the basket on his paw. Goats, you know, like the papers that come off cans, as the papers have sweet paste on them. And they also like brown grocery paper itself, for it has straw in it, and goats like straw. Of course, goats eat other things besides paper, though.

Uncle Wiggily was going carefully along, for there was ice and snow on the ground, and it was slippery, and he did not want to fall. Soon he was at the paper store, where he bought what Mrs. Wagtail wanted.

And on the way back to the goat lady's house something happened to the old rabbit gentleman. As he stepped over a big icicle he put his foot down on a slippery snowball some little animal chap had left on the path, and, all of a sudden, bango! down went Uncle Wiggily, basket of paper, rheumatism crutch and all.

"Ouch!" cried the rabbit gentleman, "I fear something is broken," for he heard a cracking sound as he fell.

He looked at his paws and legs and felt of his big ears. They seemed all right. Then he looked at the basket of paper. That was crumpled up, but not broken, and the bunny uncle's tall silk hat, while it had a few dents in, was not smashed.

"Oh, dear! It's my rheumatism crutch," cried Uncle Wiggily. "It's broken in two, and how am I ever going to walk without it this slippery day I don't see. Oh, my goodness me sakes alive and some bang-bang tooth powder!"

Carefully the rabbit gentleman arose, but as he had no red, white and blue striped crutch to lean on, he nearly fell again.

"I guess I'd better stay sitting down," thought Uncle Wiggily. "Perhaps some one may come along, and I can ask them go get Nurse Jane to gnaw for me another rheumatism crutch out of a corn-stalk. I'll wait here until help comes."

Uncle Wiggily waited quite a while, but no one passed by.

"It will soon be time for Billie and Nannie Wagtail to pass by on their way from school," thought the bunny uncle. "I could send them for another crutch, I suppose."

So he waited a little longer, and then, as no one came, he tried to walk with his broken crutch. But he could not. Then Uncle Wiggily cried:

"Help! Help! Help!" but still no one came. "Oh, dear!" said the rabbit gentleman, "if only Mother Goose would fly past, riding on the back of her gander, she might take me home." He looked up, but Mother Goose was not sweeping cobwebs out of the sky that day, so he did not see her.

Then, all of a sudden, as the rabbit gentleman sat there, wondering how he was going to walk on the slippery ice and snow without his crutch to help him, he heard a jolly voice singing:

"Ride a Jack horse to Banbury Cross, To see an old lady jump on a white horse. With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, She shall have music wherever she goes."

And with that along through the woods came riding a nice, old lady on a rocking-horse. And on the side of the rocking-horse was painted in red ink the name:

Jack

"Why, hello, Uncle Wiggily!" called the nice old lady, shaking her toes and making the bells jingle a pretty tune. "What is the matter with you?" she asked.

"Oh, I am in such trouble," replied the bunny uncle. "I fell down on a slippery snowball, and broke my crutch. Without it I cannot walk, and I want to take these papers to Mrs. Wagtail, the goat lady, to eat."

"Ha! If that is all your trouble I can soon fix matters!" cried the jolly old lady. "Here, get up beside me on my Jack horse, and I'll ride you to Mrs. Wagtail's, and then take you home to your hollow-stump bungalow."

"Oh, will you? How kind!" said Uncle Wiggily. "Thank you! But have you the time?"

"Lots of time," laughed the old lady. "It doesn't really matter when I get to Banbury Cross. Come on!"

Uncle Wiggily got up on the back of the Jack horse, behind the old lady. She tinkled the rings on her fingers and jingled the bells on her toes, and so, of course, she'll have music wherever she goes.

"Just as the Mother Goose books says," spoke the bunny uncle. "Oh, I'm glad you came along."

"So am I," said the nice old lady. Then she took Uncle Wiggily to the Wagtail house, where he left the basket of papers, and next he rode on the Jack horse to his bungalow, and, after the bunny uncle had thanked the old lady, she, herself, rode on to Banbury Cross, to see another old lady jump on a white horse. And very nicely she did it too, let me tell you.

So everything came out all right, and in the next chapter, if the apple pie doesn't turn a somersault and crack its crust so the juice runs out, I'll tell you about Uncle Wiggily and the clock-mouse.



Chapter XXI

Uncle Wiggily And The Clock-Mouse


Uncle Wiggily Longears, the nice old rabbit gentleman, sat in an easy chair in his hollow-stump bungalow. He had just eaten a nice lunch, which Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, had put on the table for him, and he was feeling a bit sleepy.

"Are you going out this afternoon?" asked Miss Fuzzy Wuzzy, as she cleared away the dishes.

"Hum! Ho! Well, I hardly know," Uncle Wiggily answered, in a sleepy voice. "I may, after I have a little nap."

"Your new red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch is ready for you," went on Nurse Jane. "I gnawed it for you out of a fine large corn-stalk."

Uncle Wiggily had broken his other crutch, if you will kindly remember, when he slipped as he was coming back from the store, where he went for Mrs. Wagtail, the goat lady. And it was so slippery that the rabbit gentleman never would have gotten home, only he rode on a Jack horse with the lady, who had rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, as I told you in the story before this one.

"Thank you for making me a new crutch, Nurse Jane," spoke the bunny uncle. "If I go out I'll take it."

Then he went to sleep in his easy chair, but he was suddenly awakened by hearing the bungalow clock strike one. Then, as he sat up and rubbed his eyes with his paws, Uncle Wiggily heard a thumping noise on the hall floor and a little voice squeaked out:

"Ouch! I've hurt my leg! Oh, dear!"

"My! I wonder what that can be? It seemed to come out of my clock," spoke Mr. Longears.

"I did come out of your clock," said some one.

"You did? Who are you, if you please?" asked the bunny uncle, looking all around. "I can't see you."

"That's because I'm so small," was the answer. "But here I am, right by the table. I can't walk as my leg is hurt."

Uncle Wiggily looked, and saw a little mouse, who was holding his left hind leg in his right front paw.

"Who are you?" asked the bunny uncle.

"I am Hickory Dickory Dock, the mouse," was the answer. "And I am a clock-mouse."

"A clock-mouse!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily, in surprise. "I never heard of such a thing."

"Oh, don't you remember me? I'm in Mother Goose's book. This is how it goes:

"'Hickory Dickory Dock, The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, And down he come, Hickory Dickory Dock!'"

"Oh, now I remember you," said Uncle Wiggily. "And so you are a clock-mouse."

"Yes, I ran up your clock, and then when the clock struck one, down I had to come. But I ran down so fast that I tripped over the pendulum. The clock reached down its hands and tried to catch me, but it had no eyes in its face to see me, so I slipped, anyhow, and I hurt my leg."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," said Uncle Wiggily. "Perhaps I can fix it for you. Nurse Jane, bring me some salve for Hickory Dickory Dock, the clock-mouse," he called.

The muskrat lady brought some salve, and, with a rag, Uncle Wiggily bound up the leg of the clock-mouse so it did not hurt so much.

"And I'll lend you a piece of my old crutch, so you can hobble along on it," said Uncle Wiggily.

"Thank you," spoke Hickory Dickory Dock, the clock-mouse. "You have been very kind to me, and some day, I hope, I may do you a favor. If I can I will."

"Thank you," Uncle Wiggily said. Then Hickory Dickory Dock limped away, but in a few days he was better, and he could run up more clocks, and run down when they struck one.

It was about a week after this that Uncle Wiggily went walking through the woods on his way to see Grandfather Goosey Gander. And just before he reached his friend's house he met Mother Goose.

"Oh, Uncle Wiggily," she said, swinging her cobweb broom up and down, "I want to thank you for being so kind to Hickory Dickory Dock, the clock-mouse."

"It was a pleasure to be kind to him," said Uncle Wiggily. "Is he all better now?"

"Yes, he is all well again," replied Mother Goose. "He is coming to run up and down your clock again soon."

"I'll be glad to see him," said Uncle Wiggily. Then he went to call on Grandpa Goosey, and he told about Hickory Dickory Dock, falling down from out the clock.

On his way back to his hollow-stump bungalow, Uncle Wiggily took a short cut through the woods. And, as he was passing along, his paw slipped and he became all tangled up in a wild grape vine, which was like a lot of ropes, all twisted together into hard knots.

"Oh, dear!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "I'm caught!" The more he tried to untangle himself the tighter he was held fast, until it seemed he would never get out.

"Oh!" cried the rabbit gentleman. "This is terrible. Will no one come to get me out? Help! Help! Will some one please help me?"

"Yes, I will help you, Uncle Wiggily," answered a kind, little squeaking voice.

"Who are you?" asked the rabbit gentleman, moving a piece of the grape vine away from his nose, so he could speak plainly.

"I am Hickory Dickory Dock, the clock-mouse," was the answer, "and with my sharp teeth I will gnaw the grape vine in many pieces so you will be free."

"That will be very kind of you," said Uncle Wiggily, who was quite tired out with his struggles to get loose.

So Hickory Dickory Dock, with his sharp teeth, gnawed the grape vine, and, in a little while, Uncle Wiggily was loose and all right again.

"Thank you," said the bunny uncle to the clock-mouse, as he hopped off, and Hickory Dickory Dock went with him, for his leg was all better now. "Thank you very much, nice little clock-mouse."

"You did me a favor," said Hickory Dickory Dock, "and now I have done you one, so we are even." And that's a good way to be in this world. So, if the ink bottle doesn't turn pale when it sees the fountain pen jump in the goldfish bowl and swim I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the late scholar.



Chapter XXII

Uncle Wiggily And The Late Scholar


"Heigh-ho!" cried Uncle Wiggily Longears, the nice rabbit gentleman, one morning, as he hopped from bed and went to the window of his hollow-stump bungalow to look out. "Heigh-ho! It will soon be Spring, I hope, for I am tired of Winter."

Then he went down-stairs, where Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, had his breakfast ready on the table.

Uncle Wiggily ate some cabbage pancakes with carrot maple sugar sprinkled over them, and then as he wiped his whiskers on his red tongue, which he used for a napkin, and as he twinkled his pink nose to see if it was all right, Nurse Jane said:

"Yesterday, Uncle Wiggily, you told me you would like me to make some lettuce cakes today; did you not?"

"I did," answered Uncle Wiggily, sort of slow and solemn like. "But what is the matter, Nurse Jane? I hope you are not going to tell me that you cannot, or will not, make those lettuce cakes."

"Oh, I'll make them, all right enough, Wiggy," the muskrat lady answered, "only I have no lettuce. You will have to go to the store for me."

"And right gladly will I go!" exclaimed the bunny uncle, speaking like some one in an old-fashioned story book. "I'll get my automobile out and go at once."

Uncle Wiggily had not used his machine often that Winter, as there had been so much snow and ice. But now it was getting close to Spring and the weather was very nice. There was no snow in the woods and fields, though, of course, some might fall later.

"It will do my auto good to have me ride in it," said the bunny uncle. He blew some hot air in the bologna sausage tires, put some talcum powder on the steering-wheel so it would not catch cold, and then, having tickled the whizzicum-whazzicum with a goose feather, away he started for the lettuce store.

It did not take him long to get there, and, having bought a nice head of the green stuff, the bunny uncle started back again for his hollow-stump bungalow.

"Nurse Jane will make some fine lettuce cakes, with clover ice cream cones on top," he said to himself, as he hurried along in his automobile.

He had not gone very far, and he was about halfway home, when from behind a bush he heard the sound of crying. Now, whenever Uncle Wiggily heard any one crying he knew some one was in trouble, and as he always tried to help those in trouble, he did it this time. Stopping his automobile, he called:

"Who are you, and what is the matter? Perhaps I can help you."

Out from behind the bush came a boy, a nice sort of boy, except that he was crying.

"Oh, are you Simple Simon?" asked Uncle Wiggily, "and are you crying because you cannot catch a whale in your mother's water pail?"

"No; I am not Simple Simon," was the answer of the boy.

"Well, you cannot be Jack Horner, because you have no pie with you, and you're not Little Boy Blue, because I see you wear a red necktie," went on the bunny uncle. "Do you belong to Mother Goose at all?"

"Yes," answered the boy. "I do. You must have heard about me. I am Diller-a-Dollar, a ten o'clock scholar, why do you come so soon? I used to come at ten o'clock, but now I'll come at noon. Don't you know me?"

"Ha! Why, of course, I know you!" cried Uncle Wiggily, in his jolly voice, as he put some lollypop oil on the doodle-oodleum of his auto. "But, why are you crying?"

"Because I'm going to be late at school again," said the boy. "You see of late I have been late a good many mornings, but this morning I got up early, and was sure I would get there before noon."

"And so you will, if you hurry," Uncle Wiggily said, looking at his watch, that was a cousin to the clock, up which, and down which, ran Hickory Dickory Dock, the mouse. "It isn't anywhere near noon yet," went on the rabbit gentleman. "You can almost get to school on time this morning."

"I suppose I could," said the boy, "and I got up early on purpose to do that. But now I have lost my way, and I don't know where the school is. Oh, dear! Boo hoo! I'll never get to school this week, I fear."

"Oh, yes, you will!" said Uncle Wiggily, still more kindly. "I'll tell you what to do. Hop up in the automobile here with me, and I'll take you to the school. I know just where it is. Sammie and Susie Littletail, my rabbit friends, and Johnnie and Billie Bushytail, the squirrels, as well as Nannie and Billie Wagtail, the goats, go there. Hop in!"

So Diller-a-Dollar, the late scholar, hopped in the auto, and he and Uncle Wiggily started off together.

"You'll not be late this morning," said the bunny uncle. "I'll get you there just about nine o'clock."

Well, Uncle Wiggily meant to do it, and he might have, only for what happened. First a hungry dog bit a piece out of one of the bologna sausage tires on the auto wheels, and they had to go slower. Then a hungry cat took another piece and they had to go still more slowly.

A little farther on the tinkerum-tankerum of the automobile, which drinks gasolene, grew thirsty and Uncle Wiggily had to give it a glass of lemonade. This took more time.

And finally when the machine went over a bump the cork came out of the box of talcum powder and it flew in the face of Uncle Wiggily and the late scholar and they both sneezed so hard that the auto stopped.

"See! I told you we'd never get to school," sadly said the boy. "Oh, dear! And I thought this time teacher would not laugh, and ask me why I came so soon, when I was really late."

"It's too bad!" Uncle Wiggily said. "I did hope I could get you there on time. But wait a minute. Let me think. Ha! I have it! We are close to my bungalow. We'll run there and get in my airship. That goes ever so much faster than my auto, and I'll have you to school in no time."

No sooner said than done! In the airship the late scholar and Uncle Wiggily reached school just as the nine o'clock bell was ringing, and so Diller-a-Dollar was on time this time after all. And the teacher said:

"Oh, Diller-a-Dollar, my ten o'clock scholar, you may stand up in line. You used to come in very late, but now you come at nine."

So the late scholar was not late after all, thanks to Uncle Wiggily, and if the egg beater doesn't go to sleep in the rice pudding, where it can't get out to go sleigh-riding with the potato masher, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and Baa-Baa, the black sheep.



Chapter XXIII

Uncle Wiggily And Baa-Baa Black Sheep


"My goodness! But it's cold to-day!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily Longears, the nice rabbit gentleman, as he came down to breakfast in his hollow-stump bungalow one morning. "It is very cold."

"Indeed it is," said Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, as she put the hot buttered cabbage cakes on the table. "If you go out you had better wear your fur coat."

"I shall," spoke the bunny uncle. "And I probably shall call on Mother Goose. She asked me to stop in the next time I went past."

"What for?" Nurse Jane wanted to know.

"Oh, Little Jack Horner hurt his thumb the last time he pulled a plum out of his Christmas pie, and Mother Goose wanted me to look at it, and see if she had better call in Dr. Possum. So I'll stop and have a look."

"Well, give her my love," said Nurse Jane, and Uncle Wiggily promised that he would.

A little later he started off across the fields and through the woods to the place where Mother Goose lived, not far from his own hollow-stump bungalow. Uncle Wiggily had on his fur overcoat, for it was cold. It had been warm the day before, when he had taken Diller-a-Dollar, the ten o'clock scholar, to school, but now the weather had turned cold again.

"Come in!" called Mother Goose, when Uncle Wiggily had tapped with his paw on her door. "Come in!"

The bunny uncle went in, and looked at the thumb of Little Jack Horner, who was playing marbles with Little Boy Blue.

"Does your thumb hurt you much, Jack?" asked Uncle Wiggily.

"Yes, I am sorry to say it does. I'm not going to pull any more plums out of Christmas pies. I'm going to eat cake instead," said Jack Horner.

"Well, I'll go get Dr. Possum for you," offered Uncle Wiggily. "I think that will be best," he remarked to Mother Goose.

Wrapped in his warm fur overcoat, Uncle Wiggily once more started off over the fields and through the woods. He had not gone very far before he heard a queer sort of crying noise, like:

"Baa! Baa! Baa!"

"Ha! That sounds like a little lost lamb," said the bunny uncle, "only there are no little lambs out this time of year. I'll take a look. It may be some one in trouble, whom I can help."

Uncle Wiggily looked around the corner of a stone fence, and there he saw a sheep shivering in the cold, for most of his warm, fleecy wool had been sheared off. Oh! how the sheep shivered in the cold.

"Why, what is the matter with you?" asked Uncle Wiggily, kindly.

"I am c-c-c-c-cold," said the sheep, shiveringly.

"What makes you cold?" the bunny uncle wanted to know.

"Because they cut off so much of my wool. You know how it is with me, for I am in the Mother Goose book. Listen!

"'Baa-baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir; yes, sir; three bags full. One for the master, one for the man, And one for the little boy who lives in the lane.'

"That's the way I answered when they asked me if I had any wool," said Baa-baa.

"And what did they do?" asked the bunny uncle.

"Why they sheared off my fleece, three bags of it. I didn't mind them taking the first bag full, for I had plenty and it was so warm I thought Spring was coming. And it doesn't hurt to cut off my fleecy wool, any more than it hurts to cut a boy's hair. And after they took the first bag full of wool for the master they took a second bag for the man. I didn't mind that, either. But when they took the third --  -- "

"Then they really did take three?" asked Uncle Wiggily, in surprise.

"Oh, yes, to be sure. Why it's that way in the book of Mother Goose, you know, and they had to do just as the book says."

"I suppose so," agreed Uncle Wiggily, sadly like.

"Well, after they took the third bag of wool off my back the weather grew colder, and I began to shiver. Oh! how cold I was; and how I shivered and shook. Of course if the master and the man, and the little boy who lives in the lane, had known I was going to shiver so, they would not have taken the last bag of wool. Especially the little boy, as he is very kind to me.

"But now it is done, and it will be a long while before my wool grows out again. And as long as it is cold weather I will shiver, I suppose," said Baa-baa, the black sheep.

"No, you shall not shiver!" cried Uncle Wiggily.

"How can you stop me?" asked the black sheep.

"By wrapping my old fur coat around you," said the rabbit gentleman. "I have two fur overcoats, a new one and an old one. I am wearing the new one. The old one is at my hollow-stump bungalow. You go there and tell Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy to give it to you. Tell her I said so. Or you can go there and wait for me, as I am going to get Dr. Possum to fix the thumb of Little Jack Horner, who sat in a corner, eating a Christmas pie."

"You are very kind," said Baa-baa. "I'll go to your bungalow and wait there for you."

So he did, shaking and shivering all the way, but he soon became warm when he sat by Nurse Jane's fire. And when Uncle Wiggily came back from having sent Dr. Possum to Little Jack Horner, the rabbit gentleman wrapped his old fur coat around Baa-baa, the black sheep, who was soon as warm as toast.

And Baa-baa wore Uncle Wiggily's old fur coat until warm weather came, when the sheep's wool grew out long again. So everything was all right, you see.

And now, having learned the lesson that if you cut your hair too short you may have to wear a fur cap to stop yourself from getting cold, we will wait for the next story, which, if the pencil box doesn't jump into the ink well and get a pail of glue to make the lollypop stick fast to the roller-skates, will be about Uncle Wiggily and Polly Flinders.



Chapter XXIV

Uncle Wiggily And Polly Flinders


"There!" cried Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, who took care of the hollow-stump bungalow for Uncle Wiggily Longears, the rabbit gentleman. "There, it is all finished at last!"

"What's all finished?" asked the bunny uncle, who was reading the paper in his easy chair near the fire, for the weather was still cold. "I hope you don't mean you have finished living with me, Nurse Jane? For I would be very lonesome if you were to go away."

"Oh, don't worry, I'll not leave you, Wiggy," she said. "What I meant was that I had finished making the new dress for Susie Littletail, the rabbit girl."

"Good!" cried the bunny uncle. "A new dress for my little niece Susie. That's fine! If you like, Nurse Jane, I'll take it to her."

"I wish you would," spoke the muskrat lady. "I have not time myself. Just be careful of it. Don't let the bad fox or the skillery-scalery alligator with humps on his ears bite holes in it."

"I won't," promised Uncle Wiggily. So taking the dress, which Nurse Jane had sewed for Susie, over his paw, and with his tall silk hat over his ears, and carrying his red, white and blue striped barber-pole rheumatism crutch, off Uncle Wiggily started for the Littletail home.

"Susie will surely like her dress," thought the rabbit gentleman. "It has such pretty colors." For it had, being pink and blue and red and yellow and purple and lavender and strawberry and lemon and Orange Mountain colors. There may have been other colors in it, but I can think of no more right away.

Uncle Wiggily was going along past Old Mother Hubbard's house, and past the place where Mother Goose lived, when, coming to a place near a big tree, Uncle Wiggily saw another house. And from inside the house came a crying sound.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What shall I do?" sobbed a voice.

"Ah, ha! More trouble!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "I seem to be finding lots of people in trouble lately. Well, now to see who this is!"

Going up to the house, and peering in a window, Uncle Wiggily saw a little girl sitting before a fireplace. And this little girl was crying.

"Hello!" called Uncle Wiggily, in his jolly voice, as he opened the window. "What is the matter? Are you Little Bo Peep, and are you crying because you have lost your sheep?"

"No, Uncle Wiggily," answered the little girl. "I am crying because I have spoiled my nice new dress, and when my mother comes home and finds it out she will whip me."

"Oh, no!" cried the bunny uncle. "Your mother will never do that. But who are you?"

"Why, don't you know? I am little Polly Flinders, I sat among the cinders, warming my pretty little toes. 'And her mother came and caught her, and she whipped her little daughter, for spoiling her nice new clothes.'

"That's what it says in the Mother Goose book," said Polly Flinders, "and, of course, that's what will happen to me. Oh, dear! I don't want to be whipped. And I didn't really spoil quite all my nice new clothes. It's only my dress, and some hot ashes got on that."

"Well, that isn't so bad," said Uncle Wiggily. "It may be that I can clean it for you." But when he looked at Polly's dress he saw that it could not be fixed, for, like Pussy Cat Mole's best petticoat, Polly's dress had been burned through with hot coals, so that it was full of holes.

"No, that can't be fixed, I'm sorry to say," said Uncle Wiggily.

"Oh, dear!" sobbed Polly Flinders, as she sat among the cinders. "What shall I do? I don't want to be whipped by my mother."

"And you shall not be," said the bunny uncle. "Not that I think she would whip you, but we will not give her a chance. See here, I have a new dress that I was taking to Susie Littletail. Nurse Jane can easily make my little rabbit niece another.

"So you take this one, and give me your old one. And when your mother comes she will not see the holes in your dress. Only you must tell her what happened, or it would not be fair. Always tell mothers and fathers everything that happens to you."

"I will," promised Polly Flinders.

She soon took off her old dress and put on the new one intended for Susie, and it just fitted her.

"Oh, how lovely!" cried Polly Flinders, looking at her toes.

"And now," said Uncle Wiggily, "you must sit no more among the cinders."

"I'll not," Polly promised, and she went and sat down in front of the looking-glass, where she could look proudly at the new dress -- not too proudly, you understand, but just proud enough.

Polly thanked Uncle Wiggily, who took the old soiled and burned dress to Susie's house. When the rabbit girl saw the bunny uncle coming she ran to meet him, crying:

"Oh! did Nurse Jane send you with my new dress?"

"She did," answered Uncle Wiggily, "but see what happened to it on the way," and he showed Susie the burned holes and all.

"Oh, dear!" cried the little rabbit girl, sadly. "Oh, dear!"

"Never mind," spoke Uncle Wiggily, kindly, and he told all that had happened. It was a sort of adventure, you see.

"Oh, I'm glad you gave Polly my dress!" said Susie, clapping her paws.

"Nurse Jane shall make you another dress," promised Uncle Wiggily, and the muskrat lady did. And when the mother of Polly Flinders came home she thought the new dress was just fine, and she did not whip her little daughter. In fact, she said she would not have done so anyhow. So that part of the Mother Goose book is wrong.

And thus everything came out all right, and if the shaving brush doesn't whitewash the blackboard, so the chalk can't dance on it with the pencil sharpener, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the garden maid.



Chapter XXV

Uncle Wiggily And The Garden Maid


"Hey, ho, hum!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily Longears, the rabbit gentleman, as he stretched up his twinkling, pink nose, and reached his paws around his back to scratch an itchy place. "Ho, hum! I wonder what will happen to me to-day?"

"Are you going out again?" asked Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper. "It seems to me that you go out a great deal, Mr. Longears."

"Well, yes; perhaps I do," admitted the bunny uncle. "But more things happen to me when I go out than when I stay in the house."

"And do you like to have things happen to you?" asked Miss Fuzzy Wuzzy.

"When they are adventures I do," answered the rabbit gentleman. "So here I go off for an adventure."

Off started the nice, old, bunny uncle, carrying his red, white and blue striped barber-pole rheumatism crutch -- over his shoulder this time. For his pain did not hurt him much, as the sun was shining, so he did not have to limp on the crutch, which Nurse Jane had gnawed for him out of a corn-stalk.

Uncle Wiggily had not gone very far toward the fields and woods before he heard Nurse Jane calling to him.

"Oh, Wiggy! Wiggy, I say! Wait a moment!"

"Yes, what is it?" asked the rabbit gentleman, turning around and looking over his shoulder. "Have I forgotten anything?"

"No, it was I who forgot," said the muskrat lady housekeeper. "I forgot to tell you to bring me a bottle of perfume. Mine is all gone."

"All right, I'll bring you some," promised Mr. Longears. "It will give me something to do -- to go to the perfume store. Perhaps an adventure may happen to me there."

Once more he was on his way, and soon he reached the perfume store, kept by a nice buzzing bee lady, who gathered sweet smelling perfume, as well as honey, from the flowers in Summer and put it carefully away for the Winter.

"Some perfume for Nurse Jane, eh?" said the bee lady, as the rabbit gentleman knocked on her hollow-tree house. "There you are, Uncle Wiggily," and she gave him a bottle of the nice scent made from a number of flowers.

"My! That smells lovely!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily, as he pulled out the cork, and took a long sniff. "Nurse Jane will surely like that perfume!"

With the sweet scented bottle in his paw, the rabbit gentleman started back toward his hollow-stump bungalow. He had not gone very far before he saw a nurse maid, out in the garden, back of a big house. There was a basket in front of the maid, with some clothes in it, and stretched across the garden was a line, with more clothes on it, flapping in the wind.

"Ha!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily. "I wonder if that garden maid, hanging up the clothes, wouldn't like to smell Nurse Jane's perfume? Nurse Jane will not mind, and perhaps it will be doing that maid a kindness to let her smell something sweet, after she has been smelling washing-soap-suds all morning."

So the bunny uncle, who was always doing kind things, hopped over to the garden maid, and politely asked:

"Wouldn't you like to smell this perfume?" and he held out the bottle he had bought of the bee lady.

The garden maid turned around, and said in a sad voice:

"Thank you, Uncle Wiggily. It is very kind of you, I'm sure, and I would like to smell your perfume. But I can't."

"Why not?" asked the bunny uncle. "The cork is out of the bottle. See!"

"That may very well be," went on the garden maid, "but the truth of the matter is that I cannot smell, because a blackbird has nipped off my nose."

Uncle Wiggily, in great surprise, looked, and, surely enough, a blackbird had nipped off the nose of the garden maid.

"Bless my whiskers!" cried the bunny uncle. "What a thing for a blackbird to do -- nip off your nose! Why did he do such an impolite thing as that?"

"Why, he had to do it, because it's that way in the Mother Goose book," said the maid. "Don't you remember? It goes this way:

"'The King was in the parlor, Counting out his money, The Queen was in the kitchen, Eating bread and honey. The maid was in the garden, Hanging out the clothes, Along came a blackbird And nipped off her nose.'

"That's the way it was," said the garden maid.

"Oh, yes, I remember now," spoke Uncle Wiggily.

"Well, I'm the maid who was in the garden, hanging out the clothes," said she, "and, as you can see, along came a blackbird and nipped off my nose. That is, you can't see the blackbird, but you can see the place where my nose ought to be."

"Yes," answered Uncle Wiggily, "I can. It's too bad. That blackbird ought to have his feathers ruffled."

"Oh, he didn't mean to be bad," said the garden maid. "He had to do as it says in the book, and he had to nip off my nose. So that's why I can't smell Nurse Jane's nice perfume."

Uncle Wiggily thought for a minute. Then he said:

"Just you wait here. I think I can fix it so you can smell as well as ever."

Then the bunny uncle hurried off through the woods until he found Jimmie Caw-Caw, the big black crow boy.

"Jimmie," said the bunny uncle, "will you fly off, find the blackbird, and ask him to give back the garden maid's nose so she can smell perfume?"

"I will," said Jimmie Caw-Caw, very politely. "I certainly will!"

Away he flew, and, after a while, in the deep, dark part of the woods he found the blackbird, sitting on a tree.

"Please give me back the garden maid's nose," said Jimmie, politely.

"Certainly," answered the blackbird, also politely. "I only took it off in fun. Here it is back. I'm sorry I bothered the garden maid, but I had to, as it's that way in the Mother Goose book."

Off to Uncle Wiggily flew Jimmie, the crow boy, with the young lady's nose, and soon Dr. Possum had fastened it back on the garden maid's face as good as ever.

"Now you can smell the perfume," said Uncle Wiggily, and when he held up the bottle the maid said:

"Oh, what a lovely smell!"

So the bunny uncle left a little perfume in a bottle for the garden maid, and then she went on hanging up the clothes, and she felt very happy because she had a nose. So you see how kind Uncle Wiggily and Jimmie were, and Nurse Jane, too, liked the perfume very much.

So if the little girl's roller-skates don't run over the pussy's tail and ruffle it all up so she can't go to the moving picture party, I'll tell you next of Uncle Wiggily and the King.



Chapter XXVI

Uncle Wiggily And The King


Uncle Wiggily Longears, the nice old rabbit gentleman, was sitting in an easy chair in his hollow-stump bungalow, one day, looking out of the window at the blue sky, and he was feeling quite happy. And why should he not be happy?

Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, his muskrat lady housekeeper, had just given him a nice breakfast of cabbage pancakes, with carrot maple sugar tied in a bow-knot in the middle, and Uncle Wiggily had eaten nine. Nine cakes, I mean, not nine bows.

"And now," said the bunny uncle to himself, "I think I shall go out and take a walk. Perhaps I may have an adventure. Do you want any perfume, or anything like that from the store?" asked Mr. Longears of Miss Fuzzy Wuzzy.

"No, thank you, I think not," answered the muskrat lady. "Just bring yourself home, and that will be all."

"Oh, I'll do that all right," promised the bunny gentleman. So away he hopped, over the fields and through the woods, humming to himself a little song which went something like this:

"I'm feeling happy now and gay, Why shouldn't I, this lovely day? 'Tis time enough to be quite sad, When wind and rain make weather bad. But, even then, one ought to try To think that soon it will be dry. So then, no matter what the weather, Smile, as though tickled by a feather."

Uncle Wiggily felt happier than ever when he had sung this song, but, as he went along a little further, he came, all at once, to a very nice house indeed, out of which floated the sound of a sad voice.

Uncle Wiggily was surprised to hear this, for the house was such a nice one that it seemed no one ought to be unhappy who lived there.

The house was made of gold and silver, with diamond windows, and the chimney was made of a red ruby stone, which, as every one knows, is very expensive. But with all that the sad voice came sailing out of one of the opened diamond windows, and the voice said:

"Oh, dear! It's gone! I can't find it! I dropped it and it rolled down a crack in the floor. Now I'll never get it again. Oh, dear!"

"Well, that sounds like some one in trouble," said the bunny uncle. "I must see if I cannot help them," for Uncle Wiggily helped real folk, who lived in fine houses, as well as woodland animals, who lived in hollow trees.

Uncle Wiggily hopped up to the open diamond window of the gold and silver house, with the red ruby chimney, and, poking his nose inside, the rabbit gentleman asked:

"Is there some one here in trouble whom I may have the pleasure of helping?"

"Yes," answered a voice. "I'm here, and I'm surely in trouble."

"Who are you, and what is the trouble, if I may ask?" politely went on Uncle Wiggily.

"I am the king," was the answer. "This is my palace, but, with all that, I am in trouble. Come in."

In hopped Uncle Wiggily, and there, surely enough, was the king, but he was in the kitchen, down on his hands and knees, looking with one eye through a crack in the floor, which is something kings hardly ever do.

"It's down there," he said. "And I can't get it. I'm too fat to go through the crack."

"What's down there?" Uncle Wiggily wanted to know.

"My money," answered the king. "You may have heard about me," and he recited this little verse:

"The king was in the kitchen, Counting out his money; The queen was in the parlor, Eating bread and honey; The maid was in the garden, Hanging out the clothes, Along came a blackbird, Who nipped off her nose."

The fat man got up off the kitchen floor.

"I'm the king," he said, taking up his gold and diamond crown from a kitchen chair, where he had put it as he kneeled down, so it would not fall off and be dented. "From Mother Goose, you know; don't you?"

"Yes, I know," answered Uncle Wiggily.

"I dare say you'll find the queen in the parlor eating bread and honey," went on the king. "At least I saw her start for there with a plate, knife and fork as I was coming here. And, no doubt, the maid is in the garden, where she'll pretty soon have her nose nipped off by a blackbird."

"That part happened yesterday," said Uncle Wiggily. "I was there just after it happened, and I got Jimmie Caw-Caw, the crow boy, to fly after the blackbird and bring back the maid's nose. She is as well as ever now and can smell all kinds of perfume."

"Good!" cried the fat king. "You were very kind to help her. I only wish you could help me. But I don't see how you can. My money, which I was counting, fell out of my hands and dropped down a crack in the floor. I can see it lying down there in the dirt, but I can't get at it unless I move to one side my gold and silver palace, and I don't want to do that. I don't suppose you can move a palace, can you?" And he looked askingly at Uncle Wiggily.

"No, I can't do that," said the bunny uncle. "But still I think I can get your money without moving the palace."

"How?" asked the king.

"Why, I can go outside," said Mr. Longears, "and with my strong paws, which are just made for digging, I can burrow, or dig, a place through the dirt under your palace-house, crawl in and get what you dropped."

"Oh, please do!" cried the king.

So Uncle Wiggily did.

Down under the cellar wall of the palace, through the dirt, dug the bunny gentleman, with his strong paws. Pretty soon he was right under the kitchen, and there, just where they had dropped through the crack, were the king's gold and silver pennies and other pieces of money. Uncle Wiggily picked them up, put them in his pocket and crawled out again.

"There you are, king," he said. "You have your money back."

"Oh, thank you ever so much!" cried the king. "I'll have the cook give you some carrots." And he did, before he went on counting his money in the kitchen. And this time he stuffed a dish-rag in the crack so no more pennies would fall through.

"Well, Uncle Wiggily, where are you going now?" asked the King, as he saw the bunny gentleman hopping away with the bunch of carrots.

"I hardly know that myself," answered the rabbit. "I want to have more adventures, either with the friends of Old Mother Hubbard and Mother Goose, or with some of the animal or birds that live in the woods."

"I think some adventures with birds would be exciting," spoke the King. "This blackbird who nipped off the maid's nose was a lively sort of chap."

"He was, indeed," agreed the bunny gentleman. "I think I should like some adventures with my feathered friends who fly in the air. When I come back I'll tell you about them, Mr. King."

"Please do," begged the gentleman with the gold and diamond crown. And so, as long as the rabbit wishes it, and if the condensed milk doesn't jump out of the molasses jug and scare the coffee pot so that it drinks tea, I shall make the next book "Uncle Wiggily and the Birds," and I hope you will like it.

<eob>

The Tale Of Miss Kitty Cat

By

Arthur Scott Bailey



I

A Terrible Person


THE rats and the mice thought that Miss Kitty Cat was a terrible person. She was altogether too fond of hunting them. They agreed, however, that in one way it was pleasant to have her about the farmhouse. When she washed her face, while sitting on the doorsteps, they knew -- so they said! -- that it was going to rain. And then Mrs. Rat never would let her husband leave home without taking his umbrella.

As a rule Miss Kitty Cat didn't look at all frightful. Almost always she appeared quite unruffled, going about her business in a quiet way and making no fuss over anything. Of course when old dog Spot chased -- and cornered -- her, she was quite a different sort of creature. Then she arched her back, puffed her tail out to twice its usual size, and spat fiercely at Spot. He learned not to get within reach of her sharp claws, when she behaved in that fashion. For old Spot had a tender nose. And no one knew it better than Miss Kitty Cat.

Around the farmhouse she was politeness itself -- when there was anybody to observe her. If her meals were late she never clamored, as Johnnie Green sometimes did. To be sure, she might remind Mrs. Green gently, by plaintive mewing, that she had not had her saucer of milk. But she was always careful not to be rude about it. And though Miss Kitty liked a warm place in winter, she never crowded anybody else away from the fire. She crept under the kitchen range, where no one else cared to sit. And there she would doze by the hour -- especially after she had enjoyed a hearty meal.

On summer nights, however, when she loved to hunt out of doors, Miss Kitty Cat was far from appearing sleepy. She roamed about the fields, or crept through the tree-tops with a stealthy tread and a tigerish working of her tail. Folk smaller than Miss Kitty never cared to meet her at such times. They knew that she would spring upon them if she had a chance. So they took good care to keep out of her way. And if they caught sight of her when she had her hunting manner they always gave the alarm in their own fashion, warning their friends to beware of the monster Miss Kitty Cat, because she was abroad and in a dangerous mood.

Johnnie Green liked Miss Kitty. Often she would come to him and rub against him and purr, fairly begging him to stroke her back. Unless he pulled her tail at such times she kept her claws carefully out of sight and basked under Johnnie's petting.

If he had been her size and she had been his, Miss Kitty Cat might not have been so harmless. She might have played with Johnnie, as she sometimes played with a mouse. But Johnnie Green never stopped to think of anything like that. And if he had, he would have thought it a great joke. He would have laughed at the idea of Miss Kitty Cat holding him beneath her paw.



II

Dog Spot's Plans


SOMEHOW old dog Spot and Miss Kitty Cat never became good friends. By the time Miss Kitty Cat arrived on the farm in Pleasant Valley Spot had lived there several years.

From the first day he met Miss Kitty in the kitchen Spot hadn't liked her. Yet he claimed at the time that he was glad to see her. He said that he could tell at once that he was going to have great sport with her. He knew it would be fun to chase her!

Inside the farmhouse old Spot was careful how he behaved. The moment Miss Kitty first set eyes on him she scurried under the table, where she crouched and glared at him. That was scarcely what you might call a friendly greeting. And Spot would have barked at her had he dared.

Since he didn't, he only whined a bit through his nose. You couldn't have told what he meant by the sound.

Miss Kitty Cat didn't like his whining. She even opened her mouth wide and said as much. She made an odd hissing noise, which amused old Spot greatly. And he told Miss Kitty, in what was almost a growl (except that it wasn't loud enough for one), "Wait till I catch you out of doors, my lady! I'll have some fun with you."

Then Farmer Green's wife opened the door and told Spot to be gone.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself -- " she scolded -- "teasing a poor little cat!"

Old dog Spot tucked his tail between his legs and crept through the doorway, keeping one eye on the broom that Mrs. Green held in her hand. And as soon as he was safely outside he gave two or three sharp yelps, telling Miss Kitty Cat that he would watch for her the very first time she set foot in the yard.

Somehow Miss Kitty Cat wasn't specially worried. She knew a thing or two about dogs; and she didn't intend to let old Spot bully her. It took her a few minutes to get over her anger. And then she came out from beneath the table and lapped up the milk that Mrs. Green had set temptingly on the floor, in a saucer.

When Miss Kitty had finished her meal she washed her face -- a duty that she performed with great care, for she prided herself on always looking neat.

Watching her, no one would ever have guessed what was in her mind. "I'd like to wash that dog's face for him!" Miss Kitty was saying to herself. "He'd have some reason then for yelping and whining."

Having completed her toilet Miss Kitty jumped into a chair that stood in the sunshine, near a window. And there she composed herself for a nap. When she was well fed and well warmed she liked nothing better than to curl herself up and doze and dream.

Meanwhile old dog Spot was telling everybody in the farmyard about the new cat and the fun he intended to have with her.

"There'll be lively times around here when she comes outside the house," he chuckled.



III

Chasing Miss Kitty


WHEN Miss Kitty Cat awoke from her nap she got up and stretched herself. In her opinion, a nap was no nap at all if one didn't stretch after taking it. "There's nothing like a good stretch to make a person limber," she often remarked.

Of course, in order to climb trees, or spring successfully at a rat or a mouse, Miss Kitty had to keep her muscles supple. And since it happened, now and then, that others jumped unexpectedly at her, she believed in always being ready either to chase or to be chased.

After she had smoothed her fur to suit her, Miss Kitty went to the door and mewed patiently until Farmer Green's wife opened it. Then Miss Kitty Cat slipped out of the kitchen and found herself in the woodshed. A highly interesting place, it seemed to her, with any number of crannies to offer lurking-places for mice. She decided at once that the woodshed would be a fine spot in which to hunt in stormy weather.

Feeling much pleased with her new home, Miss Kitty hopped down upon the great flat stone that served as a step from the woodshed to the ground. She couldn't help thinking, as she sat there, what a pleasant yard Farmer Green had. She noticed that there were trees enough about the farmhouse to furnish homes for plenty of birds.

And if there was one thing that Miss Kitty Cat liked it was to visit birds right where they lived.

Seeing a faint stir in the grass not far away, she began to creep towards it. Miss Kitty had found that it paid to look into such things. Often she had surprised a meadow mouse in just that way.

This time, however, it was Miss Kitty Cat herself that was surprised. She was so intent on her own important business that she never took her eyes off that spot where the grass had moved. And that was why she didn't see old dog Spot when he stuck his nose around a corner of the farmhouse.

Now, Spot's ways were quite different from Miss Kitty's. Whenever he set out on a hunt he never could keep still. So the moment he caught sight of Miss Kitty Cat he gave a joyful bark. At the same time he bounded towards her.

Of course Spot's yelps warned her to run. The moment she heard his first bark she forgot all about her own hunt, being herself the hunted. She scurried off across the farmyard, with Spot tearing after her.

If she had had time enough Miss Kitty would have climbed a tree. But Spot was altogether too near her for that. And being a stranger about the farmyard, she hadn't learned all the fine hiding places. Since Spot was between her and the house, she made for the barn and sprang through the open door. Inside Spot quickly cornered her.

With her back arched and her tail almost as big as Tommy Fox's brush, Miss Kitty Cat turned and faced her pursuer.



IV

A Tender Nose


"HURRAH!" old dog Spot barked. At least, what he said sounded a good deal like that.

He had cornered Miss Kitty Cat in the barn. And there was nothing he liked more than teasing anybody that was short-tempered as she was.

"Tchah!" Miss Kitty hissed.

Now, that ought to have been warning enough to Spot to keep a good, safe distance from her. But he was one of the sort that never knows enough to take a warning for what it is worth.

"Wow!" he chuckled. "You needn't think I'm afraid of you. If you ran from me once, you'll run again."

He didn't intend to hurt Miss Kitty. All he wanted was to get her to run across the yard again, so that he might have the sport of chasing her. So he edged nearer and nearer her, thinking that she would dodge past him and run out of the barn.

But Miss Kitty Cat had no relish for that sport.

"Keep your distance, sir!" she cried. And though she spoke plainly enough, old Spot paid no heed to her words. Instead, he gave a quick spring at her, just to worry her a bit more.

To his great surprise, almost at that same instant Miss Kitty Cat sprang at him. And as she jumped, she flashed one of her paws out and struck Spot on one side of his long nose.

It was not just a gentle tap with a soft, well-padded paw. She thrust her claws well out from between her toes. And jabbing them deep into Spot's tender nose, she gave a sharp downward pull.

All at once old dog Spot thought of the time when, as a puppy, he stuck his nose into a hornet's nest. His joyful bark changed suddenly to a shrill ki-yi of pain. And at the same time he became angry.

"You don't know how to have fun," he growled at Miss Kitty Cat. "Just to teach you better manners I'm going to take you by the back of your neck and shake you."

It appeared that Miss Kitty herself had quite a different notion. At least, she went through an entirely different motion, which was not at all like offering the back of her neck for old Spot to seize. When Spot reached for her she clawed him furiously, with one paw after another, while she told him what she thought of him.

He did not wait to hear everything that Miss Kitty had to say to him. Spot thought too much of his nose to linger in the barn any longer, but turned tail and hurried into the yard.

Miss Kitty Cat chased him as far as the door. Taking one quick backward glance at her as he went, Spot noticed how fiercely her eyes glared. It was a terrible sight. And it made him hasten all the faster.

"My goodness! What a temper!" he said under his breath.

Loping across the farmyard, he looked about him uneasily. He hoped nobody had seen Miss Kitty Cat driving him out of the barn. He knew it would be a hard matter to explain to any one. All his farmyard friends would be sure to think it a great joke.

Luckily there was no one in sight except Henrietta Hen.

"She won't notice anything," Spot assured himself. "She's the stupidest person on the farm."

Having nothing more to worry about except his scratched nose, old Spot crawled under the woodshed and nursed his wounds during the rest of the morning.

As for Miss Kitty Cat, she stayed in the barn a long time.

"What a worthless fellow that old dog is!" she thought. "This barn is full of mice! I don't believe he has caught one in all the years he has lived on the farm."



V

Spots And Speckles


WHEN she first met Miss Kitty Cat face to face Henrietta Hen exclaimed, "What a pity!"

Miss Kitty Cat hadn't intended to speak to Henrietta Hen at all. She didn't care, as a rule, to have anything to do with hens. She often remarked that she liked eggs and she liked chickens; but she never could see what hens were good for.

Well, when Henrietta Hen spoke to her like that Miss Kitty Cat paused and stared at her coolly for a moment or two. Then she asked in rather a distant tone, "What's a pity?"

Now, Henrietta Hen seldom knew when she was snubbed. And goodness knows people snubbed her often enough, too. For she was forever making remarks about their looks. And now she said to Miss Kitty Cat, "It's a pity your speckles are so big."

Miss Kitty Cat saw at once that Henrietta Hen was a vain creature. She had half a mind to walk on and leave her, without saying another word to her. Indeed, Miss Kitty had turned aside to continue her stroll towards the meadow when Henrietta Hen spoke to her again.

"Don't you think," Henrietta demanded, "that speckles should be worn very small, like mine? Don't you think yours are too big?"

"I'd rather not talk with you," said Miss Kitty Cat. "I can see plainly that we'd never agree."

"Oh, do stop for a while!" Henrietta Hen besought her. "I love a chat with a cat," she added with a silly giggle.

Miss Kitty Cat was vexed. She thought that Henrietta Hen was a tiresome person.

"Ill stop and have a chat with you," Miss Kitty relented, "for it's not often that I meet a spotted hen. If my speckles are too big," she went on in an icy tone, "it is just as true that your spots are altogether too small."

"Spots!" Henrietta cackled. Like all empty-headed people, she was quick to lose her temper. "Spots indeed! I'd have you know that I haven't any spots. I'm a speckled beauty -- that's what I am. And if you don't believe it you can ask the Rooster."

"Perhaps I was mistaken," Miss Kitty Cat purred. "Anyhow, I'll take your word about the Specks. I won't bother to ask the Rooster."

"Ah!" Henrietta Hen exclaimed. "You're afraid of him! You're afraid he might want to fight you. And I wish he would," she screamed at Miss Kitty, "for it's plain that you're no gentleman."

"Well -- I should hope not!" Miss Kitty Cat gasped.

"I thought you were a gentleman, or I should never have spoken to you," Henrietta Hen declared. "When I first saw you I said to myself, 'Here's a quiet, polite gentleman! It will be pleasant to have him living at the farmhouse.' But I see that I was mistaken."

"You were!" cried Miss Kitty, who was -- to say the least -- greatly astonished by Henrietta's odd remarks. "My name is Miss Kitty Cat. And what made you think I was a gentleman is more than I can guess."

"Miss!" cried Henrietta. "Miss! Then why, pray tell me, do you wear those whiskers?"

Try as she would, Miss Kitty could give no reason that satisfied Henrietta Hen. And Henrietta always declared that Miss Kitty Cat was a strange, strange person.



VI

Beechnut Shucks


ONCE in a while Frisky Squirrel paid a visit to Farmer Green's place. Although he had learned that the farmyard was not without its dangers, after one adventure Frisky was always sure to return, sometime, as if in search of another.

So a certain fine, fall day found him scampering along the top of the stone wall that followed the road as it dropped down the hill from the woods to Farmer Green's front gate.

Old Mr. Crow, sailing lazily over the yellowing fields, caught sight of the stone wall traveller and glided into a tree beside the road. "You'd better not go near the farmyard, young fellow!" old Mr. Crow called.

Frisky Squirrel stopped, sat down, and looked up at Mr. Crow in the tree above him.

"Why not?" Frisky inquired.

"Haven't you heard the news?" Mr. Crow asked him. "Haven't you heard that there's a cat at the farmhouse?"

"I didn't know it," Frisky admitted. "But I don't see why I should turn back. I won't hurt her."

Old Mr. Crow haw-hawed.

"I don't believe," he croaked, "you've ever met a cat."

"No, I haven't," Frisky Squirrel replied, "but I'd like to see one. So I'll be on my way. But don't worry, Mr. Crow? I won't hurt her." And then Frisky started off along the top of the stone wall once more, at a somewhat brisker pace to make up for lost time.

"He can't say I didn't warn him," Mr. Crow exclaimed as he watched the bouncing bit of gray fur.

"I hope Mr. Crow won't worry," said Frisky Squirrel to himself. "If the cat gets hurt it will be her own fault, for I certainly won't harm her."

When Frisky reached the farmyard he crept around a corner of the barn, hoping to find a few kernels of corn. But Henrietta Hen had been there before him and there wasn't one kernel left. He ran here and there about the yard. And at last, when quite near the woodshed door, he sat up suddenly, twitched his nose a few times, and said, "Ha! I smell beechnuts!"

Now, that was not strange. Johnnie Green had been eating beechnuts in the woodshed doorway. And he had scattered the shucks on the broad stone step. Frisky Squirrel began nosing them. And just out of sight inside the woodshed Miss Kitty Cat awoke from a short nap, stopped right in the middle of a long stretch, and said, "Ha! I smell a squirrel!"

Miss Kitty Cat was wide awake in an instant. She flattened herself upon the woodshed floor and crept silently to the door. Though she didn't make the slightest sound, all at once Frisky Squirrel's nose twitched again, as he muttered to himself, "There's a very queer smell about these beechnut shucks!"

He was sitting on the edge of the stone doorstep with a bit of beechnut clutched in his paws. And when he looked up and saw somebody's nose appear in the doorway he tumbled right over backward. The only sound he made came from the beechnut shuck, which made a faint click as it fell upon the stone. And Miss Kitty Cat's sharp ears caught it.



VII

Two In A Tree


WHEN Miss Kitty Cat dashed out of the woodshed Frisky Squirrel was two jumps ahead of her. That was really a better lead than it sounds. Frisky was always a good jumper. And the more scared he was, the further he could leap. Anybody that knew him well would have known then -- just to see him -- that something had given him a great fright.

First he had noticed a strange smell. Next he had seen a strange nose come stealing out of the woodshed door. And not knowing who was going to follow that nose, Frisky Squirrel felt that the sooner he climbed a tree the better it would be for him. So he made for a tall elm that wasn't too far away.

Though Miss Kitty Cat was a fast runner, Frisky reached the foot of the tree ahead of her. And he was half way to the lowest branches before he took a real look at his pursuer.

To his dismay he saw that the creature hadn't stopped at the foot of the tree. The monster had already begun climbing after him. Frisky had never seen any one just like this fierce person. One look was enough for him. He pushed higher and higher into the tree-top and crept far out on a drooping limb, which swayed beneath his weight as he clung to it.

There he paused, while he watched to see what the stranger would do. And as he stared at the creature he remembered suddenly what Mr. Crow had told him. "There's a cat at the farmhouse," the old gentleman had said.

"This must be the cat," Frisky thought. And to her he called, "If you're the cat, don't come any nearer, madam! You might get hurt." For he remembered, too, that he had told Mr. Crow that he wouldn't harm the cat.

"It is the cat," he said to himself presently, "for she has stopped."

Miss Kitty Cat did not quite dare follow Frisky Squirrel to the tip where he swung. She crouched upon the branch a little way from him, where it was safer for her, and with switching tail and bristling whiskers waited to see what he would do next.

"It makes me uneasy to see you swaying so," she told Frisky. "Besides, you're shaking this limb. And I don't like it."

"She's a fussy creature -- this cat!" Frisky said to himself. "I promised Mr. Crow I wouldn't hurt her; but I didn't promise him that I wouldn't tease her." So he bobbed up and down with all his might.

"Stop!" cried Miss Kitty Cat. "That's a very reckless thing to do. It's like rocking the boat."

"I think it's the finest sport in the world," Frisky chuckled.

"I know a finer," Miss Kitty snarled.

"What that?" he asked her.

"If I could get my claws on you I'd soon show you," she told him grimly.

Somehow there was something about her remark that startled Frisky Squirrel -- something that made him shiver. And when he shivered he lost his hold. Down he dropped, slipping and floundering from one branch to another.

And down Miss Kitty Cat followed him.



VIII

Nine Lives


FRISKY SQUIRREL was much more at home in the trees than Miss Kitty Cat was. While Frisky managed at last to cling to a limb and right himself, Miss Kitty lost her footing and fell out of the tree completely.

"Oh! She'll he hurt!" Frisky cried as he saw her turning and twisting through the air. But to his great surprise she struck with all her four feet on the ground, quite unharmed. "You did that very nicely," he called to her generously.

But she didn't answer. To tell the truth, she felt rather foolish because she had fallen out of the tree. And she walked back to the woodshed and stalked through the doorway without saying a word.

After that adventure Frisky Squirrel decided to go back home. So he scurried town the tree-trunk and scampered to the stone wall, and scooted along the top of it.

Old Mr. Crow was watching for him. And as before, he dropped down near the wall to talk.

"I hardly expected to see you again," Mr. Crow remarked. "You couldn't have met the cat."

"Yes!" said Frisky. "I met her. She followed me up a tree. And it's a wonder she didn't get hurt, though I was careful of her. She had a fall; but she landed beautifully."

Old Mr. Crow nodded wisely.

"She always lands on her feet," he observed. "And you needn't worry about her," he added. "You know, they say she has nine lives."

"Nine lives!" Frisky Squirrel exclaimed. "What do you mean, Mr. Crow?"

Now, Mr. Crow really knew a great deal, because he had lived many years. And he pretended to know still more, because he liked to appear learned. But this question was a puzzler for him. He simply couldn't answer it.

"You wouldn't understand, even if I explained," he told Frisky Squirrel. And then he flew away, leaving Frisky to run home and wonder what it meant to have nine lives.

As for Mr. Crow, he suddenly made up his mind that he would find out about Miss Kitty Cat's nine lives. He would ask that lady herself. So he flapped himself over to the big elm in the farmyard, where he cawed and cawed, hoping that Miss Kitty Cat would appear to see what all the noise was about.

And sure enough! she soon bounced out of the woodshed door and looked up at Mr. Crow inquiringly.

"I've been hearing a good deal about; you," Mr. Crow called down to her in what he considered his sweetest tones, though anybody else would have said they were quite hoarse. "I know you always manage to land on your feet -- and I can understand that. But what's this I hear about nine lives?"

Miss Kitty Cat only stared at him.

"Perhaps you don't feel like talking," said Mr. Crow. "If you've just had a fall, maybe you're still a bit shaken up, even if you did land on your feet. Perhaps you'd rather I came back later."

Miss Kitty Cat suddenly found her voice.

"You've been gossiping with that young squirrel!" she snapped. "I'll have you know that I'm not shaken up at all. But I'd shake you up if I could get hold of you!"

Mr. Crow was astonished. He was sure he had been most polite. Yet here was Miss Kitty Cat as rude as she could be!

He amused himself by jeering at her until she turned her back on him and went inside the woodshed. And he had to go away without learning anything at all about the nine lives of Miss Kitty Cat. They always remained a deep mystery. Everybody agreed that the number was nine. But beyond that, nobody could explain about them.



IX

The Stolen Cream


"I DECLARE!" Farmer Green's wife cried one day. "Somebody's been stealing my cream in the buttery."

The buttery was a big bare room on the shady side of the house, where great pans of milk stood on a long table. When the cream was thick enough on the milk Mrs. Green skimmed it off and put it in cans. At one end of the buttery there was a trap door in the floor. When the trap was raised you could look right down into a well. And into its cool depths Mrs. Green dropped her cans of cream by means of a rope, which she fastened to a beam under the floor, so the tops of the cans would stay out of the water.

Mrs. Green made butter out of that cream. So it was no wonder she was upset when she discovered that some one had meddled with one of her pans of milk.

"It can't be the cat," said Farmer Green's wife. "The buttery door has been shut tight all the time."

Miss Kitty Cat was right there in the kitchen while Mrs. Green was talking to her husband. And it was easy to see that Miss Kitty agreed with her mistress. She came close to Mrs. Green and purred, saying quite plainly that she was a good, honest cat and that she deserved to be petted. At least, that was what Mrs. Green understood her to mean.

Often, after that, Mrs. Green discovered traces of the thief in the buttery. Flecks of cream on the side of a milk pan, drops of cream on the table, smudges of cream now and then on the floor! Such signs meant something. But Farmer Green's wife couldn't decide what.

And another strange thing happened. Miss Kitty Cat lost her appetite for milk. She would leave her saucer of milk untasted on the kitchen floor.

Now and then Mrs. Green picked Miss Kitty up and looked closely at her face. At such times Miss Kitty purred pleasantly. She did not seem to be the least bit disturbed.

One evening, after dark, Johnnie Green went into the buttery to get a pail. The moment he opened the door there was a crash and a clatter inside the room.

Johnnie jumped back quickly.

"There's somebody in the buttery!" he shouted.

But when his father brought a light they found no one there. A tin dipper lay on the floor.

"When you opened the door it must have jarred the dipper off the edge of the table," said Farmer Green.

"Meaow!" said a voice behind them. There stood Miss Kitty Cat, saying that everything must have happened exactly as Farmer Green said.

"She couldn't have been in here, could she?" Farmer Green puzzled. "Come, Kitty!" And he picked up Miss Kitty and held her where the light fell full upon her face. "Clean as a whistle!" said Farmer Green. "I guess she just followed us in." He set her down again. And once more, with a plaintive meaow she agreed with him perfectly.



X

A Creamy Face


FARMER GREEN'S wife threw away pan after pan of milk, because she knew somebody had been stealing cream off the top of them. At least, she told Farmer Green to feed the milk to the pigs, because she wasn't going to make butter of any cream that had been tampered with by goodness knew whom or what. And old dog Spot said that feeding good creamy milk to the pigs was just the same as throwing it away. He made that remark to Miss Kitty Cat, adding that it was a shame that somebody was stealing cream and declaring that he hoped to catch the thief.

Miss Kitty Cat made no reply whatsoever.

"Don't you hope I'll catch the guilty party?" Spot asked her.

"Please don't speak to me!" Miss Kitty Cat exclaimed impatiently. "I don't enjoy your talk; and you may as well know it."

"Very well!" said Spot. "But when I catch him I'll let you know."

"She's jealous," Spot thought. "She knows I'm a good watch dog. And she can't bear the idea of my catching a thief."

It was hard, usually, to tell how Miss Kitty Cat felt about anything. She was a great one for keeping her opinions to herself. It seemed as if she wanted to be let alone by every one except Farmer Green's family.

Having boasted about catching the cream thief, old dog Spot began to watch the buttery very carefully. Search as he would, he couldn't find a chink anywhere that was big enough even for a mouse to squeeze through.

One day he happened to catch a glimpse of something moving under the roof of the shed next the buttery. To his amazement he saw Miss Kitty Cat slip through an old stove-pipe hole that pierced the great chimney which led down into the buttery, where there was an ancient fireplace which hadn't been used for years and years. Miss Kitty Cat crept along a tiebeam and hid herself in a pile of odds and ends that somebody had stowed high up under the roof and left there to gather dust and cob-webs.

"Ah, ha!" said Spot under his breath. "This is interesting."

When Miss Kitty Cat visited the kitchen a little later there wasn't a speck of dirt on her coat. And her face was spotless. No one would have guessed that she had ever made her way through an old chimney.

Old dog Spot said nothing to her then. But he chuckled to himself. He had a plan that pleased him hugely.

All this happened on a morning. And late that afternoon when Miss Kitty Cat wasn't anywhere to be seen, and Farmer Green's wife opened the buttery door to get a pitcher of cream for supper, Spot suddenly began to bark in the shed. He scrambled up a stepladder that leaned against the wall and stood on the top of it while he pawed the air frantically, as if he were trying to fly.

The noise brought Mrs. Green hurriedly out of the buttery. And she was just in time to see Miss Kitty Cat peer out of the old stove-pipe hole, with a creamy look about her mouth.

Well, the cat was out of the bag at last. Or perhaps it would be more exact to say that Miss Kitty was out of the buttery. Anyhow, it was very plain to Mrs. Green that she had been in the buttery only a moment before, lapping thick cream off a pan of milk. And she hadn't had time to wash her face.

After that Farmer Green stopped up the stove-pipe hole. And soon Miss Kitty's appetite for milk returned. When Mrs. Green set out her saucer of milk for her Miss Kitty lapped it up greedily -- and even licked the saucer clean.

Old dog Spot watched her with a grin.

"I let you know when I caught the cream thief, just as I promised you I would," he jeered.

Miss Kitty wiped her face very carefully before replying.

"Don't boast!" she said. "It's a disagreeable thing to do.... Besides, I knew -- long before you did -- who was taking Mrs. Green's cream."



XI

The Wrens' Home


THERE wasn't a bird on the farm that didn't dislike Miss Kitty Cat. And there was only one bird family that didn't live in dread of her. That was the Wren family. And they had a good reason for feeling safe from Miss Kitty.

Miss Kitty Cat always spluttered whenever she unbent herself enough to talk with anybody about Rusty Wren and his busy little wife, who had their home in the cherry tree outside Farmer Green's window.

"The Wrens needn't feel so proud of their house," Miss Kitty Cat sometimes said. "It's nothing but an old syrup can. And I know for a fact that Mrs. Bluebird looked at it last spring when she was hunting for a home. And she said she wouldn't live in such a place. I heard her tell her husband so."

Now, the reason why Mr. and Mrs. Wren liked their house and the reason why Miss Kitty Cat didn't were one and the same: Miss Kitty couldn't get inside it. The mouth of the syrup can, which the Wren family used for a door, was no bigger than a quarter of a dollar. It was entirely too small for Miss Kitty Cat, though it was big enough to admit Rusty Wren and his plump wife.

Miss Kitty said everything she could to persuade the Wren family to build themselves a nest in a crotch of the tree, like other birds.

"I'm sure," she told them, "you'd like such a home much better than this. There's no reason why you shouldn't be as fashionable as everybody else. You wouldn't have to look for a place to build. There's room enough right in this old cherry tree for a hundred happy homes if anybody wanted to build them."

"We like our house," Rusty Wren said.

"I wouldn't move, even if he wanted to," Mrs. Wren declared.

"Maybe you'd move because he doesn't want to," Miss Kitty Cat suggested.

But Mrs. Wren shook her head in a most decided way.

"No!" she said. "I'm satisfied with my house. And our neighbors would be far better off if they built as we do, inside a snug sort of box."

"You'll never know what you're missing," Miss Kitty remarked, "if you don't try an open nest sometime. Now, only yesterday I visited Jolly Robin's family over in the orchard. And their youngsters certainly did look beautiful. But you keep yours hidden inside that old syrup can where nobody can see them. It's a shame that the public can't have a chance to admire such fine nestlings as you must have in there."

Miss Kitty Cat was sitting under the cherry tree. And she looked up and smiled most agreeably at Mrs. Wren.

Rusty Wren looked thoughtful.

"There's something in what she says," he whispered to his wife. "It is too bad not to let the neighbors admire the finest nestlings in Pleasant Valley."

"You know they say a cat may look at a king," Miss Kitty simpered. "Well, a fortnight ago I went over to the pine woods and had a look at a Ruby Crowned Kinglet's family. So it seems only fair that I shouldn't be denied a look at your little wrenlets."



XII

Jolly Robin's News


IN A WAY Miss Kitty Cat was a patient creature. She could play a waiting game. She spent hours watching rat-holes without growing restless.

So after her talk with Rusty Wren and his wife, when she urged them to give up their boxlike house and build themselves an open nest like most other birds, Miss Kitty left them.

"I'll let my words sink in," Miss Kitty muttered to herself. "Of course they'll want to talk things over privately."

It wasn't often that she made herself so agreeable to any of the bird people. Indeed, she had been so pleasant that Rusty Wren began to think that Miss Kitty was a much kinder creature than he had always supposed.

"Miss Kitty's very agreeable," Rusty Wren remarked to his wife. "Did you notice how sweetly she spoke of our children?"

"Huh!" said Mrs. Wren. "She may fool you; but she can't fool me. She's a mealy-mouthed animal, if ever I met one."

"I don't see how you can say that about Miss Kitty Cat," Rusty replied. "She doesn't eat meal."

"I suppose you'll be saying next that she doesn't eat birds!" his wife exclaimed.

"I fear you've been listening to gossip," Rusty ventured. "If Miss Kitty Cat comes back I hope you'll be cordial to her."

He could have bitten his tongue a moment later for saying that, because Mrs. Wren began to scold him. And he flew away and left her as soon as he could think of a good excuse.

He went over to the orchard, where he flitted about for some time. And at last he met Jolly Robin, who appeared most doleful.

"What's the matter?" Rusty Wren asked. "You look terribly upset."

"So I am," Jolly Robin admitted. "We had a caller yesterday."

"Well, well!" said Rusty Wren. "That's nothing to be glum about."

"You'd think so if you were I. It was Miss Kitty Cat. And when she left she took one of our nestlings with her."

"Perhaps she only borrowed it," Rusty Wren suggested. "Maybe she'll return it to-day."

"No!" Jolly Robin told him. "If she comes back again it will only be to take another one."

Suddenly Rusty Wren remembered that he had urged his wife to be cordial to Miss Kitty Cat the next time she called at the cherry tree where they lived.

"I must hurry home!" he cried. "I must warn my wife."

"But your youngsters are safe," Jolly Robin assured him. "Miss Kitty Cat can't reach them inside the tin can where you built your nest."

"That's true," Rusty Wren admitted. "But there's my wife! Miss Kitty might harm her, if she caught her unawares." So he started for home at top speed.



XIII

An Unwelcome Guest


AS he neared his home in the cherry tree, Rusty Wren saw a fearsome sight. Miss Kitty Cat was crouched right on top of the tin syrup can which Johnnie Green had nailed to the tree. Inside that can was the Wren family's nest. And inside the nest were some brand-new youngsters, only two days out of their shells.

It was no wonder that when Rusty Wren came hack from the orchard and saw such a sight he began to shriek.

"What are you doing on my roof?" he shrilled.

Miss Kitty Cat looked up calmly and watched him as he hopped about in the top of the tree above her head.

Miss Kitty Cat Looked Calmly at Rusty Wren.

"I've come to make another call on your wife," she explained.

Then a muffled voice chirped, "She's been here a long time and I can't get her to go away."

The moment he heard that, Rusty Wren felt better. It was his wife's voice and it meant that she was safe. To be sure, Rusty knew that she was a prisoner in her own house; for it was plain that she dared not leave it so long as Miss Kitty Cat stayed on the roof, ready to grab Mrs. Wren the moment she stepped out of her doorway.

"Your wife is very shy," Miss Kitty remarked to Rusty Wren with a sly smile. "I've been hoping to get more acquainted with her. That's why I climbed up and sat on your roof. When people are shy and don't invite me inside their houses I believe in making myself at home outside, while I wait for them to appear."

From her doorway Mrs. Wren called to her husband, "Don't let her deceive you with her pretty talk! Remember what I told you! She's mealy-mouthed.... If you had seen her trying to reach her paw through the door you'd know how dangerous she is."

"There!" said Miss Kitty Cat with a sigh. "People never seem to understand my ways. I was only trying to shake hands!"

"With her claws!" cried the muffled voice of Rusty Wren's wife. "Ugh! She's a wicked creature if ever there was one."

"Go away!" Rusty Wren scolded. "Get off my roof! Get out of my cherry tree!"

By this time feathered neighbors of the Wren family were arriving from all directions. They didn't hesitate to call Miss Kitty Cat names. And some of them even darted quite near her, as if they meant to peck her eyes out.

Miss Kitty began to have a worried look.

"Goodness! Where do they all live?" she asked herself. "I had no idea there were so many birds around here. There's better hunting than I supposed."

Try as they would, the birds couldn't budge Miss Kitty Cat from the top of Rusty's house. He was frantic, poor fellow!

"I don't know what to do," he wailed. "My wife will starve in there -- and the children, too."

Just then little Mr. Chippy came hurrying up to him.

"Don't worry!" Mr. Chippy cried. "He's coming! He's on the way now; and he can get you out of your trouble if anybody can."

Miss Kitty Cat pricked up her ears. She couldn't help hearing what Mr. Chippy said.

"I shall stay right where I am," she declared. "Nobody can make me move."

She had scarcely finished speaking when a most unexpected sound startled her.

It was "Meaow!"



XIV

Catcalls


PERCHED on top of Rusty Wren's tin house, Miss Kitty Cat had been enjoying herself thoroughly, while the birds made a great how-dy-do and tried in vain to frighten her away.

When she heard all at once an unexpected meaow she showed that it startled her.

"A cat!" cried Miss Kitty. "I didn't suppose there was another cat for miles around." She looked about on all sides, on the ground and in the tree-tops. And there was no cat anywhere in sight.

Meanwhile the birds were all exclaiming, "There! He's here. Now Miss Kitty Cat had better watch out."

Again a strange, mocking catcall sounded from somewhere. There was a sort of jeer about it that aroused Miss Kitty Cat's anger.

"He's come, has he?" she exclaimed to little Mr. Chippy, who chattered at her from a good, safe distance. "If he's looking for a fight I'd be pleased to have him come and get it."

Whoever the stranger was, and wherever he was, he knew how to tease Miss Kitty Cat. Now he howled at her from the thicket of lilac bushes on the edge of the flower garden. Now he mewed at her from the hedge in front of the farmhouse. And though Miss Kitty Cat tried to get a glimpse of him, she couldn't see anything that even faintly resembled a cat.

The annoying cries moved from one place to another. She was sure of that. But the one that made them managed to stay hidden.

"This is queer!" Miss Kitty Cat said to herself. "Can it be that there's a cat's voice around here, and nothing more? A cat without a voice wouldn't be so strange. But a voice without a cat -- that's the oddest thing I ever heard of!"

At last Rusty Wren seemed to take heart. And his wife, inside their house, abused Miss Kitty Cat loudly -- or as loudly as she could from inside the tin syrup can.

"I always knew you were a coward," she told Miss Kitty. "You're always ready to attack us small people. But you don't dare fight anybody of your own size."

"How can I fight a person that I can't see?" Miss Kitty asked. "If this noisy stranger would come out in the open I'd soon show you whether I'd fight him or not. I'd teach him -- if I could get hold of him -- not to come here and interfere when I'm making a neighborly call."

"Nonsense!" cried Mrs. Wren. "You don't mean half you say. If you weren't a fraud you'd go and find this person that's jeering at you."

"Meaow-ow-ow!" Again that mocking call grated on Miss Kitty's ears.

"There!" Mrs. Wren exclaimed. "There it is again. It would make me pretty angry to be talked to like that. But I don't suppose it bothers you. Probably you're used to having people caterwaul at you."

That was a little more than Miss Kitty Cat could stand. She scrambled down from the old cherry tree and ran across the yard to the row of currant bushes, whence the last catcalls had come.

As she drew near, a slim slate-colored bird gave a harsh laugh as he flew up from the bushes. It was Mr. Catbird. And Miss Kitty Cat felt sheepish enough when she saw him. She knew that he had succeeded in fooling her with his mocking cries.

The birds -- with Mr. Catbird among them, and Mrs. Wren, too -- all gathered round Miss Kitty and made such a clamor that she crept away and hid in the haymow. She never could endure much noise, unless she made most of it herself -- by the light Of the moon.



XV

Mousetraps


"I DON'T understand," said old dog Spot to Miss Kitty Cat one day, "why Mrs. Green wants to keep you around the house when she can buy mousetraps at the village." Old Spot eyed Miss Kitty slyly. He dearly loved to watch her whiskers bristle and her tail grow big. And he could make both those things happen almost any time he wanted to.

If anybody wished to see Miss Kitty Cat turn up her nose he had only to mention mousetraps. Of all worthless junk she thought they were the worst.

"They can't catch any but the dull-witted mice," she used to say. "A mouse that knows anything won't go near a trap unless he's hungry. If he wants to go to a little trouble to get a piece of stale cheese he can usually spring the trap without getting caught in it -- even if he has to use his tail to do it."

"But a mousetrap," Spot objected, "is little or no care. One doesn't have to feed it except when he wants it to catch a mouse. And everybody knows that Mrs. Green feeds you several times a day. Besides, the fewer mice you catch, the more food she has to waste on you."

"Rubbish!" Miss Kitty Cat sniffed. "You eat ten times as much as I do. And I never heard of your catching a mouse, either."

"Ah!" said Spot. "Don't forget that I drive the cows and watch the house and the barns at night. And during my spare moments I hunt woodchucks. You couldn't expect a person of my importance to fritter away his valuable time catching mice. Mousetraps couldn't do my work," old dog Spot continued. "There never was a mousetrap made that could drive a cow."

"That's one reason why I don't like them," said Miss Kitty Cat. "They're not only poor at catching mice, but they're useless at anything else. Now, whenever I capture a mouse I always make matters as pleasant as possible for, him. I always play with him for as long a time as I can spare. But a trap just goes snap! A trap doesn't seem to want to make friends with anybody."

Old dog Spot laughed right in Miss Kitty's face.

"Much you care for your friends the mice!" he chuckled. "And much they care for you! If you knew what they call you, you'd be pretty angry."

"What's that?" Miss Kitty demanded.

"I don't want to tell you," said Spot. "I don't want to hurt your feelings." He knew (the rogue) that he could tease Miss Kitty more by leaving her to wonder what name the mice had for her.

Much as she wanted to know it, Miss Kitty Cat was too proud and haughty to ask him again. And, jumping up suddenly, she walked stiffly away.

"I shall have to find a mouse somewhere," she muttered under her breath. "I shall have to find a mouse somewhere and make him tell me what old Spot won't."



XVI

A Midnight Meal


DOWN in the cellar of the farmhouse a fat couple known as Mr. and Mrs. Moses Mouse crept out of a hole under the pantry floor and ran down a post to the cellar bottom.

"Things have come to a pretty pass!" Mr. Mouse grumbled. "Mrs. Green never did leave more than a crumb or two in the pantry where a fellow could get it. And since Miss Snooper came to live here there's less to eat than ever."

Mrs. Mouse nodded her head somewhat dolefully.

"Do you remember, Moses," she said to her husband, "what delicious bits of stale cheese Mrs. Green used to serve for us here in the cellar, stuck on a short piece of wire? To be sure, she was somewhat thoughtless -- the way she left that dangerous loop caught back, so it would snap over and catch you behind the ears if you weren't careful. But you were always very skillful at avoiding that."

"Ah! Those were happy days -- or, I should say, nights!" Mr. Mouse exclaimed with a sigh. "It makes me sad just to think of that fine, old, stale, moldy cheese."

"I suppose Mrs. Green gives it all to that horrid Miss Snooper now," said Mrs. Mouse, as she climbed to a shelf and looked at the labels on several jars of jam and jelly that stood there in a row.

Moses Mouse watched her hopefully. Being quite plump, he was a bit lazy. And he did not care to scramble up to a shelf for nothing.

"There isn't one without a cover, is there?" he inquired.

"No!" his wife replied.

"There isn't one with a little sweetness oozing down the side of it, is there?" he asked her.

"No!" said Mrs. Mouse. "Not one! I suppose Miss Snooper has licked them all clean."

"That disagreeable Miss Snooper has spoiled everything for us," Moses Mouse declared. And for a fat gentleman he looked oddly unhappy.

"I don't know what we'll do for our supper," he whined. He always whined when he was hungry.

"There's that chunk of putty that Farmer Green left in the woodshed," his wife reminded him.

"Ugh!" Moses Mouse made a wry face. "We've dined upon that for the last three nights. And I never did like putty, anyhow. I wish that snooping Miss Snooper had to eat it." His mournful eyes roved about the cellar until they rested on something in a dark corner. "What's in that box over there?" he asked Mrs. Mouse.

"I don't know," she answered.

"Well -- go and see, then!" he snapped. "I'm so faint I can scarcely stand."

Mrs. Mouse always humored Moses when he was hungry. She knew that he was never fretful after he had eaten a good meal. So her feet twinkled across the cellar floor and she disappeared inside the box.

Not hearing anything from her, Moses Mouse soon grew more impatient than ever.

"Well!" he sang out. "What luck!"

"Potatoes!" came his wife's muffled answer, out of a full mouth. "I declare, I forgot to call you."



XVII

The Eavesdropper


FOR ANYBODY that was so faint, Moses Mouse ran to the box of potatoes very spryly. His wife was already inside it, eating.

"I'll have my supper first," he announced, "while you stay outside on the cellar bottom and watch for Miss Snooper."

"I'm just as hungry as you are," his wife objected. "I don't want to wait. You know you'll be a long time at your supper." What she really meant was that Moses Mouse would be sure to overeat.

"Very well!" he said. "But don't blame me if Miss Snooper sneaks up on us."

Thereupon Moses Mouse fell to right greedily. Although there were delicacies that he liked more than raw potatoes, he was hungry enough to enjoy them -- and not even ask for salt. And his wife, too, ate almost as heartily as he did. The pale moonlight, streaming through the cellar window, lighted their banquet hall with its ghostly gleams. They enjoyed the cool dampness of the place. They liked its musty smell. And Moses Mouse remarked -- between mouthfuls -- that they hadn't had such an elegant feast for weeks. "It's quite like old times," he said.

Mrs. Mouse agreed with him. Indeed, they relished their meal so thoroughly that they forgot everything else. And if Moses Mouse hadn't happened to glance up and see two eyes gleaming at him from over the edge of the box he would have had no reason for leaving his meal unfinished. At the moment, his mouth was crammed so full of raw potato that he could scarcely say a word.

"Miss Snooper!" he gasped, all but choking over the words. And he vanished in a twinkling, hoping, of course, that Mrs. Mouse would take the hint and disappear too, but not waiting to see whether she managed to get away safely.

A second later Miss Kitty Cat sprang into the box. She reached out a paw and grabbed at what looked like Mrs. Mouse. But to her great disgust she found her claws clutching nothing more interesting than a small potato, with a little knob at one end that looked not unlike a head.

Miss Kitty Cat let go of her prize with a mew of disappointment. She knew that by that time Mr. and Mrs. Mouse had made their escape. And Miss Kitty soon learned how they slipped away. In one corner of the box she found a tiny hole. "Here's where they went!" she exclaimed. "I don't see how I missed seeing it when I first came sniffing around this box."

Though she had lost a midnight supper, Miss Kitty did not feel too sad. She was too angry for that.

"At last," she cried, "I've found out what old dog Spot wouldn't tell me. The mice are calling me 'Miss Snooper' behind my back!"

In the morning, when Miss Kitty met old dog Spot in the woodshed, she was still feeling peevish. "What are you doing in here?" she snapped.

"Oh, I'm just snooping around to see what I can find for my breakfast," he told her with a grin.

Miss Kitty Cat bared her teeth in a snarl.

"Snooping!" she cried. "You'd better be careful what you say to me! I heard some mice talking last night."

"Ah!" said old Spot. "Now you know that listeners seldom hear anything good about themselves."

Then he decided, suddenly, that he would look elsewhere for his breakfast.

For Miss Kitty Cat was in a terrible temper.



XVIII

Kidnapped


THERE was great rejoicing among all the Mouse family. Pudgy Mr. Moses Mouse had picked up a bit of news that delighted him and his wife and all their many relations. Somebody had stolen Miss Snooper -- as the Mouse family always called Miss Kitty Cat! Somebody had taken her away!

Master Meadow Mouse had seen it all; and he had told Moses exactly how it happened. Master Meadow Mouse knew that a wagon had borne Miss Snooper up the road and over the hill. He had watched it disappear, with his own eyes. All those things Moses Mouse repeated as fast as his short breath would permit. He had hurried back home to tell the news as soon as he had heard it. He found, however, that no one cared how Miss Kitty Cat (or Miss Snooper), went, nor where; no one cared who took her; no one cared when. It was enough to know that she was gone. And everybody exclaimed that it was the best news ever -- and good riddance to bad rubbish -- meaning Miss Kitty Cat.

If it were only true! The Mouse family scarcely dared believe that it was. But when two days passed, and Moses Mouse himself had even ventured into the pantry, and the kitchen, and the woodshed, without meeting Miss Kitty, the Mouse family dared decide that she had indeed gone for good.

*    *    *    *    *

Meanwhile Miss Kitty Cat was having a most unhappy time. It was true that she had been stolen. A man driving a peddler's wagon up the hill one evening had noticed her as she lay on top of the stone wall, around the turn of the road beyond the farmhouse. "Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!" he called, as he stopped his horse. And reaching behind the seat, he brought out a bit of food, which he held out for her.

Now, it happened that at that very moment Miss Kitty Cat had her mind on food. She had been hoping that a meal would appear at any moment out of a chink in the wall. And when it was dangled right before her eyes like that she couldn't resist it. She climbed up into the wagon. And the next thing she knew the peddler had clapped her into a basket and fastened the cover. Miss Kitty Cat was a prisoner.

"There, my beauty!" the peddler exclaimed. "I'll take you home with me. We need a mouser. And I dare say you're a good one. Unless I'm mistaken, you were hunting chipmunks on the wall."

Miss Kitty Cat made no answer. Naturally, it pleased her to be called a beauty. But there were other matters that she didn't like in the least. Her captor had forgotten to toss the scrap of meat into the basket -- the bait with which he had caught her. And it was somewhat breathless inside her prison. And Miss Kitty Cat had no idea where the peddler was taking her.

He had clucked to his horse and started him plodding up the hill. Every time a wheel struck a stone Miss Kitty gritted her teeth. She never did enjoy riding in a wagon, anyhow. And this one was not at all comfortable.

"They'll wonder, back home, what's become of me," she thought. "And one thing is certain: everybody will miss me!"



XIX

Strange Quarters


THE PEDDLER that took Miss Kitty Cat away in his cart drove long into the night. Inside the basket into which her captor had popped her, Miss Kitty kept her wits at work. She knew that there were many twists and turns as they creaked up the hills and rattled down the other side of them. Then there were level stretches where the peddler held his horse to a swinging gait that fast put long miles between them and Farmer Green's place in Pleasant Valley.

"Dear me!" Miss Kitty thought. "What a tramp I'll have getting back home again!" For already she was planning to return to the farm. She didn't care if they did need a good mouser at the stranger's house. They needed one just as much at Farmer Green's.

"If Mrs. Green has to depend on traps to take care of the mice she'll soon be eaten out of house and home," Miss Kitty mused. "The minute that fat Moses Mouse knows I'm gone he'll be as bold as brass."

At last the wagon left the hard road and pulled up in a dooryard. A dog barked. And Miss Kitty heard voices.

"I've brought you something in here that you'll like," said the peddler as he handed Miss Kitty's basket to somebody. "But don't look at it out of doors or it'll get away."

Later, inside the house, a woman let Miss Kitty out of her prison.

"What a big cat!" she exclaimed. "Where did you get her?"

"Oh, I picked her up on the road," said the peddler. "She looked as if she wanted a ride," he chuckled. "I think she was hunting along an old stone wall."

"She'll find hunting enough here," said his wife. "This house is overrun with mice. I'll just put her down cellar and let her work for her supper." Then she gave Miss Kitty a toss down the cellar stairs and slammed the door behind her.

It was no wonder that Miss Kitty Cat was angry.

"A fine way to treat a guest!" she spluttered down there in the dark. "That woman might have set out a little milk for me. It would have tasted good, after my long ride in that stuffy basket." Miss Kitty couldn't help thinking what a fine home she had had at Farmer Green's and how good Mrs. Green had always been to her.

Even Johnnie Green -- though he was a boy -- had petted her oftener than he had pulled her tail.

But Miss Kitty was too hungry to sit long at the foot of the cellar stairs in thought.

She soon heard faint rustlings squeaks, and scratchings around her. And though she didn't care to oblige the woman upstairs in any way, Miss Kitty lost no time in providing a hearty meal for herself.

Then she lay down on an old sack and slept for a while.

And just before the roosters began to crow she had found a broken pane in a cellar window.

"What luck!" said Miss Kitty under her breath. And very silently she slipped through the opening and stole away.



XX

A Long Journey


BY SUNRISE Miss Kitty Cat had trotted at least a mile along the road that passed the peddler's house. She wanted to get a safe distance away before the family got up and turned loose the dog that had barked the night before, when she arrived.

Miss Kitty remembered clearly that the wagon had been climbing a long hill before it turned into the peddler's dooryard. So without hesitating she started down the road. She knew that in that direction lay Pleasant Valley -- and her home at Farmer Green's.

Having put the first mile of her journey behind her, Miss Kitty stopped beside a little brook and drank her fill of cool, sweet water. She was very thirsty, because she hadn't had a drink since the evening before.

A pretty wood stretched beyond the brook, tempting Miss Kitty Cat to explore it. At that hour of the morning there were many birds twittering among the trees. And spry chipmunks were frisking about in search of their breakfast. Miss Kitty Cat just naturally began to think of her own breakfast.

"If I were at home, Mrs. Green would be setting a saucer of milk on the woodshed steps about this time," she murmured. "But now I must shift for myself."

Luckily Miss Kitty was quite able to find something to eat, as a surprised meadow mouse soon discovered.

After breakfasting, Miss Kitty lingered a while to tease the birds, who scolded her shrilly, calling her a tramp and telling her to get out of their woods.

Of course Miss Kitty had to stay there for a time after that, to let the birds know that they couldn't frighten her away. She scared them almost out of their wits by threatening to climb up where their nests were. But she didn't do more than sharpen her claws against a tree-trunk. That alone was enough to throw them into a panic.

At last, after she had bothered the birds quite enough, Miss Kitty Cat set off for Pleasant Valley once more. Sometimes she travelled through fields; sometimes she jogged along the roads; sometimes she jumped to the top of a stone wall and used that for a highway. And always when she heard the creak and rattle of a wagon, as the sun rose higher and higher, she crept into the bushes and hid until she had the road to herself again.

If Miss Kitty hadn't been homesick she would have thought her adventure a great lark. But somehow she couldn't get Mrs. Green's house out of her mind. Especially the thought of the kitchen, with its delicious odors of seven-layer cakes baking in the oven, and doughnuts frying on top of the range, made Miss Kitty's nose twitch. And her own particular warm spot under the range, where she basked away long hours! When she recalled that it was no wonder that her pace quickened.

Perhaps Miss Kitty Cat herself couldn't have told exactly how she knew the way back to Farmer Green's place. No doubt she wouldn't have told, had she known; for she was one of the kind that keep such things to themselves. She never even explained to old dog Spot, afterward, where she spent the three nights that she was away from the farm.

Anyhow, Miss Kitty Cat kept plodding along. And one afternoon when she came out of a patch of woods on a hill-top, she saw something looming right ahead of her that looked familiar.

It was Blue Mountain. And she knew that on the other side of it lay Pleasant Valley -- and her home at Farmer Green's.



XXI

In The Pantry


OF COURSE everybody knows that while the cat's away the mice will play. So what happened during Miss Kitty Cat's absence from the farmhouse was really no more than any one might have expected. There were gay banquets in Mrs. Green's pantry at midnight. And among those present there was no one that had a better time than fat Mr. Moses Mouse. He was always the life of the party. He made jokes about Miss Snooper -- as he called Miss Kitty Cat. And nobody laughed at them harder than he.

With every night that passed, Moses Mouse grew still merrier. Some of his companions even claimed that they could scarcely eat, he made them giggle so violently.

On the fourth night of Miss Kitty's absence, and at the fourth banquet, Mr. Mouse balanced a bit of cheese on the end of his nose, exclaiming at the same time, "What a pity it is that Miss Snooper isn't here! How I'd like to offer her this delicious tidbit!"

To his great surprise, none of his friends laughed.

"Look out, Moses!" Mrs. Mouse cried the next moment.

"Don't worry, my dear!" said he. "I shan't lose this nice piece of cheese. If I drop it I can find it again. But I'm not going to drop it. I've practiced this trick a good many times.... It's too bad Miss Snooper isn't here to see it."

Miss Kitty Cat Sees Moses Mouse Balance a Bit of Cheese on His Nose.

Still nobody even snickered -- though Moses himself would have had he not been afraid of joggling the cheese off the end of his nose. He thought the silence very strange. And removing his eyes from the cheese, which he had been watching closely (though it made him look cross-eyed), he took a quick glance about him. Everybody had vanished.

"Ha!" said Moses Mouse to himself. "They're playing a trick on me. They're hiding." And he promptly lost his temper. Much as he loved to cut capers and play tricks on others, Moses never liked to have any one get a laugh on him. And now he gave a sort of snort, because he was angry.

Thereupon the bit of cheese fell off Moses's nose and rolled behind him on the pantry floor. He turned to get it, only to find himself face to face with Miss Snooper herself; for Miss Kitty Cat was home again.

Before Moses Mouse could jump she clapped a paw down on him. And there he was -- a prisoner!

"Well, well!" cried Miss Kitty Cat. "Aren't you glad to see me? You were just wishing I was here."

Moses Mouse didn't act glad -- not the least bit! He struggled his hardest to get away. But Miss Kitty hadn't the slightest trouble holding him, with only one paw, too.

"Now that I'm here," she said to him, "don't you want to balance that scrap of cheese on your nose once more, and offer it to me?"

Since Miss Kitty caught him, Moses Mouse hadn't said anything that she could understand. He had made only a few squeaks of fright. Now, however, he managed to gasp, "Yes! Just let me go a moment! I can't pick up the cheese while you're crushing me against the pantry floor."



XXII

The Flour Barrel


MISS KITTY CAT took her paw off Moses Mouse, after giving him a sharp nip to warn him not to try to run away.

"Ouch!" Moses squeaked. And then, when he felt himself free, he picked up the hit of cheese that he had dropped upon the pantry floor. But he was shaking with fear.

He shook so hard that he couldn't balance the cheese on the end of his nose. It tumbled off at once and he turned quickly to get it. Miss Kitty Cat turned with him. And while she was turning, Moses Mouse turned back again and jumped behind a flour barrel.

She sprang after him. But the barrel stood so near the wall that there was only a small space behind it. It was wide enough for Moses Mouse to slip through; but it was entirely too narrow for Miss Kitty Cat. And Moses Mouse waited just beyond reach of her paw.

She ran around the barrel, only to find that Moses had crawled back through the opening and was watching her with his beady little eyes.

Miss Kitty Cat was almost frantic. She hurried around the barrel again, and saw that Moses Mouse had repeated his trick. He needed only to move the length of his tail, while she had to whisk all the way around the fat flour barrel.

"This will never do," Miss Kitty thought, as she peered through the crack at Moses Mouse, while she paused to get her breath. And as she stared at him, an idea popped into her head. It seemed such a good idea that Miss Kitty Cat decided to act upon it at once.

So she wheeled and started off again, as if to run around the barrel once more. But when she had whisked half way around it she turned and hurried back again.

She had expected to surprise Mr. Moses Mouse on the wrong side of the crack. And to her astonishment, he wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere in sight.

"Goodness me!" Miss Kitty Cat wailed. "There must have been something wrong with my idea."

There wasn't. It had merely happened that Moses Mouse had had an idea of his own.

"I don't want to stay dodging here the rest of the night," he had said to himself. "The next time Miss Snooper makes a trip around the barrel I'm going to run up the side of it and trust to luck."

That was exactly what he did. Once on top of the barrel, Moses Mouse leaped to a shelf. He crept along the shelf until he came to the pantry window. Now, Mrs. Green had left the window slightly open. And Moses Mouse darted out of doors and half jumped, half tumbled, to the ground. He knew how he could get to his nest quickly enough, through a certain chink in the cellar wall.

Miss Kitty Cat soon decided that she had lost Moses Mouse again.

"Dear me!" she sighed. "What wretched luck I'm having to-night! I declare, it's a sad home-coming for me."

Meanwhile Mr. Moses Mouse was having a most merry time. Mrs. Mouse made a great fuss over him. And that was exactly what he liked.



XXIII

A Secret


MISS KITTY CAT was behaving in the strangest manner. She came into the kitchen and hovered about the feet of Farmer Green's wife, mewing and looking up at Mrs. Green as if she had something special to tell her.

"What is it, Kitty?" Mrs. Green asked her. "Are you hungry?"

But Miss Kitty Cat soon showed that she wasn't hungry, for she wouldn't touch anything that Mrs. Green offered her.

"Well, you'll have to run away, anyhow," Mrs. Green told her. "I can't take a step with you right under my feet."

Though Miss Kitty Cat trotted towards the door, she soon made it plain that she didn't intend to leave the kitchen unless her mistress went with her. She came back and twitched Mrs. Green's apron gently with her claws. Then she ran to the doorway again and called to Mrs. Green.

It seemed to Miss Kitty Cat that she couldn't have said more clearly that she wanted to lead Mrs. Green somewhere. But still Mrs. Green didn't quite understand.

"Scat!" she cried, just a bit impatiently. "I've too much to do to be bothered this morning. I suppose you've caught a mouse and want to show it to me. You'll have to bring it here, for I haven't any time to waste to-day."

Miss Kitty Cat felt somewhat hurt. She went out and sat on the doorstep and looked in at Farmer Green's wife. Now and then she gave a plaintive mew. But Mrs. Green wouldn't pay any attention to her.

"Dear me!" said Miss Kitty. "Mrs. Green is busier than ever this morning."

Old dog Spot had been watching Miss Kitty's actions. And now, as she started towards the barn, he sidled up to her, wagging his tail to show her that he wanted to have a few friendly words with her.

"If Mrs. Green won't come with you, I'll be glad to," he offered. "Just lead the way and I'll follow."

"You?" Miss Kitty Cat exclaimed with scorn. "You needn't think I'd take you where I want Mrs. Green to come. You needn't think I'd show you what I want her to see."

"Ho!" cried old Spot. "I don't know how you're going to stop me from following you."

"I do," said Miss Kitty firmly. "If you try to tag along after me where I'm going I'll soon make you wish you had minded your own affairs."

There was a look in her eyes that old Spot did not like. It reminded him of the time when he cornered Miss Kitty in the barn, soon after she arrived at the farm. He remembered that his nose still bore the marks of her sharp claws.

"Well, well!" he said. "I was only joking. I'm too busy to bother with you, anyhow. I have a little matter to attend to in the pasture. There's a Woodchuck up there that's getting too bold."

Then he trotted off, trying to look as important as possible, so that no one would think he was afraid of Miss Kitty Cat.

"Good!" Miss Kitty cried, as she watched him while he started up the lane.

"I'm glad he's out of the way. It would be awkward if I had to fight him while I'm doing what I'm going to do."



XXIV

Five In A Basket


"WELL, if you're not bothering me again!" Farmer Green's wife exclaimed.

Miss Kitty Cat had come up behind her and brushed against her, asking at the same time with her most polite mew if Mrs. Green wouldn't please turn around.

Mrs. Green looked over her shoulder.

"I declare!" she cried. "So that's what you've been fussing about, is it?"

Miss Kitty Cat gently laid something on the floor at her mistress' feet. And she acted much pleased when Mrs. Green bent over and picked up a tiny, soft, pudgy -- kitten.

"What do you think of that?" Miss Kitty Cat asked Mrs. Green. At least, that was what Mrs. Green understood her to say.

Anyhow, Miss Kitty appeared delighted with what Mrs. Green told her. And feeling that her youngster was in safe hands, Miss Kitty Cat ran out of the kitchen and disappeared.

In a little while she returned, carrying another kitten in her mouth. Mrs. Green admired this one as much as the first. And again Miss Kitty vanished.

She returned with a third kitten; she returned with a fourth one.

"Well, well!" Farmer Green's wife said to her. "We have enough now -- don't you think so?"

Mrs. Green soon learned that Miss Kitty Cat was not quite of the same mind. She made one more trip across the yard to the barn. And at last, with an air of great pride she set down a fifth kitten upon the kitchen floor.

"That's all, Mrs. Green," Miss Kitty said. "They're so beautiful it's a shame there aren't twice as many."

But Mrs. Green was out in the woodshed and didn't hear her. She came in soon with a basket.

"This is what old Spot used to sleep in when he was a puppy," Mrs. Green told Miss Kitty Cat. "I suppose you're willing to use it for your family."

Miss Kitty made no objection when Mrs. Green carefully laid the five kittens side by side on an old shawl which she spread in the bottom of the basket. Then Mrs. Green picked up the precious burden and with Miss Kitty following closely, set it down in a corner of the woodshed.

"There!" said Mrs. Green. "Now they're snug and warm. And I'll set your milk right beside the basket, so you won't have to leave your family when you drink it."

Miss Kitty Cat Guards Her Kittens.

It was not long before old dog Spot poked his long nose though the woodshed doorway and spied Miss Kitty Cat close beside the basket, lapping her milk. He gave a short bark when he saw her. And to his astonishment both Miss Kitty Cat and Farmer Green's wife came running at him.

Mrs. Green had a broom in her hand and Miss Kitty Cat had her claws in her paws. They both ordered him to keep away from the woodshed. And Spot sneaked off to the barn and hid in the stall beside the old horse Ebenezer.

"What's troubling you?" Ebenezer inquired in his slow way.

"It's that ill-natured Miss Kitty Cat," Spot exclaimed. "She has a big family of kittens. And she's terribly touchy about anybody's coming near them. Although she's keeping them in my basket, she hasn't even invited me to have a look at them.... I only hope," he added, "they won't grow up to be like their mother."

Old Ebenezer looked down at him with mild surprise.

"What's the matter with Miss Kitty?" he asked.

"She can't take a joke," said Spot. "If you chase her, she always claws you if she can."

Now, that was one of the first things Miss Kitty taught her children. She claimed that claws were made to be used -- especially on old dog Spot.

But when a kitten tried its claws on one of its mates Miss Kitty always cuffed it smartly. She claimed, then, that claws were not made to be used -- especially on one's own family.

And in time the kittens learned their lessons perfectly.

<eob>

Time And The Gods

By

Lord Dunsany



Part I.


Time And The Gods


Once when the gods were young and only Their swarthy servant Time was without age, the gods lay sleeping by a broad river upon earth. There in a valley that from all the earth the gods had set apart for Their repose the gods dreamed marble dreams. And with domes and pinnacles the dreams arose and stood up proudly between the river and the sky, all shimmering white to the morning. In the city's midst the gleaming marble of a thousand steps climbed to the citadel where arose four pinnacles beckoning to heaven, and midmost between the pinnacles there stood the dome, vast, as the gods had dreamed it. All around, terrace by terrace, there went marble lawns well guarded by onyx lions and carved with effigies of all the gods striding amid the symbols of the worlds. With a sound like tinkling bells, far off in a land of shepherds hidden by some hill, the waters of many fountains turned again home. Then the gods awoke and there stood Sardathrion. Not to common men have the gods given to walk Sardathrion's streets, and not to common eyes to see her fountains. Only to those to whom in lonely passes in the night the gods have spoken, leaning through the stars, to those that have heard the voices of the gods above the morning or seen Their faces bending above the sea, only to those hath it been given to see Sardathrion, to stand where her pinnacles gathered together in the night fresh from the dreams of gods. For round the valley a great desert lies through which no common traveller may come, but those whom the gods have chosen feel suddenly a great longing at heart, and crossing the mountains that divide the desert from the world, set out across it driven by the gods, till hidden in the desert's midst they find the valley at last and look with eyes upon Sardathrion.

In the desert beyond the valley grow a myriad thorns, and all pointing towards Sardathrion. So may many that the gods have loved come to the marble city, but none can return, for other cities are no fitting home for men whose feet have touched Sardathrion's marble streets, where even the gods have not been ashamed to come in the guise of men with Their cloaks wrapped about their faces. Therefore no city shall ever hear the songs that are sung in the marble citadel by those in whose ears have rung the voices of the gods. No report shall ever come to other lands of the music of the fall of Sardathrion's fountains, when the waters which went heavenward return again into the lake where the gods cool Their brows sometimes in the guise of men. None may ever hear the speech of the poets of that city, to whom the gods have spoken.

It stands a city aloof. There hath been no rumour of it -- I alone have dreamed of it, and I may not be sure that my dreams are true.

*       *       *       *       *

Above the Twilight the gods were seated in the after years, ruling the worlds. No longer now They walked at evening in the Marble City hearing the fountains splash, or listening to the singing of the men they loved, because it was in the after years and the work of the gods was to be done.

But often as they rested a moment from doing the work of the gods, from hearing the prayers of men or sending here the Pestilence or there Mercy, They would speak awhile with one another of the olden years saying, "Rememberest thou not Sardathrion?" and another would answer "Ah! Sardathrion, and all Sardathrion's mist-draped marble lawns whereon we walk not now."

Then the gods turned to do the work of the gods, answering the prayers of men or smiting them, and ever They sent Their swarthy servant Time to heal or overwhelm. And Time went forth into the worlds to obey the commands of the gods, yet he cast furtive glances at his masters, and the gods distrusted Time because he had known the worlds or ever the gods became.

One day when furtive Time had gone into the worlds to nimbly smite some city whereof the gods were weary, the gods above the twilight speaking to one another said:

"Surely we are the lords of Time and gods of the worlds besides. See how our city Sardathrion lifts over other cities. Others arise and perish but Sardathrion standeth yet, the first and the last of cities. Rivers are lost in the sea and streams forsake the hills, but ever Sardathrion's fountains arise in our dream city. As was Sardathrion when the gods were young, so are her streets to-day as a sign that we are the gods."

Suddenly the swart figure of Time stood up before the gods, with both hands dripping with blood and a red sword dangling idly from his fingers, and said:

"Sardathrion is gone! I have overthrown it!"

And the gods said:

"Sardathrion? Sardathrion, the marble city? Thou, thou hast overthrown it? Thou, the slave of the gods?"

And the oldest of the gods said:

"Sardathrion, Sardathrion, and is Sardathrion gone?"

And furtively Time looked him in the face and edged towards him fingering with his dripping fingers the hilt of his nimble sword.

Then the gods feared with a new fear that he that had overthrown Their city would one day slay the gods. And a new cry went wailing through the Twilight, the lament of the gods for Their dream city, crying:

"Tears may not bring again Sardathrion.

"But this the gods may do who have seen, and seen with unrelenting eyes, the sorrows of ten thousand worlds -- thy gods may weep for thee.

"Tears may not bring again Sardathrion.

"Believe it not, Sardathrion, that ever thy gods sent this doom to thee; he that hath overthrown thee shall overthrow thy gods.

"How oft when Night came suddenly on Morning playing in the fields of Twilight did we watch thy pinnacles emerging from the darkness, Sardathrion, Sardathrion, dream city of the gods, and thine onyx lions looming limb by limb from the dusk.

"How often have we sent our child the Dawn to play with thy fountain tops; how often hath Evening, loveliest of our goddesses, strayed long upon thy balconies.

"Let one fragment of thy marbles stand up above the dust for thine old gods to caress, as a man when all else is lost treasures one lock of the hair of his beloved.

"Sardathrion, the gods must kiss once more the place where thy streets were once.

"There were wonderful marbles in thy streets, Sardathrion."

"Sardathrion, Sardathrion, the gods weep for thee."


The Coming Of The Sea


Once there was no sea, and the gods went walking over the green plains of earth.

Upon an evening of the forgotten years the gods were seated on the hills, and all the little rivers of the world lay coiled at Their feet asleep, when Slid, the new god, striding through the stars, came suddenly upon earth lying in a corner of space. And behind Slid there marched a million waves, all following Slid and tramping up the twilight; and Slid touched Earth in one of her great green valleys that divide the south, and here he encamped for the night with all his waves about him. But to the gods as They sat upon Their hilltops a new cry came crying over the green spaces that lay below the hills, and the gods said:

"This is neither the cry of life nor yet the whisper of death. What is this new cry that the gods have never commanded, yet which comes to the ears of the gods?"

And the gods together shouting made the cry of the south, calling the south wind to them. And again the gods shouted all together making the cry of the north, calling the north wind to Them; and thus They gathered to Them all Their winds and sent these four down into the low plains to find what thing it was that called with the new cry, and to drive it away from the gods.

Then all the winds harnessed up their clouds and drave forth till they came to the great green valley that divides the south in twain, and there found Slid with all his waves about him. Then for a space Slid and the four winds struggled with one another till the strength of the winds was gone, and they limped back to the gods, their masters, and said:

"We have met this new thing that has come upon the earth and have striven against its armies, but could not drive them forth; and the new thing is beautiful but very angry, and is creeping towards the gods."

But Slid advanced and led his armies up the valley, and inch by inch and mile by mile he conquered the lands of the gods. Then from Their hills the gods sent down a great array of cliffs against hard, red rocks, and bade them march against Slid. And the cliffs marched down till they came and stood before Slid and leaned their heads forward and frowned and stood staunch to guard the lands of the gods against the might of the sea, shutting Slid off from the world. Then Slid sent some of his smaller waves to search out what stood against him, and the cliffs shattered them. But Slid went back and gathered together a hoard of his greatest waves and hurled them against the cliffs, and the cliffs shattered them. And again Slid called up out of his deep a mighty array of waves and sent them roaring against the guardians of the gods, and the red rocks frowned and smote them. And once again Slid gathered his greater waves and hurled them against the cliffs; and when the waves were scattered like those before them the feet of the cliffs were no longer standing firm, and their faces were scarred and battered. Then into every cleft that stood in the rocks Slid sent his hugest wave and others followed behind it, and Slid himself seized hold of huge rocks with his claws and tore them down and stamped them under his feet. And when the tumult was over the sea had won, and over the broken remnants of those red cliffs the armies of Slid marched on and up the long green valley.

Then the gods heard Slid exulting far away and singing songs of triumph over Their battered cliffs, and ever the tramp of his armies sounded nearer and nearer in the listening ears of the gods.

Then the gods called to Their downlands to save Their world from Slid, and the downlands gathered themselves and marched away, a great white line of gleaming cliffs, and halted before Slid. Then Slid advanced no more and lulled his legions, and while his waves were low he softly crooned a song such as once long ago had troubled the stars and brought down tears out of the twilight.

Sternly the white cliffs stood on guard to save the world of the gods, but the song that once had troubled the stars went moaning on awaking pent desires, till full at the feet of the gods the melody fell. Then the blue rivers that lay curled asleep opened their gleaming eyes, uncurled themselves and shook their rushes, and, making a stir among the hills, crept down to find the sea. And passing across the world they came at last to where the white cliffs stood, and, coming behind them, split them here and there and went through their broken ranks to Slid at last. And the gods were angry with Their traitorous streams.

Then Slid ceased from singing the song that lures the world, and gathered up his legions, and the rivers lifted up their heads with the waves, and all went marching on to assail the cliffs of the gods. And wherever the rivers had broken the ranks of the cliffs, Slid's armies went surging in and broke them up into islands and shattered the islands away. And the gods on Their hill-tops heard once more the voice of Slid exulting over Their cliffs.

Already more than half the world lay subject to Slid, and still his armies advanced; and the people of Slid, the fishes and the long eels, went in and out of arbours that once were dear to the gods. Then the gods feared for Their dominion, and to the innermost sacred recesses of the mountains, to the very heart of the hills, the gods trooped off together and there found Tintaggon, a mountain of black marble, staring far over the earth, and spake thus to him with the voices of the gods:

"O eldest born of our mountains, when first we devised the earth we made thee, and thereafter fashioned fields and hollows, valleys and other hills, to lie about thy feet. And now, Tintaggon, thine ancient lords, the gods, are facing a new thing which overthrows the old. Go therefore, thou, Tintaggon, and stand up against Slid, that the gods be still the gods and the earth still green."

And hearing the voices of his sires, the elder gods, Tintaggon strode down through the evening, leaving a wake of twilight broad behind him as he strode: and going across the green earth came down to Ambrady at the valley's edge, and there met the foremost of Slid's fierce armies conquering the world.

And against him Slid hurled the force of a whole bay, which lashed itself high over Tintaggon's knees and streamed around his flanks and then fell and was lost. Tintaggon still stood firm for the honour and dominion of his lords, the elder gods. Then Slid went to Tintaggon and said: "Let us now make a truce. Stand thou back from Ambrady and let me pass through thy ranks that mine armies may now pass up the valley which opens on the world, that the green earth that dreams around the feet of older gods shall know the new god Slid. Then shall mine armies strive with thee no more, and thou and I shall be the equal lords of the whole earth when all the world is singing the chaunt of Slid, and thy head alone shall be lifted above mine armies when rival hills are dead. And I will deck thee with all the robes of the sea, and all the plunder that I have taken in rare cities shall be piled before thy feet. Tintaggon, I have conquered all the stars, my song swells through all the space besides, I come victorious from Mahn and Khanagat on the furthest edge of the worlds, and thou and I are to be equal lords when the old gods are gone and the green earth knoweth Slid. Behold me gleaming azure and fair with a thousand smiles, and swayed by a thousand moods." And Tintaggon answered: "I am staunch and black and have one mood, and this -- to defend my masters and their green earth."

Then Slid went backward growling and summoned together the waves of a whole sea and sent them singing full in Tintaggon's face. Then from Tintaggon's marble front the sea fell backwards crying on to a broken shore, and ripple by ripple straggled back to Slid saying: "Tintaggon stands."

Far out beyond the battered shore that lay at Tintaggon's feet Slid rested long and sent the nautilus to drift up and down before Tintaggon's eyes, and he and his armies sat singing idle songs of dreamy islands far away to the south, and of the still stars whence they had stolen forth, of twilight evenings and of long ago. Still Tintaggon stood with his feet planted fair upon the valley's edge defending the gods and Their green earth against the sea.

And all the while that Slid sang his songs and played with the nautilus that sailed up and down he gathered his oceans together. One morning as Slid sang of old outrageous wars and of most enchanting peace and of dreamy islands and the south wind and the sun, he suddenly launched five oceans out of the deep all to attack Tintaggon. And the five oceans sprang upon Tintaggon and passed above his head. One by one the grip of the oceans loosened, one by one they fell back into the deep and still Tintaggon stood, and on that morning the might of all five oceans lay dead at Tintaggon's feet. That which Slid had conquered he still held, and there is now no longer a great green valley in the south, but all that Tintaggon had guarded against Slid he gave back to the gods. Very calm the sea lies now about Tintaggon's feet, where he stands all black amid crumbled cliffs of white, with red rocks piled about his feet. And often the sea retreats far out along the shore, and often wave by wave comes marching in with the sound of the tramping of armies, that all may still remember the great fight that surged about Tintaggon once, when he guarded the gods and the green earth against Slid.

Sometimes in their dreams the war-scarred warriors of Slid still lift their heads and cry their battle cry; then do dark clouds gather about Tintaggon's swarthy brow and he stands out menacing, seen afar by ships, where once he conquered Slid. And the gods know well that while Tintaggon stands They and Their world are safe; and whether Slid shall one day smite Tintaggon is hidden among the secrets of the sea.


A Legend Of The Dawn


When the worlds and All began the gods were stern and old and They saw the Beginning from under eyebrows hoar with years, all but Inzana, Their child, who played with the golden ball. Inzana was the child of all the gods. And the law before the Beginning and thereafter was that all should obey the gods, yet hither and thither went all Pegana's gods to obey the Dawnchild because she loved to be obeyed.

It was dark all over the world and even in Pegana, where dwell the gods, it was dark when the child Inzana, the Dawn, first found her golden ball. Then running down the stairway of the gods with tripping feet, chalcedony, onyx, chalcedony, onyx, step by step, she cast her golden ball across the sky. The golden ball went bounding up the sky, and the Dawnchild with her flaring hair stood laughing upon the stairway of the gods, and it was day. So gleaming fields below saw the first of all the days that the gods have destined. But towards evening certain mountains, afar and aloof, conspired together to stand between the world and the golden ball and to wrap their crags about it and to shut it from the world, and all the world was darkened with their plot. And the Dawnchild up in Pegana cried for her golden ball. Then all the gods came down the stairway right to Pegana's gate to see what ailed the Dawnchild and to ask her why she cried. Then Inzana said that her golden ball had been taken away and hidden by mountains black and ugly, far away from Pegana, all in a world of rocks under the rim of the sky, and she wanted her golden ball and could not love the dark.

Thereat Umborodom, whose hound was the thunder, took his hound in leash, and strode away across the sky after the golden ball until he came to the mountains afar and aloof. There did the thunder put his nose to the rocks and bay along the valleys, and fast at his heels followed Umborodom. And the nearer the hound, the thunder, came to the golden ball the louder did he bay, but haughty and silent stood the mountains whose plot had darkened the world. All in the dark among the crags in a mighty cavern, guarded by two twin peaks, at last they found the golden ball for which the Dawnchild wept. Then under the world went Umborodom with his thunder panting behind him, and came in the dark before the morning from underneath the world and gave the Dawnchild back her golden ball. And Inzana laughed and took it in her hands, and Umborodom went back into Pegana, and at its threshold the thunder went to sleep.

Again the Dawnchild tossed the golden ball far up into the blue across the sky, and the second morning shone upon the world, on lakes and oceans, and on drops of dew. But as the ball went bounding on its way, the prowling mists and the rain conspired together and took it and wrapped it in their tattered cloaks and carried it away. And through the rents in their garments gleamed the golden ball, but they held it fast and carried it right away and underneath the world. Then on an onyx step Inzana sat down and wept, who could no more be happy without her golden ball. And again the gods were sorry, and the South Wind came to tell her tales of most enchanted islands, to whom she listened not, nor yet to the tales of temples in lone lands that the East Wind told her, who had stood beside her when she flung her golden ball. But from far away the West Wind came with news of three grey travellers wrapt round with battered cloaks that carried away between them a golden ball.

Then up leapt the North Wind, he who guards the pole, and drew his sword of ice out of his scabbard of snow and sped away along the road that leads across the blue. And in the darkness underneath the world he met the three grey travellers and rushed upon them and drove them far before him, smiting them with his sword till their grey cloaks streamed with blood. And out of the midst of them, as they fled with flapping cloaks all red and grey and tattered, he leapt up with the golden ball and gave it to the Dawnchild.

Again Inzana tossed the ball into the sky, making the third day, and up and up it went and fell towards the fields, and as Inzana stooped to pick it up she suddenly heard the singing of all the birds that were. All the birds in the world were singing all together and also all the streams, and Inzana sat and listened and thought of no golden ball, nor ever of chalcedony and onyx, nor of all her fathers the gods, but only of all the birds. Then in the woods and meadows where they had all suddenly sung, they suddenly ceased. And Inzana, looking up, found that her ball was lost, and all alone in the stillness one owl laughed. When the gods heard Inzana crying for her ball They clustered together on the threshold and peered into the dark, but saw no golden ball. And leaning forward They cried out to the bat as he passed up and down: "Bat that seest all things, where is the golden ball?"

And though the bat answered none heard. And none of the winds had seen it nor any of the birds, and there were only the eyes of the gods in the darkness peering for the golden ball. Then said the gods: "Thou hast lost thy golden ball," and They made her a moon of silver to roll about the sky. And the child cried and threw it upon the stairway and chipped and broke its edges and asked for the golden ball. And Limpang Tung, the Lord of Music, who was least of all the gods, because the child cried still for her golden ball, stole out of Pegana and crept across the sky, and found the birds of all the world sitting in trees and ivy, and whispering in the dark. He asked them one by one for news of the golden ball. Some had last seen it on a neighbouring hill and others in trees, though none knew where it was. A heron had seen it lying in a pond, but a wild duck in some reeds had seen it last as she came home across the hills, and then it was rolling very far away.

At last the cock cried out that he had seen it lying beneath the world. There Limpang Tung sought it and the cock called to him through the darkness as he went, until at last he found the golden ball. Then Limpang Tung went up into Pegana and gave it to the Dawnchild, who played with the moon no more. And the cock and all his tribe cried out: "We found it. We found the golden ball."

Again Inzana tossed the ball afar, laughing with joy to see it, her hands stretched upwards, her golden hair afloat, and carefully she watched it as it fell. But alas! it fell with a splash into the great sea and gleamed and shimmered as it fell till the waters became dark above it and could be seen no more. And men on the world said: "How the dew has fallen, and how the mists set in with breezes from the streams."

But the dew was the tears of the Dawnchild, and the mists were her sighs when she said: "There will no more come a time when I play with my ball again, for now it is lost for ever."

And the gods tried to comfort Inzana as she played with her silver moon, but she would not hear Them, and went in tears to Slid, where he played with gleaming sails, and in his mighty treasury turned over gems and pearls and lorded it over the sea. And she said: "O Slid, whose soul is in the sea, bring back my golden ball."

And Slid stood up, swarthy, and clad in seaweed, and mightily dived from the last chalcedony step out of Pegana's threshold straight into ocean. There on the sand, among the battered navies of the nautilus and broken weapons of the swordfish, hidden by dark water, he found the golden ball. And coming up in the night, all green and dripping, he carried it gleaming to the stairway of the gods and brought it back to Inzana from the sea; and out of the hands of Slid she took it and tossed it far and wide over his sails and sea, and far away it shone on lands that knew not Slid, till it came to its zenith and dropped towards the world.

But ere it fell the Eclipse dashed out from his hiding, and rushed at the golden ball and seized it in his jaws. When Inzana saw the Eclipse bearing her plaything away she cried aloud to the thunder, who burst from Pegana and fell howling upon the throat of the Eclipse, who dropped the golden ball and let it fall towards earth. But the black mountains disguised themselves with snow, and as the golden ball fell down towards them they turned their peaks to ruby crimson and their lakes to sapphires gleaming amongst silver, and Inzana saw a jewelled casket into which her plaything fell. But when she stooped to pick it up again she found no jewelled casket with rubies, silver or sapphires, but only wicked mountains disguised in snow that had trapped her golden ball. And then she cried because there was none to find it, for the thunder was far away chasing the Eclipse, and all the gods lamented when They saw her sorrow. And Limpang Tung, who was least of all the gods, was yet the saddest at the Dawnchild's grief, and when the gods said: "Play with your silver moon," he stepped lightly from the rest, and coming down the stairway of the gods, playing an instrument of music, went out towards the world to find the golden ball because Inzana wept.

And into the world he went till he came to the nether cliffs that stand by the inner mountains in the soul and heart of the earth where the Earthquake dwelleth alone, asleep but astir as he sleeps, breathing and moving his legs, and grunting aloud in the dark. Then in the ear of the Earthquake Limpang Tung said a word that only the gods may say, and the Earthquake started to his feet and flung the cave away, the cave wherein he slept between the cliffs, and shook himself and went galloping abroad and overturned the mountains that hid the golden ball, and bit the earth beneath them and hurled their crags about and covered himself with rocks and fallen hills, and went back ravening and growling into the soul of the earth, and there lay down and slept again for a hundred years. And the golden ball rolled free, passing under the shattered earth, and so rolled back to Pegana; and Limpang Tung came home to the onyx step and took the Dawnchild by the hand and told not what he had done but said it was the Earthquake, and went away to sit at the feet of the gods. But Inzana went and patted the Earthquake on the head, for she said it was dark and lonely in the soul of the earth. Thereafter, returning step by step, chalcedony, onyx, chalcedony, onyx, up the stairway of the gods, she cast again her golden ball from the Threshold afar into the blue to gladden the world and the sky, and laughed to see it go.

And far away Trogool upon the utter Rim turned a page that was numbered six in a cipher that none might read. And as the golden ball went through the sky to gleam on lands and cities, there came the Fog towards it, stooping as he walked with his dark brown cloak about him, and behind him slunk the Night. And as the golden ball rolled past the Fog suddenly Night snarled and sprang upon it and carried it away. Hastily Inzana gathered the gods and said: "The Night hath seized my golden ball and no god alone can find it now, for none can say how far the Night may roam, who prowls all round us and out beyond the worlds."

At the entreaty of Their Dawnchild all the gods made Themselves stars for torches, and far away through all the sky followed the tracks of Night as far as he prowled abroad. And at one time Slid, with the Pleiades in his hand, came nigh to the golden ball, and at another Yoharneth-Lahai, holding Orion for a torch, but lastly Limpang Tung, bearing the morning star, found the golden ball far away under the world near to the lair of Night.

And all the gods together seized the ball, and Night turning smote out the torches of the gods and thereafter slunk away; and all the gods in triumph marched up the gleaming stairway of the gods, all praising little Limpang Tung, who through the chase had followed Night so close in search of the golden ball. Then far below on the world a human child cried out to the Dawnchild for the golden ball, and Inzana ceased from her play that illumined world and sky, and cast the ball from the Threshold of the gods to the little human child that played in the fields below, and would one day die. And the child played all day long with the golden ball down in the little fields where the humans lived, and went to bed at evening and put it beneath his pillow, and went to sleep, and no one worked in all the world because the child was playing. And the light of the golden ball streamed up from under the pillow and out through the half shut door and shone in the western sky, and Yoharneth-Lahai in the night time tip-toed into the room, and took the ball gently (for he was a god) away from under the pillow and brought it back to the Dawnchild to gleam on an onyx step.

But some day Night shall seize the golden ball and carry it right away and drag it down to his lair, and Slid shall dive from the Threshold into the sea to see if it be there, and coming up when the fishermen draw their nets shall find it not, nor yet discover it among the sails. Limpang Tung shall seek among the birds and shall not find it when the cock is mute, and up the valleys shall go Umborodom to seek among the crags. And the hound, the thunder, shall chase the Eclipse and all the gods go seeking with Their stars, but never find the ball. And men, no longer having light of the golden ball, shall pray to the gods no more, who, having no worship, shall be no more the gods.

These things be hidden even from the gods.


The Vengeance Of Men


Ere the Beginning the gods divided earth into waste and pasture. Pleasant pastures They made to be green over the face of earth, orchards They made in valleys and heather upon hills, but Harza They doomed, predestined and foreordained to be a waste for ever.

When the world prayed at evening to the gods and the gods answered prayers They forgot the prayers of all the Tribes of Arim. Therefore the men of Arim were assailed with wars and driven from land to land and yet would not be crushed. And the men of Arim made them gods for themselves, appointing men as gods until the gods of Pegana should remember them again. And their leaders, Yoth and Haneth, played the part of gods and led their people on though every tribe assailed them. At last they came to Harza, where no tribes were, and at last had rest from war, and Yoth and Haneth said: "The work is done, and surely now Pegana's gods will remember." And they built a city in Harza and tilled the soil, and the green came over the waste as the wind comes over the sea, and there were fruit and cattle in Harza and the sounds of a million sheep. There they rested from their flight from all the tribes, and builded fables out of all their sorrows till all men smiled in Harza and children laughed.

Then said the gods, "Earth is no place for laughter." Thereat They strode to Pegana's outer gate, to where the Pestilence lay curled asleep, and waking him up They pointed toward Harza, and the Pestilence leapt forward howling across the sky.

That night he came to the fields near Harza, and stalking through the grass sat down and glared at the lights, and licked his paws and glared at the lights again.

But the next night, unseen, through laughing crowds, the Pestilence crept into the city, and stealing into the houses one by one, peered into the people's eyes, looking even through their eyelids, so that when morning came men stared before them crying out that they saw the Pestilence whom others saw not, and thereafter died, because the green eyes of the Pestilence had looked into their souls. Chill and damp was he, yet there came heat from his eyes that parched the souls of men. Then came the physicians and the men learned in magic, and made the sign of the physicians and the sign of the men of magic and cast blue water upon herbs and chanted spells; but still the Pestilence crept from house to house and still he looked into the souls of men. And the lives of the people streamed away from Harza, and whither they went is set in many books. But the Pestilence fed on the light that shines in the eyes of men, which never appeased his hunger; chiller and damper he grew, and the heat from his eyes increased when night by night he galloped through the city, going by stealth no more.

Then did men pray in Harza to the gods, saying:

"High gods! Show clemency to Harza."

And the gods listened to their prayers, but as They listened They pointed with their fingers and cheered the Pestilence on. And the Pestilence grew bolder at his masters' voices and thrust his face close up before the eyes of men.

He could be seen by none saving those he smote. At first he slept by day, lying in misty hollows, but as his hunger increased he sprang up even in sunlight and clung to the chests of men and looked down through their eyes into their souls that shrivelled, until almost he could be dimly seen even by those he smote not.

Adro, the physician, sat in his chamber with one light burning, making a mixing in a bowl that should drive the Pestilence away, when through his door there blew a draught that set the light a-flickering.

Then because the draught was cold the physician shivered and went and closed the door, but as he turned again he saw the Pestilence lapping at his mixing, who sprang and set one paw upon Adro's shoulder and another upon his cloak, while with two he clung to his waist, and looked him in the eyes.

Two men were walking in the street; one said to the other: "Upon the morrow I will sup with thee."

And the Pestilence grinned a grin that none beheld, baring his dripping teeth, and crept away to see whether upon the morrow those men should sup together.

A traveller coming in said: "This is Harza. Here will I rest."

But his life went further than Harza upon that day's journey.

All feared the Pestilence, and those that he smote beheld him, but none saw the great shapes of the gods by starlight as They urged Their Pestilence on.

Then all men fled from Harza, and the Pestilence chased dogs and rats and sprang upward at the bats as they sailed above him, who died and lay in the streets. But soon he returned and pursued the men of Harza where they fled, and sat by rivers where they came to drink, away below the city. Then back to Harza went the people of Harza pursued by the Pestilence still, and gathered in the Temple of All the gods save One, and said to the High Prophet: "What may now be done?" who answered:

"All the gods have mocked at prayer. This sin must now be punished by the vengeance of men."

And the people stood in awe.

The High Prophet went up to the Tower beneath the sky whereupon beat the eyes of all the gods by starlight. There in the sight of the gods he spake in the ear of the gods, saying: "High gods! Ye have made mock of men. Know therefore that it is writ in ancient lore and found by prophecy that there is an End that waiteth for the gods, who shall go down from Pegana in galleons of gold all down the Silent River and into the Silent Sea, and there Their galleons shall go up in mist and They shall be gods no more. And men shall gain harbour from the mocking of the gods at last in the warm moist earth, but to the gods shall no ceasing ever come from being the Things that were the gods. When Time and worlds and death are gone away nought shall then remain but worn regrets and Things that were once gods.

"In the sight of the gods.

"In the ear of the gods."

Then the gods shouted all together and pointed with Their hands at the High Prophet's throat, and the Pestilence sprang.

Long since the High Prophet is dead and his words are forgotten by men, but the gods know not yet whether it be true that The End is waiting for the gods, and him who might have told Them They have slain. And the gods of Pegana are fearing the fear that hath fallen upon the gods because of the vengeance of men, for They know not when The End shall be, or whether it shall come.


When The Gods Slept


All the gods were sitting in Pegana, and Their slave, Time, lay idle at Pegana's gate with nothing to destroy, when They thought of worlds, worlds large and round and gleaming, and little silver moons. Then (who knoweth when?), as the gods raised Their hands making the sign of the gods, the thoughts of the gods became worlds and silver moons. And the worlds swam by Pegana's gate to take their places in the sky, to ride at anchor for ever, each where the gods had bidden. And because they were round and big and gleamed all over the sky, the gods laughed and shouted and all clapped Their hands. Then upon earth the gods played out the game of the gods, the game of life and death, and on the other worlds They did a secret thing, playing a game that is hidden.

At last They mocked no more at life and laughed at death no more, and cried aloud in Pegana: "Will no new thing be? Must those four march for ever round the world till our eyes are wearied with the treading of the feet of the Seasons that will not cease, while Night and Day and Life and Death drearily rise and fall?"

And as a child stares at the bare walls of a narrow hut, so the gods looked all listlessly upon the worlds, saying:

"Will no new thing be?"

And in Their weariness the gods said: "Ah! to be young again. Ah! to be fresh once more from the brain of Mana-Yood-Sushai."

And They turned away Their eyes in weariness from all the gleaming worlds and laid Them down upon Pegana's floor, for They said:

"It may be that the worlds shall pass and we would fain forget them."

Then the gods slept. Then did the comet break loose from his moorings and the eclipse roamed about the sky, and down on the earth did Death's three children -- Famine, Pestilence, and Drought -- come out to feed. The eyes of the Famine were green, and the eyes of the Drought were red, but the Pestilence was blind and smote about all round him with his claws among the cities.

But as the gods slept, there came from beyond the Rim, out of the dark and unknown, three Yozis, spirits of ill, that sailed up the river of Silence in galleons with silver sails. Far away they had seen Yum and Gothum, the stars that stand sentinel over Pegana's gate, blinking and falling asleep, and as they neared Pegana they found a hush wherein the gods slept heavily. Ya, Ha, and Snyrg were these three Yozis, the lords of evil, madness, and of spite. When they crept from their galleons and stole over Pegana's silent threshold it boded ill for the gods. There in Pegana lay the gods asleep, and in a corner lay the Power of the gods alone upon the floor, a thing wrought of black rock and four words graven upon it, whereof I might not give thee any clue, if even I should find it -- four words of which none knoweth. Some say they tell of the opening of a flower towards dawn, and others say they concern earthquakes among hills, and others that they tell of the death of fishes, and others that the words be these: Power, Knowledge, Forgetting, and another word that not the gods themselves may ever guess. These words the Yozis read, and sped away in dread lest the gods should wake, and going aboard their galleons, bade the rowers haste. Thus the Yozis became gods, having the power of gods, and they sailed away to the earth, and came to a mountainous island in the sea. There they sat upon the rocks, sitting as the gods sit, with their right hands uplifted, and having the power of gods, only none came to worship. Thither came no ships nigh them, nor ever at evening came the prayers of men, nor smell of incense, nor screams from the sacrifice. Then said the Yozis:

"Of what avails it that we be gods if no one worship us nor give us sacrifice?"

And Ya, Ha, and Snyrg set sail in their silver galleons, and went looming down the sea to come to the shores of men. And first they came to an island where were fisher folk; and the folk of the island, running down to the shore cried out to them:

"Who be ye?"

And the Yozis answered:

"We be three gods, and we would have your worship."

But the fisher folk answered:

"Here we worship Rahm, the Thunder, and have no worship nor sacrifice for other gods."

Then the Yozis snarled with anger and sailed away, and sailed till they came to another shore, sandy and low and forsaken. And at last they found an old man upon the shore, and they cried out to him:

"Old man upon the shore! We be three gods that it were well to worship, gods of great power and apt in the granting of prayer."

The old man answered:

"We worship Pegana's gods, who have a fondness for our incense and the sound of our sacrifice when it squeals upon the altar."

Then answered Snyrg:

"Asleep are Pegana's gods, nor will They wake for the humming of thy prayers which lie in the dust upon Pegana's floor, and over Them Sniracte, the spider of the worlds, hath woven a web of mist. And the squealing of the sacrifice maketh no music in ears that are closed in sleep."

The old man answered, standing upon the shore:

"Though all the gods of old shall answer our prayers no longer, yet still to the gods of old shall all men pray here in Syrinais."

But the Yozis turned their ships about and angrily sailed away, all cursing Syrinais and Syrinais's gods, but most especially the old man that stood upon the shore.

Still the three Yozis lusted for the worship of men, and came, on the third night of their sailing, to a city's lights; and nearing the shore they found it a city of song wherein all folks rejoiced. Then sat each Yozi on his galleon's prow, and leered with his eyes upon the city, so that the music stopped and the dancing ceased, and all looked out to sea at the strange shapes of the Yozis beneath their silver sails. Then Snyrg demanded their worship, promising increase of joys, and swearing by the light of his eyes that he would send little flames to leap over the grass, to pursue the enemies of that city and to chase them about the world.

But the people answered that in that city men worshipped Agrodaun, the mountain standing alone, and might not worship other gods even though they came in galleons with silver sails, sailing from over the sea. But Snyrg answered:

"Certainly Agrodaun is only a mountain, and in no manner a god."

But the priests of Agrodaun sang answer from the shore:

"If the sacrifice of men make not Agrodaun a god, nor blood still young on his rocks, nor the little fluttering prayers of ten thousand hearts, nor two thousands years of worship and all the hopes of the people and the whole strength of our race, then are there no gods and ye be common sailors, sailing from over the sea."

Then said the Yozis:

"Hath Agrodaun answered prayer?" And the people heard the words that the Yozis said.

Then went the priests of Agrodaun away from the shore and up the steep streets of the city, the people following, and over the moor beyond it to the foot of Agrodaun, and then said:

"Agrodaun, if thou art not our god, go back and herd with yonder common hills, and put a cap of snow upon thy head and crouch far off as they do beneath the sky; but if we have given thee divinity in two thousand years, if our hopes are all about thee like a cloak, then stand and look upon thy worshippers from over our city for ever." And the smoke that ascended from his feet stood still and there fell a hush over great Agrodaun; and the priests went back to the sea and said to the three Yozis:

"New gods shall have our worship when Agrodaun grows weary of being our god, or when in some night-time he shall stride away, leaving us nought to gaze at that is higher than our city."

And the Yozis sailed away and cursed towards Agrodaun, but could not hurt him, for he was but a mountain.

And the Yozis sailed along the coast till they came to a river running to the sea, and they sailed up the river till they came to a people at work, who furrowed the soil and sowed, and strove against the forest. Then the Yozis called to the people as they worked in the fields:

"Give us your worship and ye shall have many joys."

But the people answered:

"We may not worship you."

Then answered Snyrg:

"Ye also, have ye a god?"

And the people answered:

"We worship the years to come, and we set the world in order for their coming, as one layeth raiment on the road before the advent of a King. And when those years shall come, they shall accept the worship of a race they knew not, and their people shall make their sacrifice to the years that follow them, who, in their turn, shall minister to the End."

Then answered Snyrg:

"Gods that shall recompense you not. Rather give us your prayers and have our pleasures, the pleasures that we shall give you, and when your gods shall come, let them be wroth -- they cannot punish you."

But the people continued to sacrifice their labour to their gods, the years to come, making the world a place for gods to dwell in, and the Yozis cursed those gods and sailed away. And Ya, the Lord of malice, swore that when those years should come, they should see whether it were well for them to have snatched away the worship from three Yozis.

And still the Yozis sailed, for they said:

"It were better to be birds and have no air to fly in, than to be gods having neither prayers nor worship."

But where sky met with ocean, the Yozis saw land again, and thither sailed; and there the Yozis saw men in strange old garments performing ancient rites in a land of many temples. And the Yozis called to the men as they performed their ancient rites and said:

"We be three gods well versed in the needs of men, to worship whom were to obtain instant joy."

But the men said:

"We have already gods."

And Snyrg replied:

"Ye, too?"

The men answered:

"For we worship the things that have been and all the years that were. Divinely have they helped us, therefore we give them worship that is their due."

And the Yozis answered the people:

"We be gods of the present and return good things for worship."

But the people answered, saying from the shore:

"Our gods have given us already the good things, and we return Them the worship that is Their due."

And the Yozis set their faces to landward, and cursed all things that had been and all the years that were, and sailed in their galleons away.

A rocky shore in an inhuman land stood up against the sea. Thither the Yozis came and found no man, but out of the dark from inland towards evening came a herd of great baboons and chattered greatly when they saw the ships.

Then spake Snyrg to them:

"Have ye, too, a god?"

And the baboons spat.

Then said the Yozis:

"We be seductive gods, having a particular remembrance for little prayers."

But the baboons leered fiercely at the Yozis and would have none of them for gods.

One said that prayers hindered the eating of nuts. But Snyrg leaned forward and whispered, and the baboons went down upon their knees and clasped their hands as men clasp, and chattered prayer and said to one another that these were the gods of old, and gave the Yozis their worship -- for Snyrg had whispered in their ears that, if they would worship the Yozis, he would make them men. And the baboons arose from worshipping, smoother about the face and a little shorter in the arms, and went away and hid their bodies in clothing, and afterwards galloped away from the rocky shore and went and herded with men. And men could not discern what they were, for their bodies were bodies of men, though their souls were still the souls of beasts and their worship went to the Yozis, spirits of ill.

And the lords of malice, hatred and madness sailed back to their island in the sea and sat upon the shore as gods sit, with right hand uplifted; and at evening foul prayers from the baboons gathered about them and infested the rocks.

But in Pegana the gods awoke with a start.


The King That Was Not


The land of Runazar hath no King nor ever had one; and this is the law of the land of Runazar that, seeing that it hath never had a King, it shall not have one for ever. Therefore in Runazar the priests hold sway, who tell people that never in Runazar hath there been a King.

Althazar, King of Runazar, and lord of all lands near by, commanded for the closer knowledge of the gods that Their images should be carven in Runazar, and in all lands near by. And when Althazar's command, wafted abroad by trumpets, came tinkling in the ear of all the gods, right glad were They at the sound of it. Therefore men quarried marble from the earth, and sculptors busied themselves in Runazar to obey the edict of the King. But the gods stood by starlight on the hills where the sculptors might see Them, and draped the clouds about Them, and put upon Them Their divinest air, that sculptors might do justice to Pegana's gods. Then the gods strode back into Pegana and the sculptors hammered and wrought, and there came a day when the Master of Sculptors took audience of the King, saying:

"Althazar, King of Runazar, High Lord moreover of all the lands near by, to whom be the gods benignant, humbly have we completed the images of all such gods as were in thine edict named."

Then the King commanded a great space to be cleared among the houses in his city, and there the images of all the gods were borne and set before the King, and there were assembled the Master of Sculptors and all his men; and before each stood a soldier bearing a pile of gold upon a jewelled tray, and behind each stood a soldier with a drawn sword pointing against their necks, and the King looked upon the images. And lo! they stood as gods with the clouds all draped about them, making the sign of the gods, but their bodies were those of men, and lo! their faces were very like the King's, and their beards were as the King's beard. And the King said:

"These be indeed Pegana's gods."

And the soldiers that stood before the sculptors were caused to present to them the piles of gold, and the soldiers that stood behind the sculptors were caused to sheath their swords. And the people shouted:

"These be indeed Pegana's gods, whose faces we are permitted to see by the will of Althazar the King, to whom be the gods benignant." And heralds were sent abroad through the cities of Runazar and of all the lands near by, proclaiming of the images:

"These be Pegana's gods."

But up in Pegana the gods howled with wrath and Mung leant forward to make the sign of Mung against Althazar the King. But the gods laid Their hands upon his shoulder saying:

"Slay him not, for it is not enough that Althazar shall die, who hath made the faces of the gods to be like the faces of men, but he must not even have ever been."

Then said the gods:

"Spake we of Althazar, a King?"

And the gods said:

"Nay, we spake not." And the gods said:

"Dreamed we of one Althazar?" And the gods said:

"Nay, we dreamed not."

But in the royal palace of Runazar, Althazar, passing suddenly out of the remembrance of the gods, became no longer a thing that was or had ever been.

And by the throne of Althazar lay a robe, and near it lay a crown, and the priests of the gods entered his palace and made it a temple of the gods. And the people coming to worship said:

"Whose was this robe and to what purpose is this crown?"

And the priests answered:

"The gods have cast away the fragment of a garment and lo! from the fingers of the gods hath slipped one little ring."

And the people said to the priests:

"Seeing that Runazar hath never had a King, therefore be ye our rulers, and make ye our laws in the sight of Pegana's gods."


The Cave Of Kai


The pomp of crowning was ended, the rejoicings had died away, and Khanazar, the new King, sat in the seat of the Kings of Averon to do his work upon the destinies of men. His uncle, Khanazar the Lone, had died, and he had come from a far castle to the south, with a great procession, to Ilaun, the citadel of Averon; and there they had crowned him King of Averon and of the mountains, and Lord, if there be aught beyond those mountains, of all such lands as are. But now the pomp of the crowning was gone away and Khanazar sat afar off from his home, a very mighty King.

Then the King grew weary of the destinies of Averon and weary of the making of commands. So Khanazar sent heralds through all cities saying:

"Hear! The will of the King! Hear! The will of the King of Averon and of the mountains and Lord, if there be aught beyond those mountains, of all such lands as are. Let there come together to Ilaun all such as have an art in secret matters. Hear!"

And there gathered together to Ilaun the wise men of all the degrees of magic, even to the seventh, who had made spells before Khanazar the Lone; and they came before the new King in his palace placing their hands upon his feet. Then said the King to the magicians:

"I have a need."

And they answered:

"The earth touches the feet of the King in token of submission."

But the King answered:

"My need is not of the earth; but I would find certain of the hours that have been, and sundry days that were."

And all the wise folks were silent, till there spake out mournfully the wisest of them all, who made spells in the seventh degree, saying:

"The days that were, and the hours, have winged their way to Mount Agdora's summit, and there, dipping, have passed away from sight, not ever to return, for haply they have not heard the King's command."

Of these wise folks are many things chronicled. Moreover, it is set in writing of the scribes how they had audience of King Khanazar and of the words they spake, but of their further deeds there is no legend. But it is told how the King sent men to run and pass through all the cities till they should find one that was wiser even than the magicians that had made spells before Khanazar the Lone. Far up the mountains that limit Averon they found Syrahn, the prophet, among the goats, who was of none of the degrees of magic, and who had cast no spells before the former King. Him they brought to Khanazar, and the King said unto him:

"I have a need."

And Syrahn answered:

"Thou art a man."

And the King said:

"Where lie the days that were and certain hours?"

And Syrahn answered:

"These things lie in a cave afar from here, and over the cave stands sentinel one Kai, and this cave Kai hath guarded from the gods and men since ever the Beginning was made. It may be that he shall let Khanazar pass by."

Then the King gathered elephants and camels that carried burdens of gold, and trusty servants that carried precious gems, and gathered an army to go before him and an army to follow behind, and sent out horsemen to warn the dwellers of the plains that the King of Averon was afoot.

And he bade Syrahn to lead to that place where the days of old lie hid and all forgotten hours.

Across the plain and up Mount Agdora, and dipping beyond its summit went Khanazar the King, and his two armies who followed Syrahn. Eight times the purple tent with golden border had been pitched for the King of Averon, and eight times it had been struck ere the King and the King's armies came to a dark cave in a valley dark, where Kai stood guard over the days that were. And the face of Kai was as a warrior that vanquisheth cities and burdeneth himself not with captives, and his form was as the forms of gods, but his eyes were the eyes of beasts; before whom came the King of Averon with elephants and camels bearing burdens of gold, and trusty servants carrying precious gems.

Then said the King:

"Yonder behold my gifts. Give back to me my yesterday with its waving banners, my yesterday with its music and blue sky and all its cheering crowds that made me King, the yesterday that sailed with gleaming wings over my Averon."

And Kai answered, pointing to his cave:

"Thither, dishonoured and forgot, thy yesterday slunk away. And who amid the dusty heap of the forgotten days shall grovel to find thy yesterday?"

Then answered the King of Averon and of the mountains and Lord, if there be aught beyond them, of all such lands as are:

"I will go down on my knees in yon dark cave and search with my hands amid the dust, if so I may find my yesterday again and certain hours that are gone."

And the King pointed to his piles of gold that stood where elephants were met together, and beyond them to the scornful camels. And Kai answered:

"The gods have offered me the gleaming worlds and all as far as the Rim, and whatever lies beyond it as far as the gods may see -- and thou comest to me with elephants and camels."

Then said the King:

"Across the orchards of my home there hath passed one hour whereof thou knowest well, and I pray to thee, who wilt take no gifts borne upon elephants or camels, to give me of thy mercy one second back, one grain of dust that clings to that hour in the heap that lies within thy cave."

And, at the word mercy, Kai laughed. And the King turned his armies to the east. Therefore the armies returned to Averon and the heralds before them cried:

"Here cometh Khanazar, King of Averon and of the mountains and Lord, if there be aught beyond those mountains, of all such lands as are."

And the King said to them:

"Say rather that here comes one greatly wearied who, having accomplished nought, returneth from a quest forlorn."

So the King came again to Averon.

But it is told how there came into Ilaun one evening as the sun was setting a harper with a golden harp desiring audience of the King.

And it is told how men led him to Khanazar, who sat frowning alone upon his throne, to whom said the harper:

"I have a golden harp; and to its strings have clung like dust some seconds out of the forgotten hours and little happenings of the days that were."

And Khanazar looked up and the harper touched the strings, and the old forgotten things were stirring again, and there arose a sound of songs that had passed away and long since voices. Then when the harper saw that Khanazar looked not angrily upon him his fingers tramped over the chords as the gods tramp down the sky, and out of the golden harp arose a haze of memories; and the King leaning forward and staring before him saw in the haze no more his palace walls, but saw a valley with a stream that wandered through it, and woods upon either hill, and an old castle standing lonely to the south. And the harper, seeing a strange look upon the face of Khanazar, said:

"Is the King pleased who lords it over Averon and the mountains, and, if there be aught beyond them, over all such lands as are?"

And the King said: -- 

"Seeing that I am a child again in a valley to the south, how may I say what may be the will of the great King?"

When the stars shone high over Ilaun and still the King sat staring straight before him, all the courtiers drew away from the great palace, save one that stayed and kept one taper burning, and with them went the harper.

And when the dawn came up through silent archways into the marble palace, making the taper pale, the King still stared before him, and still he sat there when the stars shone again clearly and high above Ilaun.

But on the second morning the King arose and sent for the harper and said to him: -- 

"I am King again, and thou that hast a skill to stay the hours and mayest may bring again to men their forgotten days, thou shalt stand sentinel over my great to-morrow; and when I go forth to conquer Ziman-ho and make my armies mighty thou shalt stand between that morrow and the cave of Kai, and haply some deed of mine and the battling of my armies shall cling to thy golden harp and not go down dishonoured into the cave. For my to-morrow, who with such resounding stride goes trampling through my dreams, is far too kingly to herd with forgotten days in the dust of things that were. But on some future day, when Kings are dead and all their deeds forgotten, some harper of that time shall come and from those golden strings awake those deeds that echo in my dreams, till my to-morrow shall stride forth among the lesser days and tell the years that Khanazar was a King."

And answered the harper:

"I will stand sentinel over thy great to-morrow, and when thou goest forth to conquer Ziman-ho and make thine armies mighty I will stand between thy morrow and the cave of Kai, till thy deeds and the battling of thine armies shall cling to my golden harp and not go down dishonoured into the cave. So that when Kings are dead and all their deeds forgotten the harpers of the future time shall awake from these golden chords those deeds of thine. This will I do."

Men of these days, that be skilled upon the harp, tell still of Khanazar, how that he was King of Averon and of the mountains, and claimed lordship of certain lands beyond, and how he went with armies against Ziman-ho and fought great battles, and in the last gained victory and was slain. But Kai, as he waited with his claws to gather in the last days of Khanazar that they might loom enormous in his cave, still found them not, and only gathered in some meaner deeds and the days and hours of lesser men, and was vexed by the shadow of a harper that stood between him and the world.


The Sorrow Of Search


It is told also of King Khanazar how he bowed very low unto the gods of Old. None bowed so low unto the gods of Old as did King Khanazar.

One day the King returning from the worship of the gods of Old and from bowing before them in the temple of the gods commanded their prophets to appear before him, saying:

"I would know somewhat concerning the gods."

Then came the prophets before King Khanazar, burdened with many books, to whom the King said:

"It is not in books."

Thereat the prophets departed, bearing away with them a thousand methods well devised in books whereby men may gain wisdom of the gods. One alone remained, a master prophet, who had forgotten books, to whom the King said:

"The gods of Old are mighty."

And answered the master prophet:

"Very mighty are the gods of Old."

Then said the King:

"There are no gods but the gods of Old."

And answered the prophet:

"There are none other."

And they two being alone within the palace the King said:

"Tell me aught concerning gods or men if aught of the truth be known."

Then said the master prophet:

"Far and white and straight lieth the road to Knowing, and down it in the heat and dust go all wise people of the earth, but in the fields before they come to it the very wise lie down or pluck the flowers. By the side of the road to Knowing -- O King, it is hard and hot -- stand many temples, and in the doorway of every temple stand many priests, and they cry to the travellers that weary of the road, crying to them:

"This is the End."

And in the temples are the sounds of music, and from each roof arises the savour of pleasant burning; and all that look at a cool temple, whichever temple they look at, or hear the hidden music, turn in to see whether it be indeed the End. And such as find that their temple is not indeed the End set forth again upon the dusty road, stopping at each temple as they pass for fear they miss the End, or striving onwards on the road, and see nothing in the dust, till they can walk no longer and are taken worn and weary of their journey into some other temple by a kindly priest who shall tell them that this also is the End. Neither on that road may a man gain any guiding from his fellows, for only one thing that they say is surely true, when they say:

"Friend, we can see nothing for the dust."

And of the dust that hides the way much has been there since ever that road began, and some is stirred up by the feet of all that travel upon it, and more arises from the temple doors.

And, O King, it were better for thee, travelling upon that road, to rest when thou hearest one calling: "This is the End," with the sounds of music behind him. And if in the dust and darkness thou pass by Lo and Mush and the pleasant temple of Kynash, or Sheenath with his opal smile, or Sho with his eyes of agate, yet Shilo and Mynarthitep, Gazo and Amurund and Slig are still before thee and the priests of their temples will not forget to call thee.

And, O King, it is told that only one discerned the end and passed by three thousand temples, and the priests of the last were like the priests of the first, and all said that their temple was at the end of the road, and the dark of the dust lay over them all, and all were very pleasant and only the road was weary. And in some were many gods, and in a few only one, and in some the shrine was empty, and all had many priests, and in all the travellers were happy as they rested. And into some his fellow travellers tried to force him, and when he said:

"I will travel further," many said:

"This man lies, for the road ends here."

And he that travelled to the End hath told that when the thunder was heard upon the road there arose the sound of the voices of all the priests as far as he could hear, crying:

"Hearken to Shilo" -- "Hear Mush" -- "Lo! Kynash" -- "The voice of Sho" -- "Mynarthitep is angry" -- "Hear the word of Slig!"

And far away along the road one cried to the traveller that Sheenath stirred in his sleep.

O King this is very doleful. It is told that that traveller came at last to the utter End and there was a mighty gulf, and in the darkness at the bottom of the gulf one small god crept, no bigger than a hare, whose voice came crying in the cold:

"I know not."

And beyond the gulf was nought, only the small god crying.

And he that travelled to the End fled backwards for a great distance till he came to temples again, and entering one where a priest cried:

"This is the End," lay down and rested on a couch. There Yush sat silent, carved with an emerald tongue and two great eyes of sapphire, and there many rested and were happy. And an old priest, coming from comforting a child, came over to that traveller who had seen the End and said to him:

"This is Yush and this is the End of wisdom."

And the traveller answered:

"Yush is very peaceful and this indeed the End."

"O King, wouldst thou hear more?"

And the King said:

"I would hear all."

And the master prophet answered:

"There was also another prophet and his name was Shaun, who had such reverence for the gods of Old that he became able to discern their forms by starlight as they strode, unseen by others, among men. Each night did Shaun discern the forms of the gods and every day he taught concerning them, till men in Averon knew how the gods appeared all grey against the mountains, and how Rhoog was higher than Mount Scagadon, and how Skun was smaller, and how Asgool leaned forward as he strode, and how Trodath peered about him with small eyes. But one night as Shaun watched the gods of Old by starlight, he faintly discerned some other gods that sat far up the slopes of the mountains in the stillness behind the gods of Old. And the next day he hurled his robe away that he wore as Averon's prophet and said to his people:

"There be gods greater than the gods of Old, three gods seen faintly on the hills by starlight looking on Averon."

And Shaun set out and travelled many days and many people followed him. And every night he saw more clearly the shapes of the three new gods who sat silent when the gods of Old were striding among men. On the higher slopes of the mountain Shaun stopped with all his people, and there they built a city and worshipped the gods, whom only Shaun could see, seated above them on the mountain. And Shaun taught how the gods were like grey streaks of light seen before dawn, and how the god on the right pointed upward toward the sky, and how the god on the left pointed downward toward the ground, but the god in the middle slept.

And in the city Shaun's followers built three temples. The one on the right was a temple for the young, and the one on the left a temple for the old, and the third was a temple for the old, and the third was a temple with doors closed and barred -- therein none ever entered. One night as Shaun watched before the three gods sitting like pale light against the mountain, he saw on the mountain's summit two gods that spake together and pointed, mocking the gods of the hill, only he heard no sound. The next day Shaun set out and a few followed him to climb to the mountain's summit in the cold, to find the gods who were so great that they mocked at the silent three. And near the two gods they halted and built for themselves huts. Also they built a temple wherein the Two were carved by the hand of Shaun with their heads turned towards each other, with mockery on Their faces and Their fingers pointing, and beneath Them were carved the three gods of the hill as actors making sport. None remembered now Asgool, Trodath, Skun, and Rhoog, the gods of Old.

For many years Shaun and his few followers lived in their huts upon the mountain's summit worshipping gods that mocked, and every night Shaun saw the two gods by starlight as they laughed to one another in the silence. And Shaun grew old.

One night as his eyes were turned towards the Two, he saw across the mountains in the distance a great god seated in the plain and looming enormous to the sky, who looked with angry eyes towards the Two as they sat and mocked. Then said Shaun to his people, the few that had followed him thither:

"Alas that we may not rest, but beyond us in the plain sitteth the one true god and he is wroth with mocking. Let us therefore leave these two that sit and mock and let us find the truth in the worship of that greater god, who even though he kill shall yet not mock us."

But the people answered:

"Thou hast taken from us many gods and taught us now to worship gods that mock, and if there is laughter on their faces as we die, lo! thou alone canst see it, and we would rest."

But three men who had grown old with following followed still.

And down the steep mountain on the further side Shaun led them, saying:

"Now we shall surely know."

And the three old men answered:

"We shall know indeed, O last of all the prophets."

That night the two gods mocking at their worshippers mocked not at Shaun nor his three followers, who coming to the plain still travelled on till they came at last to a place where the eyes of Shaun at night could closely see the vast form of their god. And beyond them as far as the sky there lay a marsh. There they rested, building such shelters as they could, and said to one another:

"This is the End, for Shaun discerneth that there are no more gods, and before us lieth the marsh and old age hath come upon us."

And since they could not labour to build a temple, Shaun carved upon a rock all that he saw by starlight of the great god of the plain; so that if ever others forsook the gods of Old because they saw beyond them the Greater Three, and should thence come to knowledge of the Twain that mocked, and should yet persevere in wisdom till they saw by starlight him whom Shaun named the Ultimate god, they should still find there upon the rock what one had written concerning the end of search. For three years Shaun carved upon the rock, and rising one night from carving, saying:

"Now is my labour done," saw in the distance four greater gods beyond the Ultimate god. Proudly in the distance beyond the marsh these gods were tramping together, taking no heed of the god upon the plain. Then said Shaun to his three followers:

"Alas that we know not yet, for there be gods beyond the marsh."

None would follow Shaun, for they said that old age must end all quests, and that they would rather wait there in the plain for Death than that he should pursue them across the marsh.

Then Shaun said farewell to his followers, saying:

"You have followed me well since ever we forsook the gods of Old to worship greater gods. Farewell. It may be that your prayers at evening shall avail when you pray to the god of the plain, but I must go onward, for there be gods beyond."

So Shaun went down into the marsh, and for three days struggled through it, and on the third night saw the four gods not very far away, yet could not discern Their faces. All the next day Shaun toiled on to see Their faces by starlight, but ere the night came up or one star shone, at set of sun, Shaun fell down before the feet of his four gods. The stars came out, and the faces of the four shone bright and clear, but Shaun saw them not, for the labour of toiling and seeing was over for Shaun; and lo! They were Asgool, Trodath, Skun, and Rhoog -- The gods of Old.

Then said the King:

"It is well that the sorrow of search cometh only to the wise, for the wise are very few."

Also the King said:

"Tell me this thing, O prophet. Who are the true gods?"

The master prophet answered:

"Let the King command."


The Men Of Yarnith


The men of Yarnith hold that nothing began until Yarni Zai uplifted his hand. Yarni Zai, they say, has the form of a man but is greater and is a thing of rock. When he uplifted his hand all the rocks that wandered beneath the Dome, by which name they call the sky, gathered together around Yarni Zai.

Of the other worlds they say nought, but hold that the stars are the eyes of all the other gods that look on Yarni Zai and laugh, for they are all greater than he, though they have gathered no worlds around them.

Yet though they be greater than Yarni Zai, and though they laugh at him when they speak together beneath the Dome, they all speak of Yarni Zai.

Unheard is the speaking of the gods to all except the gods, but the men of Yarnith tell of how their prophet Iraun lying in the sand desert, Azrakhan, heard once their speaking and knew thereby how Yarni Zai departed from all the other gods to clothe himself with rocks and make a world.

Certain it is that every legend tells that at the end of the valley of Yodeth, where it becomes lost among black cliffs, there sits a figure colossal, against a mountain, whose form is the form of a man with the right hand uplifted, but vaster than the hills. And in the Book of Secret Things which the prophets keep in the Temple that stands in Yarnith is writ the story of the gathering of the world as Iraun heard it when the gods spake together, up in the stillness above Azrakhan.

And all that read this may learn how Yarni Zai drew the mountains about him like a cloak, and piled the world below him. It is not set in writing for how many years Yarni Zai sat clothed with rocks at the end of the Valley of Yodeth, while there was nought in all the world save rocks and Yarni Zai.

But one day there came another god running over the rocks across the world, and he ran as the clouds run upon days of storm, and as he sped towards Yodeth, Yarni Zai, sitting against his mountain with right hand uplifted, cried out:

"What dost thou, running across my world, and whither art thou going?"

And the new god answered never a word, but sped onwards, and as he went to left of him and to right of him there sprang up green things all over the rocks of the world of Yarni Zai.

So the new god ran round the world and made it green, saying in the valley where Yarni Zai sat monstrous against his mountain and certain lands wherein Cradoa, the drought, browsed horribly at night.

Further, the writing in the book tells of how there came yet another god running speedily out of the east, as swiftly as the first, with his face set westward, and nought to stay his running; and how he stretched both arms outward beside him, and to left of him and to right of him as he ran the whole world whitened.

And Yarni Zai called out:

"What dost thou, running across my world?"

And the new god answered:

"I bring the snow for all the world -- whiteness and resting and stillness."

And he stilled the running of streams and laid his hand even upon the head of Yarni Zai and muffled the noises of the world, till there was no sound in all lands, but the running of the new god that brought the snow as he sped across the plains.

But the two new gods chased each other for ever round the world, and every year they passed again, running down the valleys and up the hills and away across the plains before Yarni Zai, whose hand uplifted had gathered the world about him.

And, furthermore, the very devout may read how all the animals came up the valley of Yodeth to the mountain whereon rested Yarni Zai, saying:

"Give us leave to live, to be lions, rhinoceroses and rabbits, and to go about the world."

And Yarni Zai gave leave to the animals to be lions, rhinoceroses and rabbits, and all the other kinds of beasts, and to go about the world. But when they all had gone he gave leave to the bird to be a bird and to go about the sky.

And further there came a man into that valley who said:

"Yarni Zai, thou hast made animals into thy world. O Yarni Zai, ordain that there be men."

So Yarni Zai made men.

Then was there in the world Yarni Zai, and two strange gods that brought the greenness and the growing and the whiteness and the stillness, and animals and men.

And the god of the greenness pursued the god of the whiteness, and the god of the whiteness pursued the god of the greenness, and men pursued animals, and animals pursued men. But Yarni Zai sat still against his mountain with his right hand uplifted. But the men of Yarnith say that when the arm of Yarni Zai shall cease to be uplifted the world shall be flung behind him, as a man's cloak is flung away. And Yarni Zai, no longer clad with the world, shall go back into the emptiness beneath the Dome among the stars, as a diver seeking pearls goes down from the islands.

It is writ in Yarnith's histories by scribes of old that there passed a year over the valley of Yarnith that bore not with it any rain; and the Famine from the wastes beyond, finding that it was dry and pleasant in Yarnith, crept over the mountains and down their slopes and sunned himself at the edge of Yarnith's fields.

And men of Yarnith, labouring in the fields, found the Famine as he nibbled at the corn and chased the cattle, and hastily they drew water from deep wells and cast it over the Famine's dry grey fur and drove him back to the mountains. But the next day when his fur was dry again the Famine returned and nibbled more of the corn and chased the cattle further, and again men drove him back. But again the Famine returned, and there came a time when there was no more water in the wells to frighten the Famine with, and he nibbled the corn till all of it was gone and the cattle that he chased grew very lean. And the Famine drew nearer, even to the houses of men and trampled on their gardens at night and ever came creeping nearer to their doors. At last the cattle were able to run no more, and one by one the Famine took them by their throats and dragged them down, and at night he scratched in the ground, killing even the roots of things, and came and peered in at the doorways and started back and peered in at the door again a little further, but yet was not bold enough to enter altogether, for fear that men should have water to throw over his dry grey fur.

Then did the men of Yarnith pray to Yarni Zai as he sat far off beyond the valley, praying to him night and day to call his Famine back, but the Famine sat and purred and slew all the cattle and dared at last to take men for his food.

And the histories tell how he slew children first and afterwards grew bolder and tore down women, till at last he even sprang at the throats of men as they laboured in the fields.

Then said the men of Yarnith:

"There must go one to take our prayers to the feet of Yarni Zai; for the world at evening utters many prayers, and it may be that Yarni Zai, as he hears all earth lamenting when the prayers at evening flutter to his feet, may have missed among so many the prayers of the men of Yarnith. But if one go and say to Yarni Zai: 'There is a little crease in the outer skirts of thy cloak that men call the valley of Yarnith, where the Famine is a greater lord than Yarni Zai,' it may be that he shall remember for an instant and call his Famine back."

Yet all men feared to go, seeing that they were but men and Yarni Zai was Lord of the whole earth, and the journey was far and rocky. But that night Hothrun Dath heard the Famine whining outside his house and pawing at his door; therefore, it seemed to him more meet to wither before the glance of Yarni Zai than that the whining of that Famine should ever again fall upon his ears.

So about the dawn, Hothrun Dath crept away, fearing still to hear behind him the breathing of the Famine, and set out upon his journey whither pointed the graves of men. For men in Yarnith are buried with their feet and faces turned toward Yarni Zai, lest he might beckon to them in their night and call them to him.

So all day long did Hothrun Dath follow the way of the graves. It is told that he even journeyed for three days and nights with nought but the graves to guide him, as they pointed towards Yarni Zai where all the world slopes upwards towards Yodeth, and the great black rocks that are nearest to Yarni Zai lie gathered together by clans, till he came to the two great black pillars of asdarinth and saw the rocks beyond them piled in a dark valley, narrow and aloof, and knew that this was Yodeth. Then did he haste no more, but walked quietly up the valley, daring not to disturb the stillness, for he said:

"Surely this is the stillness of Yarni Zai, which lay about him before he clothed himself with rocks."

Here among the rocks which first had gathered to the call of Yarni Zai, Hothrun Dath felt a mighty fear, but yet went onwards because of all his people and because he knew that thrice in every hour in some dark chamber Death and Famine met to speak two words together, "The End."

But as dawn turned the darkness into grey, he came to the valley's end, and even touched the foot of Yarni Zai, but saw him not, for he was all hidden in the mist. Then Hothrun Dath feared that he might not behold him to look him in the eyes when he sent up his prayer. But laying his forehead against the foot of Yarni Zai he prayed for the men of Yarnith, saying:

"O Lord of Famine and Father of Death, there is a spot in the world that thou hast cast about thee which men call Yarnith, and there men die before the time thou hast apportioned, passing out of Yarnith. Perchance the Famine hath rebelled against thee, or Death exceeds his powers. O Master of the World, drive out the Famine as a moth out of thy cloak, lest the gods beyond that regard thee with their eyes say -- there is Yarni Zai, and lo! his cloak is tattered."

And in the mist no sign made Yarni Zai. Then did Hothrun Dath pray to Yarni Zai to make some sign with his uplifted hand that he might know he heard him. In the awe and silence he waited, until nigh the dawn the mist that hid the figure rolled upwards. Serene above the mountains he brooded over the world, silent, with right hand uplifted.

What Hothrun Dath saw there upon the face of Yarni Zai no history telleth, or how he came again alive to Yarnith, but this is writ that he fled, and none hath since beheld the face of Yarni Zai. Some say that he saw a look on the face of the image that set a horror tingling through his soul, but it is held in Yarnith that he found the marks of instruments of carving about the figure's feet, and discerning thereby that Yarni Zai was wrought by the hands of men, he fled down the valley screaming:

"There are no gods, and all the world is lost." And hope departed from him and all the purposes of life. Motionless behind him, lit by the rising sun, sat the colossal figure with right hand uplifted that man had made in his own image.

But the men of Yarnith tell how Hothrun Dath came back again panting to his own city, and told the people that there were no gods and that Yarnith had no hope from Yarni Zai. Then the men of Yarnith when they knew that the Famine came not from the gods, arose and strove against him. They dug deep for wells, and slew goats for food high up on Yarnith's mountains and went afar and gathered blades of grass, where yet it grew, that their cattle might live. Thus they fought the Famine, for they said: "If Yarni Zai be not a god, then is there nothing mightier in Yarnith than men, and who is the Famine that he should bare his teeth against the lords of Yarnith?"

And they said: "If no help cometh from Yarni Zai then is there no help but from our own strength and might, and we be Yarnith's gods with the saving of Yarnith burning within us or its doom according to our desire."

And some more the Famine slew, but others raised their hands saying: "These be the hands of gods," and drave the Famine back till he went from the houses of men and out among the cattle, and still the men of Yarnith pursued him, till above the heat of the fight came the million whispers of rain heard faintly far off towards evening. Then the Famine fled away howling back to the mountains and over the mountains' crests, and became no more than a thing that is told in Yarnith's legends.

A thousand years have passed across the graves of those that fell in Yarnith by the Famine. But the men of Yarnith still pray to Yarni Zai, carved by men's hands in the likeness of a man, for they say -- "It may be that the prayers we offer to Yarni Zai may roll upwards from his image as do the mists at dawn, and somewhere find at last the other gods or that God who sits behind the others of whom our prophets know not."


For The Honour Of The Gods


Of the great wars of the Three Islands are many histories writ and of how the heroes of the olden time one by one were slain, but nought is told of the days before the olden time, or ever the people of the isles went forth to war, when each in his own land tended cattle or sheep, and listless peace obscured those isles in the days before the olden time. For then the people of the Islands played like children about the feet of Chance and had no gods and went not forth to war. But sailors, cast by strange winds upon those shores which they named the Prosperous Isles, and finding a happy people which had no gods, told how they should be happier still and know the gods and fight for the honour of the gods and leave their names writ large in histories and at the last die proclaiming the names of the gods. And the people of the islands met and said:

"The beasts we know, but lo! these sailors tell of things beyond that know us as we know the beasts and use us for their pleasure as we use the beasts, but yet are apt to answer idle prayer flung up at evening near the hearth, when a man returneth from the ploughing of the fields. Shall we now seek these gods?" And some said:

"We are lords of the Three Islands and have none to trouble us, and while we live we find prosperity, and when we die our bones have ease in the quiet. Let us not therefore seek those who may loom greater than we do in the Islands Three or haply harry our bones when we be dead."

But others said:

"The prayers that a man mutters, when the drought hath come and all the cattle die, go up unheeded to the heedless clouds, and if somewhere there be those that garner prayer let us send men to seek them and to say: 'There be men in the Isles called Three, or sometimes named by sailors the Prosperous Isles (and they be in the Central Sea), who ofttimes pray, and it hath been told us that ye love the worship of men, and for it answer prayer, and we be travellers from the Islands Three.'"

And the people of the Islands were greatly allured by the thought of strange things neither men nor beasts who at evening answered prayer.

Therefore they sent men down in ships with sails to sail across the sea, and in safety over the sea to a far shore Chance brought the ships. Then over hill and valley three men set forth seeking to find the gods, and their comrades beached the ships and waited on the shore. And they that sought the gods followed for thirty nights the lightnings in the sky over five mountains, and as they came to the summit of the last, they saw a valley beneath them, and lo! the gods. For there the gods sat, each on a marble hill, each sitting with an elbow on his knee, and his chin upon his hand, and all the gods were smiling about Their lips. And below them there were armies of little men, and about the feet of the gods they fought against each other and slew one another for the honour of the gods, and for the glory of the name of the gods. And round them in the valley their cities that they had builded with the toil of their hands, they burned for the honour of the gods, where they died for the honour of the gods, and the gods looked down and smiled. And up from the valley fluttered the prayers of men and here and there the gods did answer a prayer, but oftentimes They mocked them, and all the while men died.

And they that had sought the gods from the Islands Three, having seen what they had seen, lay down on the mountain summit lest the gods should see them. Then they crept backward a little space, still lying down, and whispered together and then stooped low and ran, and travelled across the mountains in twenty days and came again to their comrades by the shore. But their comrades asked them if their quest had failed and the three men only answered:

"We have seen the gods."

And setting sail the ships hove back across the Central Sea and came again to the Islands Three, where rest the feet of Chance, and said to the people:

"We have seen the gods."

But to the rulers of the Islands they told how the gods drove men in herds; and went back and tended their flocks again all in the Prosperous Isles, and were kinder to their cattle after they had seen how that the gods used men.

But the gods walking large about Their valley, and peering over the great mountain's rim, saw one morning the tracks of the three men. Then the gods bent their faces low over the tracks and leaning forward ran, and came before the evening of the day to the shore where the men had set sail in ships, and saw the tracks of ships upon the sand, and waded far out into the sea, and yet saw nought. Still it had been well for the Islands Three had not certain men that had heard the travellers' tale sought also to see the gods themselves. These in the night-time slipped away from the Isles in ships, and ere the gods had retreated to the hills, They saw where ocean meets with sky the full white sails of those that sought the gods upon an evil day. Then for a while the people of those gods had rest while the gods lurked behind the mountain, waiting for the travellers from the Prosperous Isles. But the travellers came to shore and beached their ships, and sent six of their number to the mountain whereof they had been told. But they after many days returned, having not seen the gods but only the smoke that went upward from burned cities, and vultures that stood in the sky instead of answered prayer. And they all ran down their ships again into the sea, and set sail again and came to the Prosperous Isles. But in the distance crouching behind the ships the gods came wading through the sea that They might have the worship of the isles. And to every isle of the three the gods showed themselves in different garb and guise, and to all they said:

"Leave your flocks. Go forth and fight for the honour of the gods."

And from one of the isles all the folk came forth in ships to battle for gods that strode through the isle like kings. And from another they came to fight for gods that walked like humble men upon the earth in beggars' rags; and the people of the other isle fought for the honour of gods that were clothed in hair like beasts; and had many gleaming eyes and claws upon their foreheads. But of how these people fought till the isles grew desolate but very glorious, and all for the fame of the gods, are many histories writ.


Night And Morning


Once in an arbour of the gods above the fields of twilight Night wandering alone came suddenly on Morning. Then Night drew from his face his cloak of dark grey mists and said: "See, I am Night," and they two sitting in that arbour of the gods, Night told wondrous stories of old mysterious happenings in the dark. And Morning sat and wondered, gazing into the face of Night and at his wreath of stars. And Morning told how the rains of Snamarthis smoked in the plain, but Night told how Snamarthis held riot in the dark, with revelry and drinking and tales told by kings, till all the hosts of Meenath crept against it and the lights went out and there arose the din of arms or ever Morning came. And Night told how Sindana the beggar had dreamed that he was a King, and Morning told how she had seen Sindana find suddenly an army in the plain, and how he had gone to it thinking he was King and the army had believed him, and Sindana now ruled over Marthis and Targadrides, Dynath, Zahn, and Tumeida. And most Night loved to tell of Assarnees, whose ruins are scant memories on the desert's edge, but Morning told of the twin cities of Nardis and Timaut that lorded over the plain. And Night told terribly of what Mynandes found when he walked through his own city in the dark. And ever at the elbow of regal Night whispers arose saying: "Tell Morning this."

And ever Night told and ever Morning wondered. And Night spake on, and told what the dead had done when they came in the darkness on the King that had led them into battle once. And Night knew who slew Darnex and how it was done. Moreover, he told why the seven Kings tortured Sydatheris and what Sydatheris said just at the last, and how the Kings went forth and took their lives.

And Night told whose blood had stained the marble steps that lead to the temple in Ozahn, and why the skull within it wears a golden crown, and whose soul is in the wolf that howls in the dark against the city. And Night knew whither the tigers go out of the Irasian desert and the place where they meet together, and who speaks to them and what she says and why. And he told why human teeth had bitten the iron hinge in the great gate that swings in the walls of Mondas, and who came up out of the marsh alone in the darktime and demanded audience of the King and told the King a lie, and how the King, believing it, went down into the vaults of his palace and found only toads and snakes, who slew the King. And he told of ventures in palace towers in the quiet, and knew the spell whereby a man might send the light of the moon right into the soul of his foe. And Night spoke of the forest and the stirring of shadows and soft feet pattering and peering eyes, and of the fear that sits behind the trees taking to itself the shape of something crouched to spring.

But far under that arbour of the gods down on the earth the mountain peak Mondana looked Morning in the eyes and forsook his allegiance to Night, and one by one the lesser hills about Mondana's knees greeted the Morning. And all the while in the plains the shapes of cities came looming out of the dusk. And Kongros stood forth with all her pinnacles, and the winged figure of Poesy carved upon the eastern portal of her gate, and the squat figure of Avarice carved facing it upon the west; and the bat began to tire of going up and down her streets, and already the owl was home. And the dark lions went up out of the plain back to their caves again. Not as yet shone any dew upon the spider's snare nor came the sound of any insects stirring or bird of the day, and full allegiance all the valleys owned still to their Lord the Night. Yet earth was preparing for another ruler, and kingdom by kingdom she stole away from Night, and there marched through the dreams of men a million heralds that cried with the voice of the cock: "Lo! Morning come behind us." But in that arbour of the gods above the fields of twilight the star wreath was paling about the head of Night, and ever more wonderful on Morning's brow appeared the mark of power. And at the moment when the camp fires pale and the smoke goes grey to the sky, and camels sniff the dawn, suddenly Morning forgot Night. And out of that arbour of the gods, and away to the haunts of the dark, Night with his swart cloak slunk away; and Morning placed her hand upon the mists and drew them upward and revealed the earth, and drove the shadows before her, and they followed Night. And suddenly the mystery quitted haunting shapes, and an old glamour was gone, and far and wide over the fields of earth a new splendour arose.


Usury


The men of Zonu hold that Yahn is God, who sits as a usurer behind a heap of little lustrous gems and ever clutches at them with both his arms. Scarce larger than a drop of water are the gleaming jewels that lie under the grasping talons of Yahn, and every jewel is a life. Men tell in Zonu that the earth was empty when Yahn devised his plan, and on it no life stirred. Then Yahn lured to him shadows whose home was beyond the Rim, who knew little of joys and nought of any sorrow, whose place was beyond the Rim before the birth of Time. These Yahn lured to him and showed them his heap of gems; and in the jewels there was light, and green fields glistened in them, and there were glimpses of blue sky and little streams, and very faintly little gardens showed that flowered in orchard lands. And some showed winds in the heaven, and some showed the arch of the sky with a waste plain drawn across it, with grasses bent in the wind and never aught but the plain. But the gems that changed the most had in their centre the ever changing sea. Then the shadows gazed into the Lives and saw the green fields and the sea and earth and the gardens of earth. And Yahn said: "I will loan you each a Life, and you may do your work with it upon the Scheme of Things, and have each a shadow for his servant in green fields and in gardens, only for these things you shall polish these Lives with experience and cut their edges with your griefs, and in the end shall return them again to me."

And thereto the shadows consented, that they might have gleaming Lives and have shadows for their servants, and this thing became the Law. But the shadows, each with his Life, departed and came to Zonu and to other lands, and there with experience they polished the Lives of Yahn, and cut them with human griefs until they gleamed anew. And ever they found new scenes to gleam within these Lives, and cities and sails and men shone in them where there had been before only green fields and sea, and ever Yahn the usurer cried out to remind them of their bargain. When men added to their Lives scenes that were pleasant to Yahn, then was Yahn silent, but when they added scenes that pleased not the eyes of Yahn, then did he take a toll of sorrow from them because it was the Law.

But men forgot the usurer, and there arose some claiming to be wise in the Law, who said that after their labour, which they wrought upon their Lives, was done, those Lives should be theirs to possess; so men took comfort from their toil and labour and the grinding and cutting of their griefs. But as their Lives began to shine with experience of many things, the thumb and forefinger of Yahn would suddenly close upon a Life, and the man became a shadow. But away beyond the Rim the shadows say:

"We have greatly laboured for Yahn, and have gathered griefs in the world, and caused his Lives to shine, and Yahn doeth nought for us. Far better had we stayed where no cares are, floating beyond the Rim."

And there the shadows fear lest ever again they be lured by specious promises to suffer usury at the hands of Yahn, who is overskilled in Law. Only Yahn sits and smiles, watching his hoard increase in preciousness, and hath no pity for the poor shadows whom he hath lured from their quiet to toil in the form of men.

And ever Yahn lures more shadows and sends them to brighten his Lives, sending the old Lives out again to make them brighter still; and sometimes he gives to a shadow a Life that was once a king's and sendeth him with it down to the earth to play the part of a beggar, or sometimes he sendeth a beggar's Life to play the part of a king. What careth Yahn?

The men of Zonu have been promised by those that claim to be wise in the Law that their Lives which they have toiled at shall be theirs to possess for ever, yet the men of Zonu fear that Yahn is greater and overskilled in the Law. Moreover it hath been said that Time will bring the hour when the wealth of Yahn shall be such as his dreams have lusted for. Then shall Yahn leave the earth at rest and trouble the shadows no more, but sit and gloat with his unseemly face over his hoard of Lives, for his soul is a usurer's soul. But others say, and they swear that this is true, that there are gods of Old, who be far greater than Yahn, who made the Law wherein Yahn is overskilled, and who will one day drive a bargain with him that shall be too hard for Yahn. Then Yahn shall wander away, a mean forgotten god, and perchance in some forsaken land shall haggle with the rain for a drop of water to drink, for his soul is a usurer's soul. And the Lives -- who knoweth the gods of Old or what Their will shall be?


Mlideen


Upon an evening of the forgotten years the gods were seated upon Mowrah Nawut above Mlideen holding the avalanche in leash.

All in the Middle City stood the Temples of the city's priests, and hither came all the people of Mlideen to bring them gifts, and there it was the wont of the City's priests to carve them gods for Mlideen. For in a room apart in the Temple of Eld in the midst of the temples that stood in the Middle City of Mlideen there lay a book called the Book of Beautiful Devices, writ in a language that no man may read and writ long ago, telling how a man may make for himself gods that shall neither rage nor seek revenge against a little people. And ever the priests came forth from reading in the Book of Beautiful Devices and ever they sought to make benignant gods, and all the gods that they made were different from each other, only their eyes turned all upon Mlideen.

But upon Mowrah Nawut for all of the forgotten years the gods had waited and forborne until the people of Mlideen should have carven one hundred gods. Never came lightnings from Mowrah Nawut crashing upon Mlideen, nor blight on harvests nor pestilence in the city, only upon Mowrah Nawut the gods sat and smiled. The people of Mlideen had said: "Yoma is god." And the gods sat and smiled. And after the forgetting of Yoma and the passing of years the people had said: "Zungari is god." And the gods sat and smiled.

Then on the altar of Zungari a priest had set a figure squat, carven in purple agate, saying: "Yazun is god." Still the gods sat and smiled.

About the feet of Yonu, Bazun, Nidish and Sundrao had gone the worship of the people of Mlideen, and still the gods sat holding the avalanche in leash above the city.

There set a great calm towards sunset over the heights, and Mowrah Nawut stood up still with gleaming snow, and into the hot city cool breezes blew from his benignant slopes as Tarsi Zalo, high prophet of Mlideen, carved out of a great sapphire the city's hundredth god, and then upon Mowrah Nawut the gods turned away saying: "One hundred infamies have now been wrought." And they looked no longer upon Mlideen and held the avalanche no more in leash, and he leapt forward howling.

Over the Middle City of Mlideen now lies a mass of rocks, and on the rocks a new city is builded wherein people dwell who know not old Mlideen, and the gods are seated on Mowrah Nawut still. And in the new city men worship carven gods, and the number of the gods that they have carven is ninety and nine, and I, the prophet, have found a curious stone and go to carve it into the likeness of a god for all Mlideen to worship.


The Secret Of The Gods


Zyni Moe, the small snake, saw the cool river gleaming before him afar off and set out over the burning sand to reach it.

Uldoon, the prophet, came out of the desert and followed up the bank of the river towards his old home. Thirty years since Uldoon had left the city, where he was born, to live his life in a silent place where he might search for the secret of the gods. The name of his home was the City by the River, and in that city many prophets taught concerning many gods, and men made many secrets for themselves, but all the while none knew the Secret of the gods. Nor might any seek to find it, for if any sought men said of him:

"This man sins, for he giveth no worship to the gods that speak to our prophets by starlight when none heareth."

And Uldoon perceived that the mind of a man is as a garden, and that his thoughts are as the flowers, and the prophets of a man's city are as many gardeners who weed and trim, and who have made in the garden paths both smooth and straight, and only along these paths is a man's soul permitted to go lest the gardeners say, "This soul transgresseth." And from the paths the gardeners weed out every flower that grows, and in the garden they cut off all flowers that grow tall, saying:

"It is customary," and "it is written," and "this hath ever been," or "that hath not been before."

Therefore Uldoon saw that not in that city might he discover the Secret of the gods. And Uldoon said to the people:

"When the worlds began, the Secret of the gods lay written clear over the whole earth, but the feet of many prophets have trampled it out. Your prophets are all true men, but I go into the desert to find a truth which is truer than your prophets." Therefore Uldoon went into the desert and in storm and still he sought for many years. When the thunder roared over the mountains that limited the desert he sought the Secret in the thunder, but the gods spake not by the thunder. When the voices of the beasts disturbed the stillness under the stars he sought the secret there, but the gods spake not by the beasts.

Uldoon grew old and all the voices of the desert had spoken to Uldoon, but not the gods, when one night he heard Them whispering beyond the hills. And the gods whispered one to another, and turning Their faces earthward They all wept. And Uldoon though he saw not the gods yet saw Their shadows turn as They went back to a great hollow in the hills; and there, all standing in the valley's mouth, They said:

"Oh, Morning Zai, oh, oldest of the gods, the faith of thee is gone, and yesterday for the last time thy name was spoken upon earth." And turning earthward they all wept again. And the gods tore white clouds out of the sky and draped them about the body of Morning Zai and bore him forth from his valley behind the hills, and muffled the mountain peaks with snow, and beat upon their summits with drum sticks carved of ebony, playing the dirge of the gods. And the echoes rolled about the passes and the winds howled, because the faith of the olden days was gone, and with it had sped the soul of Morning Zai. So through the mountain passes the gods came at night bearing Their dead father. And Uldoon followed. And the gods came to a great sepulchre of onyx that stood upon four fluted pillars of white marble, each carved out of four mountains, and therein the gods laid Morning Zai because the old faith was fallen. And there at the tomb of Their father the gods spake and Uldoon heard the Secret of the gods, and it became to him a simple thing such as a man might well guess -- yet hath not. Then the soul of the desert arose and cast over the tomb its wreath of forgetfulness devised of drifting sand, and the gods strode home across the mountains to Their hollow land. But Uldoon left the desert and travelled many days, and so came to the river where it passes beyond the city to seek the sea, and following its bank came near to his old home. And the people of the City by the River, seeing him far off, cried out:

"Hast thou found the Secret of the gods?"

And he answered:

"I have found it, and the Secret of the gods is this" -- :

Zyni Moe, the small snake, seeing the figure and the shadow of a man between him and the cool river, raised his head and struck once. And the gods are pleased with Zyni Moe, and have called him the protector of the Secret of the gods.


The South Wind


Two players sat down to play a game together to while eternity away, and they chose the gods as pieces wherewith to play their game, and for their board of playing they chose the sky from rim to rim, whereon lay a little dust; and every speck of dust was a world upon the board of playing. And the players were robed and their faces veiled, and the robes and veils were alike, and their names were Fate and Chance. And as they played their game and moved the gods hither and thither about the board, the dust arose, and shone in the light from the players' eyes that gleamed behind the veils. Then said the gods: "See how We stir the dust."

It chanced, or was ordained (who knoweth which?) that Ord, a prophet, one night saw the gods as They strode knee deep among the stars. But as he gave Them worship, he saw the hand of a player, enormous over Their heads, stretched out to make his move. Then Ord, the prophet, knew. Had he been silent it might have still been well with Ord, but Ord went about the world crying out to all men, "There is a power over the gods."

This the gods heard. Then said They, "Ord hath seen."

Terrible is the vengeance of the gods, and fierce were Their eyes when They looked on the head of Ord and snatched out of his mind all knowledge of Themselves. And that man's soul went wandering afield to find for itself gods, for ever finding them not. Then out of Ord's Dream of Life the gods plucked the moon and the stars, and in the night-time he only saw black sky and saw the lights no more. Next the gods took from him, for Their vengeance resteth not, the birds and butterflies, flowers and leaves and insects and all small things, and the prophet looked on the world that was strangely altered, yet knew not of the anger of the gods. Then the gods sent away his familiar hills, to be seen no more by him, and all the pleasant woodlands on their summits and the further fields; and in a narrower world Ord walked round and round, now seeing little, and his soul still wandered searching for some gods and finding none.

Lastly, the gods took away the fields and stream and left to the prophet only his house and the larger things that were in it. Day by day They crept about him drawing films of mist between him and familiar things, till at last he beheld nought at all and was quite blind and unaware of the anger of the gods. Then Ord's world became only a world of sound, and only by hearing he kept his hold upon Things. All the profit that he had out of his days was here some song from the hills or there the voice of the birds, and sound of the stream, or the drip of the falling rain. But the anger of the gods ceases not with the closing of flowers, nor is it assuaged by all the winter's snows, nor doth it rest in the full glare of summer, and They snatched away from Ord one night his world of sound and he awoke deaf. But as a man may smite away the hive of the bee, and the bee with all his fellows builds again, knowing not what hath smitten his hive or that it shall smite again, so Ord built for himself a world out of old memories and set it in the past. There he builded himself cities out of former joys, and therein built palaces of mighty things achieved, and with his memory as a key he opened golden locks and had still a world to live in, though the gods had taken from him the world of sound and all the world of sight. But the gods tire not from pursuing, and They seized his world of former things and took his memory away and covered up the paths that led into the past, and left him blind and deaf and forgetful among men, and caused all men to know that this was he who once had said that the gods were little things.

And lastly the gods took his soul, and out of it They fashioned the South Wind to roam the seas for ever and not have rest; and well the South Wind knows that he hath once understood somewhere and long ago, and so he moans to the islands and cries along southern shores, "I have known," and "I have known."

But all things sleep when the South Wind speaks to them and none heed his cry that he hath known, but are rather content to sleep. But still the South Wind, knowing that there is something that he hath forgot, goes on crying, "I have known," seeking to urge men to arise and to discover it. But none heed the sorrows of the South Wind even when he driveth his tears out of the South, so that though the South Wind cries on and on and never findeth rest none heed that there is aught that may be known, and the Secret of the gods is safe. But the business of the South Wind is with the North, and it is said that the time will one day come when he shall overcome the bergs and sink the seas of ice and come where the Secret of the gods is graven upon the pole. And the game of Fate and Chance shall suddenly cease and He that loses shall cease to be or ever to have been, and from the board of playing Fate or Chance (who knoweth which shall win?) shall sweep the gods away.


In The Land Of Time


Thus Karnith, King of Alatta, spake to his eldest son: "I bequeath to thee my city of Zoon, with its golden eaves, whereunder hum the bees. And I bequeath to thee also the land of Alatta, and all such other lands as thou art worthy to possess, for my three strong armies which I leave thee may well take Zindara and over-run Istahn, and drive back Onin from his frontier, and leaguer the walls of Yan, and beyond that spread conquest over the lesser lands of Hebith, Ebnon, and Karida. Only lead not thine armies against Zeenar, nor ever cross the Eidis."

Thereat in the city of Zoon in the land of Alatta, under his golden eaves, died King Karnith, and his soul went whither had gone the souls of his sires the elder Kings, and the souls of their slaves.

Then Karnith Zo, the new King, took the iron crown of Alatta and afterwards went down to the plains that encircle Zoon and found his three strong armies clamouring to be led against Zeenar, over the river Eidis.

But the new King came back from his armies, and all one night in the great palace alone with his iron crown, pondered long upon war; and a little before dawn he saw dimly through his palace window, facing east over the city of Zoon and across the fields of Alatta, to far off where a valley opened on Istahn. There, as he pondered, he saw the smoke arising tall and straight over small houses in the plain and the fields where the sheep fed. Later the sun rose shining over Alatta as it shone over Istahn, and there arose a stir about the houses both in Alatta and Istahn, and cocks crowded in the city and men went out into the fields among the bleating sheep; and the King wondered if men did otherwise in Istahn. And men and women met as they went out to work and the sound of laughter arose from streets and fields; the King's eyes gazed into the distance toward Istahn and still the smoke went upward tall and straight from the small houses. And the sun rose higher that shone upon Alatta and Istahn, causing the flowers to open wide in each, and the birds to sing and the voices of men and women to arise. And in the market place of Zoon caravans were astir that set out to carry merchandise to Istahn, and afterwards passed camels coming to Alatta with many tinkling bells. All this the King saw as he pondered much, who had not pondered before. Westward the Agnid mountains frowned in the distance guarding the river Eidis; behind them the fierce people of Zeenar lived in a bleak land.

Later the King, going abroad through his new kingdom, came on the Temple of the gods of Old. There he found the roof shattered and the marble columns broken and tall weeds met together in the inner shrine, and the gods of Old, bereft of worship or sacrifice, neglected and forgotten. And the King asked of his councillors who it was that had overturned this temple of the gods or caused the gods Themselves to be thus forsaken. And they answered him:

"Time has done this."

Next the King came upon a man bent and crippled, whose face was furrowed and worn, and the King having seen no such sight within the court of his father said to the man:

"Who hath done this thing to you?"

And the old man answered:

"Time hath ruthlessly done it."

But the King and his councillors went on, and next they came upon a body of men carrying among them a hearse. And the King asked his councillors closely concerning death, for these things had not before been expounded to the King. And the oldest of the councillors answered:

"Death, O King, is a gift sent by the gods by the hand of their servant Time, and some receive it gladly, and some are forced reluctantly to take it, and before others it is suddenly flung in the middle of the day. And with this gift that Time hath brought him from the gods a man must go forth into the dark to possess no other thing for so long as the gods are willing."

But the King went back to his palace and gathered the greatest of his prophets and his councillors and asked them more particularly concerning Time. And they told the King how that Time was a great figure standing like a tall shadow in the dusk or striding, unseen, across the world, and how that he was the slave of the gods and did Their bidding, but ever chose new masters, and how all the former masters of Time were dead and Their shrines forgotten. And one said:

"I have seen him once when I went down to play again in the garden of my childhood because of certain memories. And it was towards evening and the light was pale, and I saw Time standing over the little gate, pale like the light, and he stood between me and that garden and had stolen my memories because he was mightier than I."

And another said:

"I, too, have seen the Enemy of my House. For I saw him when he strode over the fields that I knew well and led a stranger by the hand to place him in my home to sit where my forefathers sat. And I saw him afterwards walk thrice round the house and stoop and gather up the glamour from the lawns and brush aside the tall poppies in the garden and spread weeds in his pathway where he strode through the remembered nooks."

And another said:

"He went one day into the desert and brought up life out of the waste places, and made it cry bitterly and covered it with the desert again."

And another said:

"I too saw him once seated in the garden of a child tearing the flowers, and afterwards he went away through many woodlands and stooped down as he went, and picked the leaves one by one from the trees."

And another said:

"I saw him once by moonlight standing tall and black amidst the ruins of a shrine in the old kingdom of Amarna, doing a deed by night. And he wore a look on his face such as murderers wear as he busied himself to cover over something with weeds and dust. Thereafter in Amarna the people of that old Kingdom missed their god, in whose shrine I saw Time crouching in the night, and they have not since beheld him."

And all the while from the distance at the city's edge rose a hum from the three armies of the King clamouring to be led against Zeenar. Thereat the King went down to his three armies and speaking to their chiefs said:

"I will not go down clad with murder to be King over other lands. I have seen the same morning arising on Istahn that also gladdened Alatta, and have heard Peace lowing among the flowers. I will not desolate homes to rule over an orphaned land and a land widowed. But I will lead you against the pledged enemy of Alatta who shall crumble the towers of Zoon and hath gone far to overthrow our gods. He is the foe of Zindara and Istahn and many-citadeled Yan, Hebith and Ebnon may not overcome him nor Karida be safe against him among her bleakest mountains. He is a foe mightier than Zeenar with frontiers stronger than Eidis; he leers at all the peoples of the earth and mocks their gods and covets their builded cities. Therefore we will go forth and conquer Time and save the gods of Alatta from his clutch, and coming back victorious shall find that Death is gone and age and illness departed, and here we shall live for ever by the golden eaves of Zoon, while the bees hum among unrusted gables and never crumbling towers. There shall be neither fading nor forgetting, nor ever dying nor sorrow, when we shall have freed the people and pleasant fields of the earth from inexorable Time."

And the armies swore that they would follow the King to save the world and the gods.

So the next day the King set forth with his three armies and crossed many rivers and marched through many lands, and wherever they went they asked for news of Time.

And the first day they met a woman with her face furrowed and lined, who told them that she had been beautiful and that Time had smitten her in the face with his five claws.

Many an old man they met as they marched in search of Time. All had seen him but none could tell them more, except that some said he went that way and pointed to a ruined tower or to an old and broken tree.

And day after day and month by month the King pushed on with his armies, hoping to come at last on Time. Sometimes they encamped at night near palaces of beautiful design or beside gardens of flowers, hoping to find their enemy when he came to desecrate in the dark. Sometimes they came on cobwebs, sometimes on rusted chains and houses with broken roofs or crumbling walls. Then the armies would push on apace thinking that they were closer upon the track of Time.

As the weeks passed by and weeks grew to months, and always they heard reports and rumours of Time, but never found him, the armies grew weary of the great march, but the King pushed on and would let none turn back, saying always that the enemy was near at hand.

Month in, month out, the King led on his now unwilling armies, till at last they had marched for close upon a year and came to the village of Astarma very far to the north. There many of the King's weary soldiers deserted from his armies and settled down in Astarma and married Astarmian girls. By these soldiers we have the march of the armies clearly chronicled to the time when they came to Astarma, having been nigh a year upon the march. And the army left that village and the children cheered them as they went up the street, and five miles distant they passed over a ridge of hills and out of sight. Beyond this less is known, but the rest of this chronicle is gathered from the tales that the veterans of the King's armies used to tell in the evenings about the fires in Zoon and remembered afterwards by the men of Zeenar.

It is mostly credited in these days that such of the King's armies as went on past Astarma came at last (it is not known after how long a time) over a crest of a slope where the whole earth slanted green to the north. Below it lay green fields and beyond them moaned the sea with never shore nor island so far as the eye could reach. Among the green fields lay a village, and on this village the eyes of the King and his armies were turned as they came down the slope. It lay beneath them, grave with seared antiquity, with old-world gables stained and bent by the lapse of frequent years, with all its chimneys awry. Its roofs were tiled with antique stones covered over deep with moss, each little window looked with a myriad strange cut panes on the gardens shaped with quaint devices and overrun with weeds. On rusted hinges the doors sung to and fro and were fashioned of planks of immemorial oak with black knots gaping from their sockets. Against it all there beat the thistle-down, about it clambered the ivy or swayed the weeds; tall and straight out of the twisted chimneys arose blue columns of smoke, and blades of grass peeped upward between the huge cobbles of the unmolested street. Between the gardens and the cobbled streets stood hedges higher than a horseman might look, of stalwart thorn, and upward through it clambered the convolvulus to peer into the garden from the top. Before each house there was cut a gap in the hedge, and in it swung a wicket gate of timber soft with the rain and years, and green like the moss. Over all of it there brooded age and the full hush of things bygone and forgotten. Upon this derelict that the years had cast up out of antiquity the King and his armies gazed long. Then on the hill slope the King made his armies halt, and went down alone with one of his chiefs into the village.

Presently there was a stir in one of the houses, and a bat flew out of the door into the daylight, and three mice came running out of the doorway down the step, an old stone cracked in two and held together by moss; and there followed an old man bending on a stick with a white beard coming to the ground, wearing clothes that were glossed with use, and presently there came others out of the other houses, all of them as old, and all hobbling on sticks. These were the oldest people that the King had ever beheld, and he asked them the name of the village and who they were; and one of them answered, "This is the City of the Aged in the Territory of Time."

And the King said, "Is Time then here?"

And one of the old men pointed to a great castle standing on a steep hill and said: "Therein dwells Time, and we are his people;" and they all looked curiously at King Karnith Zo, and the eldest of the villagers spoke again and said: "Whence do you come, you that are so young?" and Karnith Zo told him how he had come to conquer Time to save the world and the gods, and asked them whence they came.

And the villagers said:

"We are older than always, and know not whence we came, but we are the people of Time, and here from the Edge of Everything he sends out his hours to assail the world, and you may never conquer Time." But the King went back to his armies, and pointed towards the castle on the hill and told them that at last they had found the Enemy of the Earth; and they that were older than always went back slowly into their houses with the creaking of olden doors. And there they went across the fields and passed the village. From one of his towers Time eyed them all the while, and in battle order they closed in on the steep hill as Time sat still in his great tower and watched.

But as the feet of the foremost touched the edge of the hill Time hurled five years against them, and the years passed over their heads and the army still came on, an army of older men. But the slope seemed steeper to the King and to every man in his army, and they breathed more heavily. And Time summoned up more years, and one by one he hurled them at Karnith Zo and at all his men. And the knees of the army stiffened, and their beards grew and turned grey, and the hours and days and the months went singing over their heads, and their hair turned whiter and whiter, and the conquering hours bore down, and the years rushed on and swept the youth of that army clear away till they came face to face under the walls of the castle of Time with a mass of howling years, and found the top of the slope too steep for aged men. Slowly and painfully, harassed with agues and chills, the King rallied his aged army that tottered down the slope.

Slowly the King led back his warriors over whose heads had shrieked the triumphant years. Year in, year out, they straggled southwards, always towards Zoon; they came, with rust upon their spears and long beards flowing, again into Astarma, and none knew them there. They passed again by towns and villages where once they had inquired curiously concerning Time, and none knew them there either. They came again to the palaces and gardens where they had waited for Time in the night, and found that Time had been there. And all the while they set a hope before them that they should come on Zoon again and see its golden eaves. And no one knew that unperceived behind them there lurked and followed the gaunt figure of Time cutting off stragglers one by one and overwhelming them with his hours, only men were missed from the army every day, and fewer and fewer grew the veterans of Karnith Zo.

But at last after many a month, one night as they marched in the dusk before the morning, dawn suddenly ascending shone on the eaves of Zoon, and a great cry ran through the army:

"Alatta, Alatta!"

But drawing nearer they found that the gates were rusted and weeds grew tall along the outer walls, many a roof had fallen, gables were blackened and bent, and the golden eaves shone not as heretofore. And the soldiers entering the city expecting to find their sisters and sweethearts of a few years ago saw only old women wrinkled with great age and knew not who they were.

Suddenly someone said:

"He has been here too."

And then they knew that while they searched for Time, Time had gone forth against their city and leaguered it with the years, and had taken it while they were far away and enslaved their women and children with the yoke of age. So all that remained of the three armies of Karnith Zo settled in the conquered city. And presently the men of Zeenar crossed over the river Eidis and easily conquering an army of aged men took all Alatta for themselves, and their kings reigned thereafter in the city of Zoon. And sometimes the men of Zeenar listened to the strange tales that the old Alattans told of the years when they made battle against Time. Such of these tales as the men of Zeenar remembered they afterwards set forth, and this is all that may be told of those adventurous armies that went to war with Time to save the world and the gods, and were overwhelmed by the hours and the years.


The Relenting Of Sarnidac


The lame boy Sarnidac tended sheep on a hill to the southward of the city. Sarnidac was a dwarf and greatly derided in the city. For the women said:

"It is very funny that Sarnidac is a dwarf," and they would point their fingers at him saying: -- "This is Sarnidac, he is a dwarf; also he is very lame."

Once the doors of all the temples in the world swung open to the morning, and Sarnidac with his sheep upon the hill saw strange figures going down the white road, always southwards. All the morning he saw the dust rising above the strange figures and always they went southwards right as far as the rim of the Nydoon hills where the white road could be seen no more. And the figures stooped and seemed to be larger than men, but all men seemed very large to Sarnidac, and he could not see clearly through the dust. And Sarnidac shouted to them, as he hailed all people that passed down the long white road, and none of the figures looked to left or right and none of them turned to answer Sarnidac. But then few people ever answered him because he was lame, and a small dwarf.

Still the figures went striding swiftly, stooping forward through the dust, till at last Sarnidac came running down his hill to watch them closer. As he came to the white road the last of the figures passed him, and Sarnidac ran limping behind him down the road.

For Sarnidac was weary of the city wherein all derided him, and when he saw these figures all hurrying away he thought that they went perhaps to some other city beyond the hills over which the sun shone brighter, or where there was more food, for he was poor, even perhaps where people had not the custom of laughing at Sarnidac. So this procession of figures that stooped and seemed larger than men went southward down the road and a lame dwarf hobbled behind them.

Khamazan, now called the City of the Last of Temples, lies southward of the Nydoon hills. This is the story of Pompeides, now chief prophet of the only temple in the world, and greatest of all the prophets that have been:

On the slopes of Nydoon I was seated once above Khamazan. There I saw figures in the morning striding through much dust along the road that leads across the world. Striding up the hill they came towards me, not with the gait of men, and soon the first one came to the crest of the hill where the road dips to find the plains again, where lies Khamazan. And now I swear by all the gods that are gone that this thing happened as I shall say it, and was surely so. When those that came striding up the hill came to its summit they took not the road that goes down into the plains nor trod the dust any longer, but went straight on and upwards, striding as they strode before, as though the hill had not ended nor the road dipped. And they strode as though they trod no yielding substance, yet they stepped upwards through the air.

This the gods did, for They were not born men who strode that day so strangely away from earth.

But I, when I saw this thing, when already three had passed me, leaving earth, cried out before the fourth:

'Gods of my childhood, guardians of little homes, whither are ye going, leaving the round earth to swim alone and forgotten in so great a waste of sky?'

And one answered:

'Heresy apace shoots her fierce glare over the world and men's faith grows dim and the gods go. Men shall make iron gods and gods of steel when the wind and the ivy meet within the shrines of the temples of the gods of old.'

And I left that place as a man leaves fire by night, and going plainwards down the white road that the gods spurned cried out to all that I passed to follow me, and so crying came to the city's gates. And there I shouted to all near the gates:

'From yonder hilltop the gods are leaving earth.'

Then I gathered many, and we all hastened to the hill to pray the gods to tarry, and there we cried out to the last of the departing gods:

'Gods of old prophecy and of men's hopes, leave not the earth, and all our worship shall hum about Your ears as never it hath before, and oft the sacrifice shall squeal upon Your altars.'

And I said: -- 

'Gods of still evenings and quiet nights, go not from earth and leave not Your carven shrines, and all men shall worship You still. For between us and yonder still blue spaces oft roam the thunder and the storms, there in his hiding lurks the dark eclipse, and there are stored all snows and hails and lightnings that shall vex the earth for a million years. Gods of our hopes, how shall men's prayers crying from empty shrines pass through such terrible spaces; how shall they ever fare above the thunder and many storms to whatever place the gods may go in that blue waste beyond?'

But the gods bent straight forward, and trampled through the sky and looked not to the right nor left nor downwards, nor ever heeded my prayer.

And one cried out hoping yet to stay the gods, though nearly all were gone, saying: -- 

'O gods, rob not the earth of the dim hush that hangs round all Your temples, bereave not all the world of old romance, take not the glamour from the moonlight nor tear the wonder out of the white mists in every land; for, O ye gods of the childhood of the world, when You have left the earth you shall have taken the mystery from the sea and all its glory from antiquity, and You shall have wrenched out hope from the dim future. There shall be no strange cries at night time half understood, nor songs in the twilight, and the whole of the wonder shall have died with last year's flowers in little gardens or hill-slopes leaning south; for with the gods must go the enchantment of the plains and all the magic of dark woods, and something shall be lacking from the quiet of early dawn. For it would scarce befit the gods to leave the earth and not take with Them that which They had given it. Out beyond the still blue spaces Ye will need the holiness of sunset for Yourselves and little sacred memories and the thrill that is in stories told by firesides long ago. One strain of music, one song, one line of poetry and one kiss, and a memory of one pool with rushes, and each one the best, shall the gods take to whom the best belongs, when the gods go.

'Sing a lamentation, people of Khamazan, sing a lamentation for all the children of earth at the feet of the departing gods. Sing a lamentation for the children of earth who now must carry their prayers to empty shrines and around empty shrines must rest at last.'

Then when our prayers were ended and our tears shed, we beheld the last and smallest of the gods halted upon the hilltop. Twice he called to Them with a cry somewhat like the cry wherewith our shepherds hail their brethren, and long gazed after Them, and then deigned to look no longer and to tarry upon earth and turn his eyes on men. Then a great shout went up when we saw that our hopes were saved and that there was still on earth a haven for our prayers. Smaller than men now seemed the figures that had loomed so big, as one behind the other far over our heads They still strode upwards. But the small god that had pitied the world came with us down the hill, still deigning to tread the road, though strangely, not as men tread, and into Khamazan. There we housed him in the palace of the King, for that was before the building of the temple of gold, and the King made sacrifice before him with his own hands, and he that had pitied the world did eat the flesh of the sacrifice.

And the Book of the Knowledge of the gods in Khamazan tells how the small god that pitied the world told his prophets that his name was Sarnidac and that he herded sheep, and that therefore he is called the shepherd god, and sheep are sacrificed upon his altars thrice a day, and the North, East, West and the South are the four hurdles of Sarnidac and the white clouds are his sheep. And the Book of the Knowledge of the gods tells further how the day on which Pompeides found the gods shall be kept for ever as a fast until the evening and called the Fast of the Departing, but in the evening shall a feast be held which is named the Feast of the Relenting, for on that evening Sarnidac pitied the whole world and tarried.

And the people of Khamazan all prayed to Sarnidac, and dreamed their dreams and hoped their hopes because their temple was not empty. Whether the gods that are departed be greater than Sarnidac none know in Khamazan, but some believe that in their azure windows They have set lights that lost prayers swarming upwards may come to them like moths and at last find haven and light far up above the evening and the stillness where sit the gods.

But Sarnidac wondered at the strange figures, at the people of Khamazan, and at the palace of the King and the customs of the prophets, but wondered not more greatly at aught in Khamazan than he had wondered at the city which he had left. For Sarnidac, who had not known why men were unkind to him, thought that he had found at last the land for which the gods had let him hope, where men should have the custom of being kind to Sarnidac.


The Jest Of The Gods


Once the Older gods had need of laughter. Therefore They made the soul of a king, and set in it ambitions greater than kings should have, and lust for territories beyond the lust of other kings, and in this soul They set strength beyond the strength of others and fierce desire for power and a strong pride. Then the gods pointed earthward and sent that soul into the fields of men to live in the body of a slave. And the slave grew, and the pride and lust for power began to arise in his heart, and he wore shackles on his arms. Then in the Fields of Twilight the gods prepared to laugh.

But the slave went down to the shore of the great sea, and cast his body away and the shackles that were upon it, and strode back to the Fields of Twilight and stood up before the gods and looked Them in Their faces. This thing the gods, when They had prepared to laugh, had not foreseen. Lust for power burned strong in that King's soul, and there was all the strength and pride in it that the gods had placed therein, and he was too strong for the Older gods. He whose body had borne the lashes of men could brook no longer the dominion of the gods, and standing before Them he bade the gods to go. Up to Their lips leapt all the anger of the Older gods, being for the first time commanded, but the King's soul faced Them still, and Their anger died away and They averted Their eyes. Then Their thrones became empty, and the Fields of Twilight bare as the gods slunk far away. But the soul chose new companions.


The Dreams Of The Prophet


I

When the gods drave me forth to toil and assailed me with thirst and beat me down with hunger, then I prayed to the gods. When the gods smote the cities wherein I dwelt, and when Their anger scorched me and Their eyes burned, then did I praise the gods and offer sacrifice. But when I came again to my green land and found that all was gone, and the old mysterious haunts wherein I prayed as a child were gone, and when the gods tore up the dust and even the spider's web from the last remembered nook, then did I curse the gods, speaking it to Their faces, saying: -- 

"Gods of my prayers! Gods of my sacrifice! because Ye have forgotten the sacred places of my childhood, and they have therefore ceased to be, yet may I not forget. Because Ye have done this thing, Ye shall see cold altars and shall lack both my fear and praise. I shall not wince at Your lightnings, nor be awed when Ye go by."

Then looking seawards I stood and cursed the gods, and at this moment there came to me one in the garb of a poet, who said: -- 

"Curse not the gods."

And I said to him:

"Wherefore should I not curse Those that have stolen my sacred places in the night, and trodden down the gardens of my childhood?"

And he said "Come, and I will show thee." And I followed him to where two camels stood with their faces towards the desert. And we set out and I travelled with him for a great space, he speaking never a word, and so we came at last to a waste valley hid in the desert's midst. And herein, like fallen moons, I saw vast ribs that stood up white out of the sand, higher than the hills of the desert. And here and there lay the enormous shapes of skulls like the white marble domes of palaces built for tyrannous kings a long while since by armies of driven slaves. Also there lay in the desert other bones, the bones of vast legs and arms, against which the desert, like a besieging sea, ever advanced and already had half drowned. And as I gazed in wonder at these colossal things the poet said to me:

"The gods are dead."

And I gazed long in silence, and I said:

"These fingers, that are now so dead and so very white and still, tore once the flowers in gardens of my youth."

But my companion said to me:

"I have brought thee here to ask of thee thy forgiveness of the gods, for I, being a poet, knew the gods, and would fain drive off the curses that hover above Their bones and bring Them men's forgiveness as an offering at the last, that the weeds and the ivy may cover Their bones from the sun."

And I said:

"They made Remorse with his fur grey like a rainy evening in the autumn, with many rending claws, and Pain with his hot hands and lingering feet, and Fear like a rat with two cold teeth carved each out of the ice of either pole, and Anger with the swift flight of the dragonfly in summer having burning eyes. I will not forgive these gods."

But the poet said:

"Canst thou be angry with these beautiful white bones?" And I looked long at those curved and beautiful bones that were no longer able to hurt the smallest creature in all the worlds that they had made. And I thought long of the evil that they had done, and also of the good. But when I thought of Their great hands coming red and wet from battles to make a primrose for a child to pick, then I forgave the gods.

And a gentle rain came falling out of heaven and stilled the restless sand, and a soft green moss grew suddenly and covered the bones till they looked like strange green hills, and I heard a cry and awoke and found that I had dreamed, and looking out of my house into the street I found that a flash of lightning had killed a child. Then I knew that the gods still lived.


II

I lay asleep in the poppy fields of the gods in the valley of Alderon, where the gods come by night to meet together in council when the moon is low. And I dreamed that this was the Secret.

Fate and Chance had played their game and ended, and all was over, all the hopes and tears, regrets, desires and sorrows, things that men wept for and unremembered things, and kingdoms and little gardens and the sea, and the worlds and the moons and the suns; and what remained was nothing, having neither colour nor sound.

Then said Fate to Chance: "Let us play our old game again." And they played it again together, using the gods as pieces, as they had played it oft before. So that those things which have been shall all be again, and under the same bank in the same land a sudden glare of singlight on the same spring day shall bring the same daffodil to bloom once more and the same child shall pick it, and not regretted shall be the billion years that fell between. And the same old faces shall be seen again, yet not bereaved of their familiar haunts. And you and I shall in a garden meet again upon an afternoon in summer when the sun stands midway between his zenith and the sea, where we met oft before. For Fate and Chance play but one game together with every move the same, and they play it oft to while eternity away.



Part II.


The Journey Of The King


I

One day the King turned to the women that danced and said to them: "Dance no more," and those that bore the wine in jewelled cups he sent away. The palace of King Ebalon was emptied of sound of song and there rose the voices of heralds crying in the streets to find the prophets of the land.

Then went the dancers, the cupbearer and the singers down into the hard streets among the houses, Pattering Leaves, Silvern Fountain and Summer Lightning, the dancers whose feet the gods had not devised for stony ways, which had only danced for princes. And with them went the singer, Soul of the South, and the sweet singer, Dream of the Sea, whose voices the gods had attuned to the ears of kings, and old Istahn the cupbearer left his life's work in the palace to tread the common ways, he that had stood at the elbows of three kings of Zarkandhu and had watched his ancient vintage feeding their valour and mirth as the waters of Tondaris feed the green plains to the south. Ever he had stood grave among their jests, but his heart warmed itself solely by the fire of the mirth of Kings. He too, with the singers and dancers, went out into the dark.

And throughout the land the heralds sought out the prophets thereof. Then one evening as King Ebalon sat alone within his palace there were brought before him all who had repute for wisdom and who wrote the histories of the times to be. Then the King spake, saying: "The King goeth upon a journey with many horses, yet riding upon none, when the pomp of travelling shall be heard in the streets and the sound of the lute and the drum and the name of the King. And I would know what princes and what people shall greet me on the other shore in the land to which I travel."

Then fell a hush upon the prophets for they murmured: "All knowledge is with the King."

Then said the King: "Thou first, Samahn, High Prophet of the Temple of gold in Azinorn, answer or thou shalt write no more the history of the times to be, but shalt toil with thy hand to make record of the little happenings of the days that were, as do the common men."

Then said Samahn: "All knowledge is with the King," and when the pomp of travelling shall be heard in the streets and the slow horses whereon the King rideth not go behind lute and drum, then, as the King well knoweth, thou shalt go down to the great white house of Kings and, entering the portals where none are worthy to follow, shalt make obeisance alone to all the elder Kings of Zarkandhu, whose bones are seated upon golden thrones grasping their sceptres still. Therein thou shalt go with robes and sceptre through the marble porch, but thou shalt leave behind thee thy gleaming crown that others may wear it, and as the times go by come in to swell the number of the thirty Kings that sit in the great white house on golden thrones. There is one doorway in the great white house, and it stands wide with marble portals yawning for kings, but when it shall receive thee, and thine obeisance hath been made because of thine obligation to the thirty Kings, thou shalt find at the back of the house an unknown door through which the soul of a King may just pass, and leaving thy bones upon a golden throne thou shalt go unseen out of the great white house to tread the velvet spaces that lie among the worlds. Then, O King, it were well to travel fast and not to tarry about the houses of men as do the souls of some who still bewail the sudden murder that sent them upon the journey before their time, and who, being yet both to go, linger in dark chambers all the night. These, setting forth to travel in the dawn and travelling all the day, see earth behind them gleaming when an evening falls, and again are loth to leave its pleasant haunts, and come back again through dark woods and up into some old loved chamber, and ever tarry between home and flight and find no rest.

Thou wilt set forth at once because the journey is far and lasts for many hours; but the hours on the velvet spaces are the hours of the gods, and we may not say what time such an hour may be if reckoned in mortal years.

At last thou shalt come to a grey place filled with mist, with grey shapes standing before it which are altars, and on the altars rise small red flames from dying fires that scarce illumine the mist. And in the mist it is dark and cold because the fires are low. These are the altars of the people's faiths, and the flames are the worship of men, and through the mist the gods of Old go groping in the dark and in the cold. There thou shalt hear a voice cry feebly: "Inyani, Inyani, lord of the thunder, where art thou, for I cannot see?" And a voice shall answer faintly in the cold: "O maker of many worlds, I am here." And in that place the gods of Old are nearly deaf for the prayers of men grow few, they are nigh blind because the fires burn low upon the altars of men's faiths and they are very cold. And all about the place of mist there lies a moaning sea which is called the Sea of Souls. And behind the place of mist are the dim shapes of mountains, and on the peak of one there glows a silvern light that shines in the moaning sea; and ever as the flames on the altars die before the gods of Old the light on the mountain increases, and the light shines over the mist and never through it as the gods of Old grow blind. It is said that the light on the mountain shall one day become a new god who is not of the gods of Old.

There, O King, thou shalt enter the Sea of Souls by the shore where the altars stand which are covered in mist. In that sea are the souls of all that ever lived on the worlds and all that ever shall live, all freed from earth and flesh. And all the souls in that sea are aware of one another but more than with hearing or sight or by taste or touch or smell, and they all speak to each other yet not with lips, with voices which need no sound. And over the sea lies music as winds o'er an ocean on earth, and there unfettered by language great thoughts set outward through the souls as on earth the currents go.

Once did I dream that in a mist-built ship I sailed upon that sea and heard the music that is not of instruments, and voices not from lips, and woke and found that I was upon the earth and that the gods had lied to me in the night. Into this sea from fields of battle and cities come down the rivers of lives, and ever the gods have taken onyx cups and far and wide into the worlds again have flung the souls out of the sea, that each soul may find a prison in the body of a man with five small windows closely barred, and each one shackled with forgetfulness.

But all the while the light on the mountain grows, and none may say what work the god that shall be born of the silvern light shall work on the Sea of Souls, when the gods of Old are dead and the Sea is living still.

And answer made the King:

"Thou that art a prophet of the gods of Old, go back and see that those red flames burn more brightly on the altars in the mist, for the gods of Old are easy and pleasant gods, and thou canst not say what toil shall vex our souls when the god of the light on the mountain shall stride along the shore where bleach the huge bones of the gods of Old."

And Samahn answered: "All knowledge is with the King."


II

Then the King called to Ynath bidding him speak concerning the journey of the King. Ynath was the prophet that sat at the Eastern gate of the Temple of Gorandhu. There Ynath prayed his prayers to all the passers by lest ever the gods should go abroad, and one should pass him dressed in mortal guise. And men are pleased as they walk by that Eastern gate that Ynath should pray to them for fear that they be gods, so men bring gifts to Ynath in the Eastern gate.

And Ynath said: "All knowledge is with the King. When a strange ship comes to anchor in the air outside thy chamber window, thou shalt leave thy well-kept garden and it shall become a prey to the nights and days and be covered again with grass. But going aboard thou shalt set sail over the Sea of Time and well shall the ship steer through the many worlds and still sail on. If other ships shall pass thee on the way and hail thee saying: 'From what port' thou shalt answer them: 'From Earth.' And if they ask thee 'whither bound?' then thou shalt answer: 'The End.' Or thou shalt hail them saying: 'From what port?' And they shall answer: 'From The End called also The Beginning, and bound to Earth.' And thou shalt sail away till like an old sorrow dimly felt by happy men the worlds shall gleam in the distance like one star, and as the star pales thou shalt come to the shore of space where aeons rolling shorewards from Time's sea shall lash up centuries to foam away in years. There lies the Centre Garden of the gods, facing full seawards. All around lie songs that on earth were never sung, fair thoughts not heard among the worlds, dream pictures never seen that drifted over Time without a home till at last the aeons swept them on to the shore of space. And in the Centre Garden of the gods bloom many fancies. Therein once some souls were playing where the gods walked up and down and to and fro. And a dream came in more beauteous than the rest on the crest of a wave of Time, and one soul going downward to the shore clutched at the dream and caught it. Then over the dreams and stories and old songs that lay on the shore of space the hours came sweeping back, and the centuries caught that soul and swirled him with his dream far out to the Sea of Time, and the aeons swept him earthwards and cast him into a palace with all the might of the sea and left him there with his dream. The child grew to a King and still clutched at his dream till the people wondered and laughed. Then, O King, Thou didst cast thy dream back into the Sea, and Time drowned it and men laughed no more, but thou didst forget that a certain sea beat on a distant shore and that there was a garden and therein souls. But at the end of the journey that thou shalt take, when thou comest to the shore of space again thou shalt go up the beach, and coming to a garden gate that stands in a garden wall shalt remember these things again, for it stands where the hours assail not above the beating of Time, far up the shore, and nothing altereth there. So thou shalt go through the garden gate and hear again the whispering of the souls when they talk low where sing the voices of the gods. There with kindred souls thou shalt speak as thou didst of yore and tell them what befell thee beyond the tides of time and how they took thee and made of thee a King so that thy soul found no rest. There in the Centre Garden thou shalt sit at ease and watch the gods all rainbow-clad go up and down and to and fro on the paths of dreams and songs, and shalt not venture down to the cheerless sea. For that which a man loves most is not on this side of Time, and all which drifts on its aeons is a lure.

"All knowledge is with the King."

Then said the King: "Ay, there was a dream once but Time hath swept it away."


III

Then spake Monith, Prophet of the Temple of Azure that stands on the snow-peak of Ahmoon and said: "All knowledge is with the King. Once thou didst set out upon a one day's journey riding thy horse and before thee had gone a beggar down the road, and his name was Yeb. Him thou didst overtake and when he heeded not thy coming thou didst ride over him.

"Upon the journey that thou shalt one day take riding upon no horse, this beggar has set out before thee and is labouring up the crystal steps towards the moon as a man goeth up the steps of a high tower in the dark. On the moon's edge beneath the shadow of Mount Angises he shall rest awhile and then shall climb the crystal steps again. Then a great journey lies before him before he may rest again till he come to that star that is called the left eye of Gundo. Then a journey of many crystal steps lieth before him again with nought to guide him but the light of Omrazu. On the edge of Omrazu shall Yeb tarry long, for the most dreadful part of his journey lieth before him. Up the crystal steps that lie beyond Omrazu he must go, and any that follow, though the howling of all the meteors that ride the sky; for in that part of the crystal space go many meteors up and down all squealing in the dark, which greatly perplex all travellers. And, if he may see though the gleaming of the meteors and in spite of their uproar come safely through, he shall come to the star Omrund at the edge of the Track of Stars. And from star to star along the Track of Stars the soul of a man may travel with more ease, and there the journey lies no more straight forward, but curves to the right."

Then said King Ebalon:

"Of this beggar whom my horse smote down thou hast spoken much, but I sought to know by what road a King should go when he taketh his last royal journey, and what princes and what people should meet him upon another shore."

Then answered Monith:

"All knowledge is with the King. It hath been doomed by the gods, who speak not in jest, that thou shalt follow the soul that thou didst send alone upon its journey, that that soul go not unattended up the crystal steps.

"Moreover, as this beggar went upon his lonely journey he dared to curse the King, and his curses lie like a red mist along the valleys and hollows wherever he uttered them. By these red mists, O King, thou shalt track him as a man follows a river by night until thou shalt fare at last to the land wherein he hath blessed thee (repenting of anger at last), and thou shalt see his blessing lie over the land like a blaze of golden sunshine illumining fields and gardens."

Then said the King:

"The gods have spoken hard above the snowy peak of this mountain Ahmoon."

And Monith said:

"How a man may come to the shore of space beyond the tides of time I know not, but it is doomed that thou shalt certainly first follow the beggar past the moon, Omrund and Omrazu till thou comest to the Track of Stars, and up the Track of Stars coming towards the right along the edge of it till thou comest to Ingazi. There the soul of the beggar Yeb sat long, then, breathing deep, set off on his great journey earthward adown the crystal steps. Straight through the spaces where no stars are found to rest at, following the dull gleam of earth and her fields till he come at last where journeys end and start."

Then said King Ebalon:

"If this hard tale be true, how shall I find the beggar that I must follow when I come again to the earth?"

And the Prophet answered:

"Thou shalt know him by his name and find him in this place, for that beggar shall be called King Ebalon and he shall be sitting upon the throne of the Kings of Zarkandhu."

And the King answered:

"If one sit upon this throne whom men call King Ebalon, who then shall I be?"

And the Prophet answered:

"Thou shalt be a beggar and thy name shall be Yeb, and thou shalt ever tread the road before the palace waiting for alms from the King whom men shall call Ebalon."

Then said the King:

"Hard gods indeed are those that tramp the snows of Ahmoon about the temple of Azure, for if I sinned against this beggar called Yeb, they too have sinned against him when they doomed him to travel on this weary journey though he hath not offended."

And Monith said:

"He too hath offended, for he was angry as thy horse struck him, and the gods smite anger. And his anger and his curses doom him to journey without rest as also they doom thee."

Then said the King:

"Thou that sittest upon Ahmoon in the Temple of Azure, dreaming thy dreams and making prophecies, foresee the ending of this weary quest and tell me where it shall be?"

And Monith answered:

"As a man looks across great lakes I have gazed into the days to be, and as the great flies come upon four wings of gauze to skim over blue waters, so have my dreams come sailing two by two out of the days to be. And I dreamed that King Ebalon, whose soul was not thy soul, stood in his palace in a time far hence, and beggars thronged the street outside, and among them was Yeb, a beggar, having thy soul. And it was on the morning of a festival and the King came robed in white, with all his prophets and his seers and magicians, all down the marble steps to bless the land and all that stood therein as far as the purple hills, because it was the morning of festival. And as the King raised up his hand over the beggars' heads to bless the fields and rivers and all that stood therein, I dreamed that the quest was ended.

"All knowledge is with the King."


IV

Evening darkened and above the palace domes gleamed out the stars whereon haply others missed the secret too.

And outside the palace in the dark they that had borne the wine in jewelled cups mocked in low voices at the King and at the wisdom of his prophets.

Then spake Ynar, called the prophet of the Crystal Peak; for there rises Amanath above all that land, a mountain whose peak is crystal, and Ynar beneath its summit hath his Temple, and when day shines no longer on the world Amanath takes the sunlight and gleams afar as a beacon in a bleak land lit at night. And at the hour when all faces are turned on Amanath, Ynar comes forth beneath the Crystal peak to weave strange spells and to make signs that people say are surely for the gods. Therefore it is said in all those lands that Ynar speaks at evening to the gods when all the world is still.

And Ynar said:

"All knowledge is with the King, and without doubt it hath come to the King's ears how certain speech is held at evening on the Peak of Amanath.

"They that speak to me at evening on the Peak are They that live in a city through whose streets Death walketh not, and I have heard it from Their Elders that the King shall take no journey; only from thee the hills shall slip away, the dark woods, the sky and all the gleaming worlds that fill the night, and the green fields shall go on untrodden by thy feet and the blue sky ungazed at by thine eyes, and still the rivers shall all run seaward but making no music in thine ears. And all the old laments shall still be spoken, troubling thee not, and to the earth shall fall the tears of the children of earth and never grieving thee. Pestilence, heat and cold, ignorance, famine and anger, these things shall grip their claws upon all men as heretofore in fields and roads and cities but shall not hold thee. But from thy soul, sitting in the old worn track of the worlds when all is gone away, shall fall off the shackles of circumstance and thou shalt dream thy dreams alone.

"And thou shalt find that dreams are real where there is nought as far as the Rim but only thy dreams and thee.

"With them thou shalt build palaces and cities resting upon nothing and having no place in time, not to be assailed by the hours or harmed by ivy or rust, not to be taken by conquerors, but destroyed by thy fancy if thou dost wish it so or by thy fancy rebuilded. And nought shall ever disturb these dreams of thine which here are troubled and lost by all the happenings of earth, as the dreams of one who sleeps in a tumultuous city. For these thy dreams shall sweep outward like a strong river over a great waste plain wherein are neither rocks nor hills to turn it, only in that place there shall be no boundaries nor sea, neither hindrance nor end. And it were well for thee that thou shouldst take few regrets into thy waste dominions from the world wherein thou livest, for such regrets or any memory of deeds ill done must sit beside thy soul forever in that waste, singing one song always of forlorn remorse; and they too shall be only dreams but very real.

"There nought shall hinder thee among thy dreams, for even the gods may harass thee no more when flesh and earth and events with which They bound thee shall have slipped away."

Then said the King:

"I like not this grey doom, for dreams are empty. I would see action roaring through the world, and men and deeds."

Then answered the Prophet:

"Victory, jewels and dancing but please thy fancy. What is the sparkle of the gem to thee without thy fancy which it allures, and thy fancy is all a dream. Action and deeds and men are nought without dreams and do but fetter them, and only dreams are real, and where thou stayest when the worlds shall drift away there shall be only dreams."

And the King answered:

"A mad prophet."

And Ynar said:

"A mad prophet, but believing that his soul possesseth all things of which his soul may become aware and that he is master of that soul, and thou a high-minded King believing only that thy soul possesseth such few countries as are leaguered by thine armies and the sea, and that thy soul is possessed by certain strange gods of whom thou knowest not, who shall deal with it in a way whereof thou knowest not. Until a knowledge come to us that either is wrong I have wider realms, I King, than thee and hold them beneath no overlords."

Then said the King:

"Thou hast said no overlords! To whom then dost thou speak by strange signs at evening above the world?"

And Ynar went forward and whispered to the King. And the King shouted:

"Seize ye this prophet for he is a hypocrite and speaks to no gods at evening above the world, but has deceived us with his signs."

And Ynar said:

"Come not near me or I shall point towards you when I speak at evening upon the mountain with Those that ye know of."

Then Ynar went away and the guards touched him not.


V

Then spake the prophet Thun, who was clad in seaweed and had no Temple, but lived apart from men. All his life he had lived on a lonely beach and had heard for ever the wailing of the sea and the crying of the wind in hollows among the cliffs. Some said that having lived so long by the full beating of the sea, and where always the wind cries loudest, he could not feel the joys of other men, but only felt the sorrow of the sea crying in his soul for ever.

"Long ago on the path of stars, midmost between the worlds, there strode the gods of Old. In the bleak middle of the worlds They sat and the worlds went round and round, like dead leaves in the wind at Autumn's end, with never a life on one, while the gods went sighing for the things that might not be. And the centuries went over the gods to go where the centuries go, toward the End of Things, and with Them went the sighs of all the gods as They longed for what might not be.

"One by one in the midst of the worlds, fell dead the gods of Old, still sighing for the things that might not be, all slain by Their own regrets. Only Shimono Kani, the youngest of the gods, made him a harp out of the heart strings of all the elder gods, and, sitting upon the Path of Stars in the Middle of Things, played upon the harp a dirge for the gods of Old. And the song told of all vain regrets and of unhappy loves of the gods in the olden time, and of Their great deeds that were to adorn the future years. But into the dirge of Shimono Kani came voices crying out of the heart strings of the gods, all sighing still for the things that might not be. And the dirge and the voices crying, go drifting away from the Path of Stars, away from the Midst of Things, till they come twittering among the Worlds, like a great host of birds that are lost by night. And every note is a life, and many notes become caught up among the worlds to be entangled with flesh for a little while before they pass again on their journey to the great Anthem that roars at the End of Time. Shimono Kani hath given a voice to the wind and added a sorrow to the sea. But when in lighted chambers after feasting there arises the voice of the singer to please the King, then is the soul of that singer crying aloud to his fellows from where he stands chained to earth. And when at the sound of the singing the heart of the King grows sad and his princes lament then they remember, though knowing not that, they remember it, the sad face of Shimono Kani sitting by his dead brethren, the elder gods, playing on the harp of crying heart strings whereby he sent their souls among the worlds.

"And when the music of one lute is lonely on the hills at night, then one soul calleth to his brother souls -- the notes of Shimono Kani's dirge which have not been caught among the worlds -- and he knoweth not to whom he calls or why, but knoweth only that minstrelsy is his only cry and sendeth it out into the dark.

"But although in the prison houses of earth all memories must die, yet as there sometimes clings to a prisoner's feet some dust of the fields wherein he was captured, so sometimes fragments of remembrance cling to a man's soul after it hath been taken to earth. Then a great minstrel arises, and, weaving together the shreds of his memories, maketh some melody such as the hand of Shimono Kani smites out of his harp; and they that pass by say: 'Hath there not been some such melody before?' and pass on sad at heart for memories which are not.

"Therefore, O King, one day the great gates of thy palace shall lie open for a procession wherein the King comes down to pass through a people, lamenting with lute and drum; and on the same day a prison door shall be opened by relenting hands, and one more lost note of Shimono Kani's dirge shall go back to swell his melody again.

"The dirge of Shimono Kani shall roll on till one day it shall come with all its notes complete to overwhelm the Silence that sits at the End of Things. Then shall Shimono Kani say to his brethren's bones: The things that might not be have at last become.'

"But very quiet shall be the bones of the gods of Old, and only Their voices shall live which cried from the harp of heart strings, for the things which might not be."


VI

When the caravans, saying farewell to Zandara, set out across the waste northwards towards Einandhu, they follow the desert track for seven days before they come to water where Shubah Onath rises black out of the waste, with a well at its foot and herbage on its summit. On this rock a prophet hath his Temple and is called the Prophet of Journeys, and hath carven in a southern window smiling along the camel track all gods that are benignant to caravans.

There a traveller may learn by prophecy whether he shall accomplish the ten days' journey thence across the desert and so come to the white city of Einandhu, or whether his bones shall lie with the bones of old along the desert track.

No name hath the Prophet of Journeys, for none is needed in that desert where no man calls nor ever a man answers.

Thus spake the Prophet of Journeys standing before the King:

"The journey of the King shall be an old journey pushed on apace.

"Many a year before the making of the moon thou camest down with dream camels from the City without a name that stands beyond all the stars. And then began thy journey over the Waste of Nought, and thy dream camel bore thee well when those of certain of thy fellow travellers fell down in the Waste and were covered over by the silence and were turned again to nought; and those travellers when their dream camels fell, having nothing to carry them further over the Waste, were lost beyond and never found the earth. These are those men that might have been but were not. And all about thee fluttered the myriad hours travelling in great swarms across the Waste of Nought.

"How many centuries passed across the cities while thou wast making thy journey none may reckon, for there is no time in the Waste of Nought, but only the hours fluttering earthwards from beyond to do the work of Time. At last the dream-borne travellers saw far off a green place gleaming and made haste towards it and so came to Earth. And there, O King, ye rest for a little while, thou and those that came with thee, making an encampment upon earth before journeying on. There the swarming hours alight, settling on every blade of grass and tree, and spreading over your tents and devouring all things, and at last bending your very tent poles with their weight and wearying you.

"Behind the encampment in the shadow of the tents lurks a dark figure with a nimble sword, having the name of Time. This is he that hath called the hours from beyond and he it is that is their master, and it is his work that the hours do as they devour all green things upon the earth and tatter the tents and weary all the travellers. As each of the hours does the work of Time, Time smites him with his nimble sword as soon as his work is done, and the hour falls severed to the dust with his bright wings scattered, as a locust cut asunder by the scimitar of a skillful swordsman.

"One by one, O King, with a stir in the camp, and the folding up of the tents one by one, the travellers shall push on again on the journey begun so long before out of the City without a name to the place where dream camels go, striding free through the Waste. So into the Waste, O King, thou shalt set forth ere long, perhaps to renew friendships begun during thy short encampment upon earth.

"Other green places thou shalt meet in the Waste and thereon shalt encamp again until driven thence by the hours. What prophet shall relate how many journeys thou shalt make or how many encampments? But at last thou shalt come to the place of The Resting of Camels, and there shall gleaming cliffs that are named The Ending of Journeys lift up out of the Waste of Nought, Nought at their feet, Nought laying wide before them, with only the glint of worlds far off to illumine the Waste. One by one, on tired dream camels, the travellers shall come in, and going up the pathway through the cliff in that land of The Resting of Camels shall come on The City of Ceasing. There, the dream-wrought pinnacles and the spires that are builded of men's hopes shall rise up real before thee, seen only hitherto as a mirage in the Waste.

"So far the swarming hours may not come, and far away among the tents shall stand the dark figure with the nimble sword. But in the scintillant streets, under the song-built abodes of the last of cities, thy journey, O King, shall end."


VII

In the valley beyond Sidono there lies a garden of poppies, and where the poppies' heads are all a-swing with summer breezes that go up the valley there lies a path well strewn with ocean shells. Over Sidono's summit the birds come streaming to the lake that lies in the valley of the garden, and behind them rises the sun sending Sidono's shadow as far as the edge of the lake. And down the path of many ocean shells when they begin to gleam in the sun, every morning walks an aged man clad in a silken robe with strange devices woven. A little temple where the old man lives stands at the edge of the path. None worship there, for Zornadhu, the old prophet, hath forsaken men to walk among his poppies.

For Zornadhu hath failed to understand the purport of Kings and cities and the moving up and down of many people to the tune of the clinking of gold. Therefore hath Zornadhu gone far away from the sound of cities and from those that are ensnared thereby, and beyond Sidono's mountain hath come to rest where there are neither kings nor armies nor bartering for gold, but only the heads of the poppies that sway in the wind together and the birds that fly from Sidono to the lake, and then the sunrise over Sidono's summit; and afterwards the flight of birds out of the lake and over Sidono again, and sunset behind the valley, and high over lake and garden the stars that know not cities. There Zornadhu lives in his garden of poppies with Sidono standing between him and the whole world of men; and when the wind blowing athwart the valley sways the heads of the tall poppies against the Temple wall, the old prophet says: "The flowers are all praying, and lo! they be nearer to the gods than men."

But the heralds of the King coming after many days of travel to Sidono perceived the garden valley. By the lake they saw the poppy garden gleaming round and small like a sunrise over water on a misty morning seen by some shepherd from the hills. And descending the bare mountain for three days they came to the gaunt pines, and ever between the tall trunks came the glare of the poppies that shone from the garden valley. For a whole day they travelled through the pines. That night a cold wind came up the garden valley crying against the poppies. Low in his Temple, with a song of exceeding grief, Zornadhu in the morning made a dirge for the passing of poppies, because in the night time there had fallen petals that might not return or ever come again into the garden valley. Outside the Temple on the path of ocean shells the heralds halted, and read the names and honours of the King; and from the Temple came the voice of Zornadhu still singing his lament. But they took him from his garden because of the King's command, and down his gleaming path of ocean shells and away up Sidono, and left the Temple empty with none to lament when silken poppies died. And the will of the wind of the autumn was wrought upon the poppies, and the heads of the poppies that rose from the earth went down to the earth again, as the plume of a warrior smitten in a heathen fight far away, where there are none to lament him. Thus out of his land of flowers went Zornadhu and came perforce into the lands of men, and saw cities, and in the city's midst stood up before the King.

And the King said:

"Zornadhu, what of the journey of the King and of the princes and the people that shall meet me?"

Zornadhu answered:

"I know nought of Kings, but in the night time the poppy made his journey a little before dawn. Thereafter the wildfowl came as is their wont over Sidono's summit, and the sun rising behind them gleamed upon Sidono, and all the flowers of the lake awoke. And the bee passing up and down the garden went droning to other poppies, and the flowers of the lake, they that had known the poppy, knew him no more. And the sun's rays slanting from Sidono's crest lit still a garden valley where one poppy waved his petals to the dawn no more. And I, O King, that down a path of gleaming ocean shells walk in the morning, found not, nor have since found, that poppy again, that hath gone on the journey whence there is not returning, out of my garden valley. And I, O King, made a dirge to cry beyond that valley and the poppies bowed their heads; but there is no cry nor no lament that may adjure the life to return again to a flower that grew in a garden once and hereafter is not.

"Unto what place the lives of poppies have gone no man shall truly say. Sure it is that to that place are only outward tracks. Only it may be that when a man dreams at evening in a garden where heavily the scent of poppies hangs in the air, when the winds have sunk, and far away the sound of a lute is heard on lonely hills, as he dreams of silken-scarlet poppies that once were a-swing together in the gardens of his youth, the lives of those old lost poppies shall return, living again in his dream. *So there may dream the gods.* And through the dreams of some divinity reclining in tinted fields above the morning we may haply pass again, although our bodies have long swirled up and down the world with other dust. In these strange dreams our lives may be again, all in the centre of our hopes, rejoicings and laments, until above the morning the gods wake to go about their work, haply to remember still Their idle dreams, haply to dream them all again in the stillness when shines the starlight of the gods."


VIII

Then said the King: "I like not these strange journeys nor this faint wandering through the dreams of gods like the shadow of a weary camel that may not rest when the sun is low. The gods that have made me to love the earth's cool woods and dancing streams do ill to send me into the starry spaces that I love not, with my soul still peering earthward through the eternal years, as a beggar who once was noble staring from the street at lighted halls. For wherever the gods may send me I shall be as the gods have made me, a creature loving the green fields of earth.

"Now if there stand one prophet here that hath the ear of those too splendid gods that stride above the glories of the orient sky, tell them that there is on earth one King in the land called Zarkandhu to the south of the opal mountains, who would fain tarry among the many gardens of earth, and would leave to other men the splendours that the gods shall give the dead above the twilight that surrounds the stars."

Then spake Yamen, prophet of the Temple of Obin that stands on the shores of a great lake, facing east. Yamen said: "I pray oft to the gods who sit above the twilight behind the east. When the clouds are heavy and red at sunset, or when there is boding of thunder or eclipse, then I pray not, lest my prayers be scattered and beaten earthward. But when the sun sets in a tranquil sky, pale green or azure, and the light of his farewells stays long upon lonely hills, then I send forth my prayers to flutter upward to gods that are surely smiling, and the gods hear my prayers. But, O King, boons sought out of due time from the gods are never wholly to be desired, and, if They should grant to thee to tarry on the earth, old age would trouble thee with burdens more and more till thou wouldst become the driven slave of the hours in fetters that none may break."

The King said: "They that have devised this burden of age may surely stay it, pray therefore on the calmest evening of the year to the gods above the twilight that I may tarry always on the earth and always young, while over my head the scourges of the gods pass and alight not."

Then answered Yamen: "The King hath commanded, yet among the blessings of the gods there always cries a curse. The great princes that make merry with the King, who tell of the great deeds that the King wrought in the former time, shall one by one grow old. And thou, O King, seated at the feast crying, 'make merry' and extolling the former time shall find about thee white heads nodding in sleep, and men that are forgetting the former time. Then one by one the names of those that sported with thee once called by the gods, one by one the names of the singers that sing the songs thou lovest called by the gods, lastly of those that chased the grey boar by night and took him in Orghoom river -- only the King. Then a new people that have not known the old deeds of the King nor fought and chased with him, who dare not make merry with the King as did his long dead princes. And all the while those princes that are dead growing dearer and greater in thy memory, and all the while the men that served thee then growing more small to thee. And all the old things fading and new things arising which are not as the old things were, the world changing yearly before thine eyes and the gardens of thy childhood overgrown. Because thy childhood was in the olden years thou shalt love the olden years, but ever the new years shall overthrow them and their customs, and not the will of a King may stay the changes that the gods have planned for all the customs of old. Ever thou shalt say 'This was not so,' and ever the new custom shall prevail even against a King. When thou hast made merry a thousand times thou shalt grow tired of making merry. At last thou shalt become weary of the chase, and still old age shall not come near to thee to stifle desires that have been too oft fulfilled; then, O King, thou shalt be a hunter yearning for the chase but with nought to pursue that hath not been oft overcome. Old age shall come not to bury thine ambitions in a time when there is nought for thee to aspire to any more. Experience of many centuries shall make thee wise but hard and very sad, and thou shalt be a mind apart from thy fellows and curse them all for fools, and they shall not perceive thy wisdom because thy thoughts are not their thoughts and the gods that they have made are not the gods of the olden time. No solace shall thy wisdom bring thee but only an increasing knowledge that thou knowest nought, and thou shalt feel as a wise man in a world of fools, or else as a fool in a world of wise men, when all men feel so sure and ever thy doubts increase. When all that spake with thee of thine old deeds are dead, those that saw them not shall speak of them again to thee; till one speaking to thee of thy deeds of valour add more than even a man should when speaking to a King, and thou shalt suddenly doubt whether these great deeds were; and there shall be none to tell thee, only the echoes of the voices of the gods still singing in thine ears when long ago They called the princes that were thy friends. And thou shalt hear the knowledge of the olden time most wrongly told and afterwards forgotten. Then many prophets shall arise claiming discovery of that old knowledge. Then thou shalt find that seeking knowledge is vain, as the chase is vain, as making merry is vain, as all things are vain. One day thou shalt find that it is vain to be a King. Greatly then will the acclamations of the people weary thee, till the time when people grow aweary of Kings. Then thou shalt know that thou hast been uprooted from thine olden time and set to live in uncongenial years, and jests all new to royal ears shall smite thee on the head like hailstones, when thou hast lost thy crown, when those to whose grandsires thou hadst granted to bring them as children to kiss the feet of the King shall mock at thee because thou hast not learnt to barter with gold.

"Not all the marvels of the future time shall atone to thee for those old memories that glow warmer and brighter every year as they recede into the ages that the gods have gathered. And always dreaming of thy long dead princes and of the great Kings of other kingdoms in the olden time thou shalt fail to see the grandeur to which a hurrying jesting people shall attain in that kingless age. Lastly, O King, thou shalt perceive men changing in a way that thou shalt not comprehend, knowing what thou canst not know, till thou shalt discover that these are men no more and a new race holds dominion over the earth whose forefathers were men. These shall speak to thee no more as they hurry upon a quest that thou shalt never understand, and thou shalt know that thou canst no longer take thy part in shaping destinies, but in a world of cities only pine for air and the waving grass again and the sound of a wind in trees. Then even this shall end with the shapes of the gods in the darkness gathering all lives but thine, when the hills shall fling up earth's long stored heat back to the heavens again, when earth shall be old and cold, with nothing alive upon it but one King."

Then said the King: "Pray to those hard gods still, for those that have loved the earth with all its gardens and woods and singing streams will love earth still when it is old and cold and with all its gardens gone and all the purport of its being failed and nought but memories."


IX

Then spake Paharn, a prophet of the land of Hurn.

And Paharn said:

"There was one man that knew, but he stands not here."

And the King said:

"Is he further than my heralds might travel in the night if they went upon fleet horses?"

And the prophet answered:

"He is no further than thy heralds may well travel in the night, but further than they may return from in all the years. Out of this city there goes a valley wandering through all the world and opens out at last on the green land of Hurn. On the one side in the distance gleams the sea, and on the other side a forest, black and ancient, darkens the fields of Hurn; beyond the forest and the sea there is no more, saving the twilight and beyond that the gods. In the mouth of the valley sleeps the village of Rhistaun.

"Here I was born, and heard the murmur of the flocks and herds, and saw the tall smoke standing between the sky and the still roofs of Rhistaun, and learned that men might not go into the dark forest, and that beyond the forest and the sea was nought saving the twilight, and beyond that the gods. Often there came travellers from the world all down the winding valley, and spake with strange speech in Rhistaun and returned again up the valley going back to the world. Sometimes with bells and camels and men running on foot, Kings came down the valley from the world, but always the travellers returned by the valley again and none went further than the land of Hurn.

"And Kithneb also was born in the land of Hurn and tended the flocks with me, but Kithneb would not care to listen to the murmur of the flocks and herds and see the tall smoke standing between the roofs and the sky, but needed to know how far from Hurn it was that the world met the twilight, and how far across the twilight sat the gods.

"And often Kithneb dreamed as he tended the flocks and herds, and when others slept he would wander near to the edge of the forest wherein men might not go. And the elders of the land of Hurn reproved Kithneb when he dreamed; yet Kithneb was still as other men and mingled with his fellows until the day of which I will tell thee, O King. For Kithneb was aged about a score of years, and he and I were sitting near the flocks, and he gazed long at the point where the dark forest met the sea at the end of the land of Hurn. But when night drove the twilight down under the forest we brought the flocks together to Rhistaun, and I went up the street between the houses to see four princes that had come down the valley from the world, and they were clad in blue and scarlet and wore plumes upon their heads, and they gave us in exchange for our sheep some gleaming stones which they told us were of great value on the word of princes. And I sold them three sheep, and Darniag sold them eight.

"But Kithneb came not with the others to the market place where the four princes stood, but went alone across the fields to the edge of the forest.

"And it was upon the next morning that the strange thing befell Kithneb; for I saw him in the morning coming from the fields, and I hailed him with the shepherd's cry wherewith we shepherds call to one another, and he answered not. Then I stopped and spake to him, and Kithneb said not a word till I became angry and left him.

"Then we spake together concerning Kithneb, and others had hailed him, and he had not answered them, but to one he had said that he had heard the voices of the gods speaking beyond the forest and so would never listen more to the voices of men.

"Then we said: 'Kithneb is mad,' and none hindered him.

"Another took his place among the flocks, and Kithneb sat in the evenings by the edge of the forest on the plain, alone.

"So Kithneb spake to none for many days, but when any forced him to speak he said that every evening he heard the gods when they came to sit in the forest from over the twilight and sea, and that he would speak no more with men.

"But as the months went by, men in Rhistaun came to look on Kithneb as a prophet, and we were wont to point to him when strangers came down the valley from the world, saying:

"'Here in the land of Hurn we have a prophet such as you have not among your cities, for he speaks at evening with the gods.'

"A year had passed over the silence of Kithneb when he came to me and spake. And I bowed before him because we believed that he spake among the gods. And Kithneb said:

"'I will speak to thee before the end because I am most lonely. For how may I speak again with men and women in the little streets of Rhistaun among the houses, when I have heard the voices of the gods singing above the twilight? But I am more lonely than ever Rhistaun wonts of, for this I tell thee, when I hear the gods I know not what They say. Well indeed I know the voice of each, for ever calling me away from contentment; well I know Their voices as they call to my soul and trouble it; I know by Their tone when They rejoice, and I know when They are sad, for even the gods feel sadness. I know when over fallen cities of the past, and the curved white bones of heroes They sing the dirges of the gods' lament. But alas! Their words I know not, and the wonderful strains of the melody of Their speech beat on my soul and pass away unknown.

"'Therefore I travelled from the land of Hurn till I came to the house of the prophet Arnin-Yo, and told him that I sought to find the meaning of the gods; and Arnin-Yo told me to ask the shepherds concerning all the gods, for what the shepherds knew it was meet for a man to know, and, beyond that, knowledge turned into trouble.

"'But I told Arnin-Yo that I had heard myself the voices of the gods and knew that They were there beyond the twilight and so could never more bow down to the gods that the shepherds made from the red clay which they scooped with their hands out of the hillside.

"'Then said Arnin-Yo to me:

"'"Natheless forget that thou hast heard the gods and bow down again to the gods of the red clay that the shepherds make, and find thereby the ease that the shepherds find, and at last die, remembering devoutly the gods of the red clay that the shepherds scooped with their hands out of the hill. For the gifts of the gods that sit beyond the twilight and smile at the gods of clay, are neither ease nor contentment."

"'And I said:

"'"The god that my mother made out of the red clay that she had got from the hill, fashioning it with many arms and eyes as she sang me songs of its power, and told me stories of its mystic birth, this god is lost and broken; and ever in my ears is ringing the melody of the gods."

"'And Arnin-Yo said:

"'"If thou wouldst still seek knowledge know that only those that come behind the gods may clearly know their meaning. And this thou canst only do by taking ship and putting out to sea from the land of Hurn and sailing up the coast towards the forest. There the sea cliffs turn to the left or southward, and full upon them beats the twilight from over the sea, and there thou mayest come round behind the forest. Here where the world's edge mingles with the twilight the gods come in the evening, and if thou canst come behind Them thou shalt hear Their voices clear, beating full seaward and filling all the twilight with sound of song, and thou shalt know the meaning of the gods. But where the cliffs turn southward there sits behind the gods Brimdono, the oldest whirlpool in the sea, roaring to guard his masters. Him the gods have chained for ever to the floor of the twilit sea to guard the door of the forest that lieth above the cliffs. Here, then, if thou canst hear the voices of the gods as thou hast said, thou wilt know their meaning clear, but this will profit thee little when Brimdono drags thee down and all thy ship.'"

"Thus spake Kithneb to me.

"But I said:

"'O Kithneb, forget those whirlpool-guarded gods beyond the forest, and if thy small god be lost thou shalt worship with me the small god that my mother made. Thousands of years ago he conquered cities but is not any longer an angry god. Pray to him, Kithneb, and he shall bring thee comfort and increase to thy flocks and a mild spring, and at the last a quiet ending for thy days.'

"But Kithneb heeded not, and only bade me find a fisher ship and men to row it. So on the next day we put forth from the land of Hurn in a boat that the fisher folk use. And with us came four of the fisher folk who rowed the boat while I held the rudder, but Kithneb sat and spake not in the prow. And we rowed westward up the coast till we came at evening where the cliffs turned southward and the twilight gleamed upon them and the sea.

"There we turned southwards and saw at once Brimdono. And as a man tears the purple cloak of a king slain in battle to divide it with other warriors, -- Brimdono tore the sea. And ever around and around him with a gnarled hand Brimdono whirled the sail of some adventurous ship, the trophy of some calamity wrought in his greed for shipwreck long ago where he sat to guard his masters from all who fare on the sea. And ever one far-reaching empty hand swung up and down so that we durst go no nearer.

"Only Kithneb neither saw Brimdono nor heard his roar, and when we would go no further bade us lower a small boat with oars out of the ship. Into this boat Kithneb descended, not heeding words from us, and onward rowed alone. A cry of triumph over ships and men Brimdono uttered before him, but Kithneb's eyes were turned toward the forest as he came behind the gods. Upon his face the twilight beat full from the haunts of evening to illumine the smiles that grew about his eyes as he came behind the gods. Him that had found the gods above Their twilit cliffs, him that had heard Their voices close at last and knew Their meaning clear, him, from the cheerless world with its doubtings and prophets that lie, from all hidden meanings, where truth rang clear at last, Brimdono took."

But when Paharn ceased to speak, in the King's ears the roar of Brimdono exulting over ancient triumphs and the whelming of ships seemed still to ring.


X

Then Mohontis spake, the hermit prophet, who lived in the deep untravelled woods that seclude Lake Ilana.

"I dreamed that to the west of all the seas I saw by vision the mouth of Munra-O, guarded by golden gates, and through the bars of the gates that guard the mysterious river of Munra-O I saw the flashes of golden barques, wherein the gods went up and down, and to and fro through the evening dusk. And I saw that Munra-O was a river of dreams such as came through remembered gardens in the night, to charm our infancy as we slept beneath the sloping gables of the houses of long ago. And Munra-O rolled down her dreams from the unknown inner land and slid them under the golden gates and out into the waste, unheeding sea, till they beat far off upon low-lying shores and murmured songs of long ago to the islands of the south, or shouted tumultuous paeans to the Northern crags; or cried forlornly against rocks where no one came, dreams that might not be dreamed.

"Many gods there be, that through the dusk of an evening in the summer go up and down this river. There I saw, in a high barque all of gold, gods the of the pomp of cities; there I saw gods of splendour, in boats bejewelled to the keels; gods of magnificence and gods of power. I saw the dark ships and the glint of steel of the gods whose trade was war, and I heard the melody of the bells of silver arow in the rigging of harpstrings as the gods of melody went sailing through the dusk on the river of Munra -- O. Wonderful river of Munra -- O! I saw a grey ship with sails of the spider's web all lit with dewdrop lanterns, and on its prow was a scarlet cock with its wings spread far and wide when the gods of the dawn sailed also on Munra-O.

"Down this river it is the wont of the gods to carry the souls of men eastward to where the world in the distance faces on Munra-O. Then I knew that when the gods of the Pride of Power and gods of the Pomp of Cities went down the river in their tall gold ships to take earthward other souls, swiftly adown the river and between the ships had gone in this boat of birch bark the god Tarn, the hunter, bearing my soul to the world. And I know now that he came down the stream in the dusk keeping well to the middle, and that he moved silently and swiftly among the ships, wielding a twin-bladed oar. I remember, now, the yellow gleaming of the great boats of the gods of the Pomp of Cities, and the huge prow above me of the gods of the Pride of Power, when Tarn, dipping his right blade into the river, lifted his left blade high, and the drops gleamed and fell. Thus Tarn the hunter took me to the world that faces across the sea of the west on the gate of Munra-O. And so it was that there grew upon me the glamour of the hunt, though I had forgotten Tarn, and took me into mossy places and into dark woods, and I became the cousin of the wolf and looked into the lynx's eyes and knew the bear; and the birds called to me with half-remembered notes, and there grew in me a deep love of great rivers and of all western seas, and a distrust of cities, and all the while I had forgotten Tarn.

"I know not what high galleon shall come for thee, O King, nor what rowers, clad with purple, shall row at the bidding of gods when thou goest back with pomp to the river of Munra-O. But for me Tarn waits where the Seas of the West break over the edge of the world, and, as the years pass over me and the love of the chase sinks low, and as the glamour of the dark woods and mossy places dies down in my soul, ever louder and louder lap the ripples against the canoe of birch bark where, holding his twin-bladed oar, Tarn waits.

"But when my soul hath no more knowledge of the woods nor kindred any longer with the creatures of the dark, and when all that Tarn hath given it shall be lost, then Tarn shall take me back over the western seas, where all the remembered years lie floating idly aswing with the ebb and flow, to bring me again to the river of Munra-O. Far up that river we shall haply chase those creatures whose eyes are peering in the night as they prowl around the world, for Tarn was ever a hunter."


XI

Then Ulf spake, the prophet who in Sistrameides lives in a temple anciently dedicated to the gods. Rumour hath guessed that there the gods walked once some time towards evening. But Time whose hand is against the temples of the gods hath dealt harshly with it and overturned its pillars and set upon its ruins his sign and seal: now Ulf dwells there alone. And Ulf said, "There sets, O King, a river outward from earth which meets with a mighty sea whose waters roll through space and fling their billows on the shores of every star. These are the river and the sea of the Tears of Men."

And the King said:

"Men have not written of this sea."

And the prophet answered:

"Have not tears enough burst in the night time out of sleeping cities? Have not the sorrows of 10,000 homes sent streams into this river when twilight fell and it was still and there was none to hear? Have there not been hopes, and were they all fulfilled? Have there not been conquests and bitter defeats? And have not flowers when spring was over died in the gardens of many children? Tears enough, O King, tears enough have gone down out of earth to make such a sea; and deep it is and wide and the gods know it and it flings its spray on the shores of all the stars. Down this river and across this sea thou shalt fare in a ship of sighs and all around thee over the sea shall fly the prayers of men which rise on white wings higher than their sorrows. Sometimes perched in the rigging, sometimes crying around thee, shall go the prayers that availed not to stay thee in Zarkandhu. Far over the waters, and on the wings of the prayers beats the light of an inaccessible star. No hand hath touched it, none hath journeyed to it, it hath no substance, it is only a light, it is the star of Hope, and it shines far over the sea and brightens the world. It is nought but a light, but the gods gave it.

"Led only by the light of this star the myriad prayers that thou shalt see all around thee fly to the Hall of the gods.

"Sighs shall waft thy ship of sighs over the sea of Tears. Thou shalt pass by islands of laughter and lands of song lying low in the sea, and all of them drenched with tears flung over their rocks by the waves of the sea all driven by the sighs.

"But at last thou shalt come with the prayers of men to the great Hall of the gods where the chairs of the gods are carved of onyx grouped round the golden throne of the eldest of the gods. And there, O King, hope not to find the gods, but reclining upon the golden throne wearing a cloak of his master's thou shalt see the figure of Time with blood upon his hands, and loosely dangling from his fingers a dripping sword, and spattered with blood but empty shall stand the onyx chairs.

"There he sits on his master's throne dangling idly his sword, or with it flicking cruelly at the prayers of men that lie in a great heap bleeding at his feet.

"For a while, O King, the gods had sought to solve the riddles of Time, for a while They made him Their slave, and Time smiled and obeyed his masters, for a while, O King, for a while. He that hath spared nothing hath not spared the gods, nor yet shall he spare thee."

Then the King spake dolefully in the Hall of Kings, and said:

"May I not find at last the gods, and must it be that I may not look in Their faces at the last to see whether They be kindly? They that have sent me on my earthward journey I would greet on my returning, if not as a King coming again to his own city, yet as one who having been ordered had obeyed, and obeying had merited something of those for whom he toiled. I would look Them in Their faces, O prophet, and ask Them concerning many things and would know the wherefore of much. I had hoped, O prophet, that those gods that had smiled upon my childhood, Whose voices stirred at evening in gardens when I was young, would hold dominion still when at last I came to seek Them. O prophet, if this is not to be, make you a great dirge for my childhood's gods and fashion silver bells and, setting them mostly a-swing amidst such trees as grew in the garden of my childhood, sing you this dirge in the dusk: and sing it when the low moth flies up and down and the bat first comes peering from her home, sing it when white mists come rising from the river, when smoke is pale and grey, while flowers are yet closing, ere voices are yet hushed, sing it while all things yet lament the day, or ever the great lights of heaven come blazing forth and night with her splendours takes the place of day. For, if the old gods die, let us lament Them or ever new knowledge comes, while all the world still shudders at Their loss.

"For at the last, O prophet, what is left? Only the gods of my childhood dead, and only Time striding large and lonely through the spaces, chilling the moon and paling the light of stars and scattering earthward out of both his hands the dust of forgetfulness over the fields of heroes and smitten Temples of the older gods."

But when the other prophets heard with what doleful words the King spake in the Hall they all cried out:

"It is not as Ulf has said but as I have said -- and I."

Then the King pondered long, not speaking. But down in the city in a street between the houses stood grouped together they that were wont to dance before the King, and they that had borne his wine in jewelled cups. Long they had tarried in the city hoping that the King might relent, and once again regard them with kindly faces calling for wine and song. The next morning they were all to set out in search of some new Kingdom, and they were peering between the houses and up the long grey street to see for the last time the palace of King Ebalon; and Pattering Leaves, the dancer, cried:

"Not any more, not any more at all shall we drift up the carven hall to dance before the King. He that now watches the magic of his prophets will behold no more the wonder of the dance, and among ancient parchments, strange and wise, he shall forget the swirl of drapery when we swing together through the Dance of the Myriad Steps."

And with her were Silvern Fountain and Summer Lightning and Dream of the Sea, each lamenting that they should dance no more to please the eyes of the King.

And Intahn who had carried at the banquet for fifty years the goblet of the King set with its four sapphires each as large as an eye, said as he spread his hands towards the palace making the sign of farewell:

"Not all the magic of prophecy nor yet foreseeing nor perceiving may equal the power of wine. Through the small door in the King's Hall one goes by one hundred steps and many sloping corridors into the cool of the earth where lies a cavern vaster than the Hall. Therein, curtained by the spider, repose the casks of wine that are wont to gladden the hearts of the Kings of Zarkandhu. In islands far to the eastward the vine, from whose heart this wine was long since wrung, hath climbed aloft with many a clutching finger and beheld the sea and ships of the olden time and men since dead, and gone down into the earth again and been covered over with weeds. And green with the damp of years there lie three casks that a city gave not up until all her defenders were slain and her houses fired; and ever to the soul of that wine is added a more ardent fire as ever the years go by. Thither it was my pride to go before a banquet in the olden years, and coming up to bear in the sapphire goblet the fire of the elder Kings and to watch the King's eye flash and his face grow nobler and more like his sires as he drank the gleaming wine.

"And now the King seeks wisdom from his prophets while all the glory of the past and all the clattering splendour of today grows old, far down, forgotten beneath his feet."

And when he ceased the cupbearers and the women that danced looked long in silence at the palace. Then one by one all made the farewell sign before they turned to go, and as they did this a herald unseen in the dark was speeding towards them.

After a long silence the King spake:

"Prophets of my Kingdom," he said, "you have not prophesied alike, and the words of each prophet condemn his fellows' words so that wisdom may not be discovered among prophets. But I command that none in my Kingdom shall doubt that the earliest King of Zarkandhu stored wine beneath this palace before the building of the city or ever the palace arose, and I shall cause commands to be uttered for the making of a banquet at once within this Hall, so that ye shall perceive that the power of my wine is greater than all your spells, and dancing more wondrous than prophecy."

The dancers and the winebearers were summoned back, and as the night wore on a banquet was spread and all the prophets bidden to be seated, Samahn, Ynath, Monith, Ynar Thun, the prophet of Journeys, Zornadhu, Yamen, Paharn, Ilana, Ulf, and one that had not spoken nor yet revealed his name, and who wore his prophet's cloak across his face.

And the prophets feasted as they were commanded and spake as other men spake, save he whose face was hidden, who neither ate nor spake. Once he put out his hand from under his cloak and touched a blossom among the flowers upon the table and the blossom fell.

And Pattering Leaves came in and danced again, and the King smiled, and Pattering Leaves was happy though she had not the wisdom of the prophets. And in and out, in and out, in and out among the columns of the Hall went Summer Lightning in the maze of the dance. And Silvern Fountain bowed before the King and danced and danced and bowed again, and old Intahn went to and fro from the cavern to the King gravely through the midst of the dancers but with kindly eyes, and when the King had often drunk of the old wine of the elder Kings he called for Dream of the Sea and bade her sing. And Dream of the Sea came through the arches and sang of an island builded by magic out of pearls, that lay set in a ruby sea, and how it lay far off and under the south, guarded by jagged reefs whereon the sorrows of the world were wrecked and never came to the island. And how a low sunset always reddened the sea and lit the magic isle and never turned to night, and how someone sang always and endlessly to lure the soul of a King who might by enchantment pass the guarding reefs to find rest on the pearl island and not be troubled more, but only see sorrows on the outer reef battered and broken. Then Soul of the South rose up and sang a song of a fountain that ever sought to reach the sky and was ever doomed to fall to the earth again until at last....

Then whether it was the art of Pattering Leaves or the song of Dream of the Sea, or whether it was the fire of the wine of the elder Kings, Ebalon bade farewell kindly to the prophets when morning paled the stars. Then along the torchlit corridors the King went to his chamber, and having shut the door in the empty room, beheld suddenly a figure wearing the cloak of a prophet; and the King perceived that it was he whose face was hidden at the banquet, who had not revealed his name.

And the King said:

"Art thou, too, a prophet?"

And the figure answered:

"I am a prophet."

And the King said: "Knowest thou aught concerning the journey of the King?" And the figure answered: "I know, but have never said."

And the King said: "Who art thou that knowest so much and has not told it?"

And he answered:

"I am The End."

Then the cloaked figure strode away from the palace; and the King, unseen by the guards, followed upon his journey.

<eob>

Moni The Goat-Boy

By

Johanna Spyri



Chapter I

All Is Well With Moni


It is a long, steep climb up to the Bath House at Fideris, after leaving the road leading up through the long valley of Praettigau. The horses pant so hard on their way up the mountain that you prefer to dismount and clamber up on foot to the green summit.

After a long ascent, you come first to the village of Fideris, which lies on the pleasant green height, and from there you go on farther into the mountains, until the lonely buildings connected with the Baths appear, surrounded on all sides by rocky mountains. The only trees that grow up there are firs, covering the peaks and rocks, and it would all look very gloomy if the delicate mountain flowers with their brilliant coloring were not peeping forth everywhere through the low pasture grass.

One clear summer evening two ladies stepped out of the Bath House and went along the narrow footpath, which begins to mount not far from the house and soon becomes very steep as it ascends to the high, towering crags. At the first projection they stood still and looked around, for this was the very first time they had come to the Baths.

"It is not very lively up here, Aunt," said the younger, as she let her eyes wander around. "Nothing but rocks and fir woods, and then another mountain and more fir trees on it. If we are to stay here six weeks, I should like occasionally to see something more amusing."

"It would not be very amusing, at all events, if you should lose your diamond cross up here, Paula," replied the aunt, as she tied together the red velvet ribbon from which hung the sparkling cross. "This is the third time I have fastened the ribbon since we arrived; I don't know whether it is your fault or the ribbon's, but I do know that you would be very sorry if it were lost."

"No, no," exclaimed Paula, decidedly, "the cross must not be lost, on any account. It came from my grandmother and is my greatest treasure."

Paula herself seized the ribbon, and tied two or three knots one after the other, to make it hold fast. Suddenly she pricked up her ears: "Listen, listen, Aunt, now something really lively is coming."

A merry song sounded from far above them; then came a long, shrill yodel; then there was singing again.

The ladies looked upwards, but could see no living thing. The footpath was very crooked, often passing between tall bushes and then between projecting slopes, so that from below one could see up only a very short distance. But now there suddenly appeared something alive on the slopes above, in every place where the narrow path could be seen, and louder and nearer sounded the singing.

"See, see, Aunt, there! Here! See there! See there!" exclaimed Paula with great delight, and before the aunt was aware of it, three, four goats came bounding down, and more and more of them, each wearing around the neck a little bell so that the sound came from every direction. In the midst of the flock came the goat-boy leaping along, and singing his song to the very end:

"And in winter I am happy, For weeping is in vain, And, besides, the glad springtime Will soon come again."


Then he sounded a frightful yodel and immediately with his flock stood right before the ladies, for with his bare feet he leaped as nimbly and lightly as his little goats.

"I wish you good evening!" he said as he looked gayly at the two ladies, and would have continued on his way. But the goat-boy with the merry eyes pleased the ladies.

"Wait a minute," said Paula. "Are you the goat-boy of Fideris? Do the goats belong to the village below?"

"Yes, to be sure!" was the reply.

"Do you go up there with them every day?"

"Yes, surely."

"Is that so? and what is your name?"

"Moni is my name -- "

"Will you sing me the song once more, that you have just sung? We heard only one verse."

"It is too long," explained Moni; "it would be too late for the goats, they must go home." He straightened his weather-beaten cap, swung his rod in the air, and called to the goats which had already begun to nibble all around: "Home! Home!"

"You will sing to me some other time, Moni, won't you?" called Paula after him.

"Surely I will, and good night!" he called back, then trotted along with the goats, and in a short time the whole flock stood still below, a few steps from the Bath House by the rear building, for here Moni had to leave the goats belonging to the house, the beautiful white one and the black one with the pretty little kid. Moni treated the last with great care, for it was a delicate little creature and he loved it more than all the others. It was so attached to him that it ran after him continually all day long. He now led it very tenderly along and placed it in its shed; then he said:

"There, Maeggerli, now sleep well; are you tired? It is really a long way up there, and you are still so little. Now lie right down, so, in the nice straw!"

After he had put Maeggerli to bed in this way, he hurried along with his flock, first up to the hill in front of the Baths, and then down the road to the village.

Here he took out his little horn and blew so vigorously into it, that it resounded far down into the valley. From all the scattered houses the children now came running out; each rushed upon his goat, which he knew a long way off; and from the houses near by, one woman and then another seized her little goat by the cord or the horn, and in a short time the entire flock was separated and each creature came to its own place. Finally Moni stood alone with the brown one, his own goat, and with her he now went to the little house on the side of the mountain, where his grandmother was waiting for him, in the doorway.

"Has all gone well, Moni?" she asked pleasantly, and then led the brown goat to her shed, and immediately began to milk her. The grandmother was still a robust woman and cared for everything herself in the house and in the shed and everywhere kept order. Moni stood in the doorway of the shed and watched his grandmother. When the milking was ended, she went into the little house and said: "Come, Moni, you must be hungry."

She had everything already prepared. Moni had only to sit down at the table; she seated herself next him, and although nothing stood on the table but the bowl of corn-meal mush cooked with the brown goat's milk, Moni hugely enjoyed his supper. Then he told his grandmother what he had done through the day, and as soon as the meal was ended he went to bed, for in the early dawn he would have to start forth again with the flock.

In this way Moni had already spent two summers. He had been goat-boy so long and become so accustomed to this life and grown up together with his little charges that he could think of nothing else. Moni had lived with his grandmother ever since he could remember. His mother had died when he was still very little; his father soon after went with others to military service in Naples, in order to earn something, as he said, for he thought he could get more pay there.

His wife's mother was also poor, but she took her daughter's deserted baby boy, little Solomon, home at once and shared what she had with him. He brought a blessing to her cottage and she had never suffered want.

Good old Elizabeth was very popular with every one in the whole village, and when, two years before, another goat-boy had to be appointed, Moni was chosen with one accord, since every one was glad for the hard-working Elizabeth that now Moni would be able to earn something. The pious grandmother had never let Moni start away a single morning, without reminding him:

"Moni, never forget how near you are up there to the dear Lord, and that He sees and hears everything, and you can hide nothing from His eyes. But never forget, either, that He is near to help you. So you have nothing to fear, and if you can call upon no human being up there, you have only to call to the dear Lord in your need, and He will hear you immediately and come to your aid."

So from the very first Moni went full of trust up to the lonely mountains and the highest crags, and never had the slightest fear of dread, for he always thought:

"The higher up, the nearer I am to the dear Lord, and so all the safer whatever may happen."

So Moni had neither care nor trouble and could enjoy everything he did from morning till night. It was no wonder that he whistled and sang and yodeled continually, for he had to give vent to his great happiness.



Chapter II

Moni's Life In The Mountains


The following morning Paula awoke earlier than ever before; a loud singing had awakened her out of sleep.

"That is surely the goat-boy so soon," she said, springing out of bed and running to the window.

Quite right. With fresh, red cheeks there stood Moni below, and he had just brought the old goat and the little kid out of the goat shed. Now he swung his rod in the air, the goats leaped and sprang around him, and then he went along with the whole flock. Suddenly Moni raised his voice again and sang until the mountains echoed:

"Up yonder in the fir trees Sing the birds in a choir, And after the rain comes, Comes the sun like a fire."


"To-day he must sing his whole song for me once," said Paula, for Moni had now disappeared and she could no longer understand the words of his distant song.

"Moni climbed with his goats for an hour longer."

In the sky the rosy morning clouds were disappearing and a cool mountain breeze rustled around Moni's ears, as he climbed up. This he thought just right. He yodeled with satisfaction from the first ledge so lustily down into the valley that many of the sleepers in the Bath House below opened their eyes in amazement, then closed them again at once, for they recognized the sound and knew that they could have an hour longer to sleep, since the goat-boy always came so early. Meanwhile Moni climbed with his goats for an hour longer, farther and farther up to the high cliffs above.

The higher up he mounted, the broader and more beautiful became the view. From time to time he looked around him, then gazed up into the bright sky, which was becoming bluer and bluer, then began to sing with all his might, louder and louder and more merrily the higher he came:

"Up yonder in the fir trees, Sing the birds in a choir, And after the rain comes, Comes the sun like a fire.

"And the sun and the stars And the moon in the night, The dear Lord has made them To give us delight.

"In the spring there are flowers --  They are yellow and gold, And so blue is the sky then My joy can't be told.

"And in summer there are berries, There are plenty if it's fine, And the red ones and black ones, I eat all from the vine.

"If there are nuts in the bushes I know what to do. Where the goats like to nibble, There I can hunt too.

"And in winter I'm happy, For weeping's in vain, And, besides, the glad springtime Will soon come again."


Now the height was reached where he usually stayed, and where he was going to remain for a while to-day. It was a little green table-land, with so broad a projection that one could see from the top all round about and far, far down into the valley. This projection was called the Pulpit-rock, and here Moni could often stay for hours at a time, gazing about him and whistling away, while his little goats quite contentedly sought their feed around him.

As soon as Moni arrived, he took his provision bag from his back, laid it in a little hole in the ground, which he had dug out for this purpose, then went to the Pulpit-rock and threw himself on the grass in order to enjoy himself fully.

The sky had now become a deep blue; above were the high mountains with peaks towering to the sky and great ice-fields appearing, and far away down below the green valley shone in the morning light. Moni lay there, looking about, singing and whistling. The mountain wind cooled his warm face, and as soon as he stopped whistling, the birds piped all the more lustily and flew up into the blue sky. Moni was indescribably happy. From time to time Maeggerli came to Moni and rubbed her head around on his shoulder, as she always did out of sheer affection. Then she bleated quite fondly, went to Moni's other side and rubbed her head on the other shoulder. The other goats also, first one and then another, came to look at their keeper and each had her own way of paying the visit.

The brown one, his own goat, came very cautiously and looked at him to see if he was all right, then she would stand and gaze at him until he said: "Yes, yes, Braunli, it's all right, go and look for your fodder."

The young white one and Swallow, so called because she was so small and nimble and darted everywhere, like swallows into their holes, always rushed together upon Moni, so that they would have thrown him down, if he had not already been stretched out on the ground, and then they immediately, darted off again.

The shiny Blackie, the goat belonging to the landlord of the Bath House, Maeggerli's mother, was a little proud; she came only to within a few steps of Moni, looked at him with her head lifted, as if she wouldn't appear too familiar, and then went her way again. The big Sultan, the billy-goat, never showed himself but once, then he pushed away all he found near Moni, and bleated several times as significantly as if he had information to give about the condition of the flock, whose leader he felt himself to be.

Little Maeggerli alone never allowed herself to be crowded away from her protector; if the billy-goat came and tried to push her aside, she crept so far under Moni's arm or head that the big Sultan no longer came near her, and so under Moni's protection the little kid was not the least bit afraid of him. Otherwise she would have trembled if he came near her.

Thus the sunny morning had passed; Moni had already taken his midday meal and now stood thinking as he leaned on his stick, which he often needed there, for it was very useful in climbing up and down. He was thinking whether he would go up to a new side of the rocks, for he wanted to go higher this afternoon with the goats, but the question was, to which side? He decided to take the left, for in that direction were the three Dragon-stones, around which grew such tender shrubs that it was a real feast for the goats.

The way was steep, and there were dangerous places in the rugged wall of rock; but he knew a good path, and the goats were so sensible and did not easily go astray. He began to climb and all his goats gayly clambered after him, some in front, some behind him, little Maeggerli always quite close to him; occasionally he held her fast and pulled her along with him, when he came to a very steep place.

All went quite well and now they were at the top, and with high bounds the goats ran immediately to the green bushes, for they knew well the fine feed which they had often nibbled up here before.

"Be quiet! Be quiet!" commanded Moni, "don't push each other to the steep places, for in a moment one of you might go down and have your legs broken. Swallow! Swallow! what are you thinking of?" he called full of excitement, up to the goat, for the nimble Swallow had climbed up to the high Dragon-stones and was now standing on the outermost edge of one of them and looking quite impertinently down on him. He climbed up quickly, for only a single step more and Swallow would be lying below at the foot of the precipice. Moni was very agile; in a few minutes he had climbed up on the crag, quickly seized Swallow by the leg, and pulled her down.

"Now come with me, you foolish little beast, you," scolded Moni, as he dragged Swallow along with him to the others, and held her fast for a while, until she had taken a good bite of a shrub and thought no more of running away.

"Where is Maeggerli?" screamed Moni suddenly, as he noticed Blackie standing alone in a steep place, and not eating, but quietly looking around her. The little young kid was always near Moni, or running after its mother.

"What have you done with your little kid, Blackie?" he called in alarm and sprang towards the goat. She seemed quite strange, was not eating, but stood still in the same spot and pricked up her ears inquiringly. Moni placed himself beside her and looked up and down. Now he heard a faint, pitiful bleating; it was Maeggerli's voice, and it came from below so plaintive and beseeching. Moni lay down on the ground and leaned over. There below something was moving; now he saw quite plainly, far down Maeggerli was hanging to the bough of a tree which grew out of the rock, and was moaning pitifully; she must have fallen over.

Fortunately the bough had caught her, otherwise she would have fallen into the ravine and met a sorry death. Even now if she could no longer hold to the bough, she would fall into the depths and be dashed to pieces.

In the greatest anguish he called down: "Hold fast, Maeggerli, hold fast to the bough! See, I am coming to get you!" But how could he reach there? The wall of rock was so steep here, Moni saw very well that it would be impossible to go down that way. But the little goat must be down there somewhere near the Rain-rock, the overhanging stone under which good protection was to be found in rainy weather; the goat-boys had always spent rainy days there, therefore the stone had been called from old times the Rain-rock. From there, Moni thought he could climb across over the rocks and so bring back the little kid.

He quickly whistled the flock together and went with them down to the place from which he could reach the Rain-rock. There he left them to graze and went to the rock. Here he immediately saw, just a little bit above him, the bough of the tree, and the kid hanging to it. He saw very well that it would not be an easy task to climb up there and then down again with Maeggerli on his back, but there was no other way to rescue her. He also thought the dear Lord would surely stand by him, and then he could not possibly fail. He folded his hands, looked up to heaven and prayed: "Oh, dear Lord, help me, so that I can save Maeggerli!"

Then he was full of trust that all would go well, and he bravely clambered up the rock until he reached the bough above. Here he clung fast with both feet, lifted the trembling, moaning little creature to his shoulders, and then climbed with great caution back down again. When he had the firm earth under his feet once more and had saved the terror-stricken kid, he was so glad he had to offer thanks aloud and cried up to heaven:

"Oh, dear Lord, I thank Thee a thousand times for having helped us so well! Oh, we are both so glad for it!" Then he sat down on the ground a little while, and stroked the kid, for she was still trembling in all her delicate limbs, and comforted her for enduring so much suffering.

As it was soon time for departure, Moni placed the little goat on his shoulders again, and said anxiously:

"Come, you poor Maeggerli, you are still trembling; you cannot walk home to-day, I must carry you -- " and so he carried the little creature, clinging close to him, all the way down.

Paula was standing on the last rise in front of the Bath House, waiting for the goat-boy. Her aunt had accompanied her. When Moni came down with his burden on his back, Paula wanted to know if the kid was sick, and showed great interest. When Moni saw this, he at once sat down on the ground in front of Paula and told her his day's experience with Maeggerli.

The young lady showed very keen interest in the affair and stroked the little rescued creature, which now lay quietly in Moni's lap and looked very pretty, with its white feet, and the beautiful black pelt on its back. It was very willing to be stroked by her.

"Now sing your song again for me, while you are sitting here," said Paula. Moni was in such a gay frame of mind that he willingly and heartily began and sang his whole song to the end.

This pleased Paula exceptionally well and she said he must sing it to her often again. Then the whole company went together down to the Bath House. Here the kid was laid in its bed, Moni said farewell, and Paula went back to her room to talk with her aunt longer about the goat-boy, whose merry morning song she had enjoyed again.



Chapter III

A Visit


Thus many days passed by, one as sunny and clear as the other, for it was an unusually beautiful summer, and the sky remained blue and cloudless from morning till evening.

Every morning, early, without exception the goat-boy, singing lustily, went by the Bath House. Every evening he came back again singing lustily. All the guests were so accustomed to the merry sound that not one would have willingly missed it.

More than all the others, Paula delighted in Moni's joyfulness and went out almost every evening to meet him, and talk with him.

One sunny morning Moni had once more reached the Pulpit-rock, and was about to throw himself down, when he changed his mind. "No, go on! The last time you had to leave all the nice little plants because we had to go after Maeggerli; now we will go up there again, so that you can finish nibbling them!"

The goats all leaped with delight after him, for they knew they were going up to the lovely bushes on the Dragon-stones. To-day Moni held his little Maeggerli the whole time fast in his arms, pulled the sweet plants himself from the rocks and let her eat out of his hand. This pleased the little goat best of all. She rubbed her head quite contentedly from time to time against Moni's shoulder and bleated happily. So the whole morning passed, before Moni noticed, from his own hunger, that it had grown late before he was aware of it. But he had left his luncheon below near the Pulpit-rock, in the little hole, for he had intended to return again at noon.

"Well, you have had your fill of good things, and I have had nothing," he said to his goats. "Now I must have something too, and you will find enough more down below. Come along!" Whereupon he gave a loud whistle, and the whole flock started away, the liveliest always ahead, and first of all light-footed Swallow, who was to meet something unexpected to-day. She sprang down from stone to stone and across many a cleft in the rocks, but all at once she could go no farther -- directly in front of her suddenly stood a chamois and gazed with curiosity into her face. This had never happened to Swallow before! She stood still, looked questioningly at the stranger and waited for the chamois to get out of her way and let her leap to the boulder, as she intended. But the chamois did not stir and gazed boldly into Swallow's eyes. So they stood facing each other, more and more obstinate, and might have stood there until now, if the big Sultan had not come along in the meantime. As soon as he saw the state of things, he stepped quite considerately past Swallow and suddenly pushed the chamois aside so far and with such violence, that she had to make a daring leap, not to fall down over the rocks. Swallow went triumphantly on her way, and the Sultan marched proudly and contentedly behind her, for he felt himself to be the sure protector of the goats in his flock.

Meanwhile Moni coming down from above, and another goat-boy coming up from below, met at the same spot and looked at each other in astonishment. But they were well acquainted, and after the first surprise greeted each other cordially. It was Jörgli from Küblis. Half the morning he had been looking in vain for Moni and now he met him up here, where he had not expected to find him.

"I didn't suppose you came up so high with the goats," said Jörgli.

"To be sure I do," replied Moni, "but not always; usually I stay by the Pulpit-rock and around there. Why have you come up here?"

"To make you a visit," was the reply. "I have something to tell you. Besides, I have two goats here, that I am bringing to the landlord at the Baths. He is going to buy one, and so I thought I would come up to see you."

"Are they your own goats?" asked Moni.

"Surely, they are ours. I don't tend strange ones any longer. I am not a goat-boy now."

Moni was very much surprised at this, for Jörgli had become the goat-boy of Küblis at the same time he had been made goat-boy of Fideris, and Moni did not understand how Jörgli could give it up without a single murmur.

Meanwhile the goat-boys and their flocks had reached the Pulpit-rock. Moni brought out bread and a small piece of dried meat and invited Jörgli to share his midday meal. They both sat down on the Pulpit-rock and ate heartily, for it had grown very late and they had excellent appetites. When everything was eaten and they had drunk a little goat's milk, Jörgli comfortably stretched himself at full length on the ground, and rested his head on both arms, but Moni remained sitting, for he always liked to look down into the deep valley below.

"But what are you now, Jörgli, if you are no longer goat-boy?" began Moni. "You must be something."

"Surely I am something, and something very good," replied Jörgli, "I am egg-boy. Every day I carry eggs to all the hotels, as far as I can go; I come up here to the Bath House, too. Yesterday I was there."

Moni shook his head. "That's nothing. I wouldn't be an egg-boy; I would a thousand times rather be goat-boy, it is much finer."

"But why?"

"Eggs are not alive, you can't speak a word to them, and they don't run after you like the goats which are glad to see you when you come, and are fond of you, and understand every word you say to them; you can't have any pleasure with eggs as you can with the goats up here."

"Yes, and you," interrupted Jörgli, "what great pleasure do you have up here? Just now you have had to get up six times while we were eating, just on account of that silly kid, to prevent it from falling down below -- is that a pleasure?"

"Yes, I like to do that! Isn't it so, Maeggerli? Come! Come here!" Moni jumped up and ran after the kid, for it was making dangerous leaps for sheer joy. When he sat down again, Jörgli said:

"There is another way to keep the young goats from falling over the rocks, without having to be always jumping after them, as you do."

"What is it?" asked Moni.

"Drive a stick firmly into the ground and fasten the goat by the leg to it; she will kick furiously, but she can't get away."

"You needn't think I would do any such thing to the little kid!" said Moni quite angrily and drew Maeggerli to him and held her fast, as if to protect her from any such treatment.

"You really won't have to take care of that one much longer," began Jörgli again. "It won't come up here many times more."

"What? What? What did you say, Jörgli?" demanded Moni.

"Bah, don't you know about it? The landlord will not raise her, she is too weak; there never was a more feeble goat. He wanted to sell her to my father, but he wouldn't have her either; now the landlord is going to have her killed next week, and then he will buy our spotted one."

Moni had become quite pale from terror. At first he couldn't speak a word; but now he broke out and complained aloud over the little kid:

"No, no, that shall not be done, Maeggerli, it shall not be done. They shall not slay you, I can't bear that. Oh, I would rather die with you; no, that cannot be!"

"Don't do so," said Jörgli, angrily, and pulled Moni up, for in his grief he had thrown himself face down on the ground. "Stand up, you know the kid really belongs to the landlord and he can do what he likes with her. Think no more about it! Come, I know something. See! See!" Whereupon Jörgli held out one hand to Moni, and with the other almost covered the object, which Moni was to admire; it sparkled wonderfully in his hand, for the sun shone straight into it.

"What is it?" asked Moni, when it sparkled again, lighted up by a sunbeam.

"Guess!"

"A ring?"

"No, but something like that."

"Who gave it to you?"

"Gave it to me? Nobody. I found it myself."

"Then it does not belong to you, Jörgli."

"Why not? I didn't take it from anybody. I almost stepped on it with my foot, then it would have been broken; so I can just as well keep it."

"Where did you find it?"

"Down by the Bath House, yesterday evening."

"Then some one from the house below lost it. You must tell the landlord, and if you don't, I will do it this evening."

"No, no, Moni, don't do that," said Jörgli, beseechingly. "See, I will show you what it is, and I will sell it to a maid in one of the hotels, but she will surely have to give me four francs; then I will give you one or two, and nobody will know anything about it."

"I will not take it! I will not take it!" interrupted Moni, hotly, "and the dear Lord has heard everything you have said."

"Jörgli had opened his band. In it lay a cross set with a large number of stones."

Jörgli looked up to the sky: "Oh, so far away," he said skeptically; but he immediately began to speak more softly.

"He hears you still," said Moni, confidently.

It was no longer Jörgli's secret. If he didn't know how to bring Moni to his side, all would be lost. He thought and thought.

"Moni," he said suddenly, "I will promise you something that will delight you, if you will not say anything to a human being about what I have found; you really don't need to take anything for it, then you will have nothing to do with it. If you will do as I say, I will make my father buy Maeggerli, so she will not be killed. Will you?"

A hard struggle arose in Moni. It was wrong to help keep the discovery secret. Jörgli had opened his hand. In it lay a cross set with a large number of stones, which sparkled in many colors. Moni realized that it was not a worthless thing which no one would inquire about; he felt exactly as if he himself should be keeping what did not belong to him if he remained silent. But on the other hand was the little, affectionate Maeggerli, that was going to be killed in a horrible way with a knife, and he could prevent it if he kept silent. Even now the little kid was lying so trustfully beside him, as if, she knew that he would always keep it; no, he could not let this happen, he must try to save it.

"Yes, I will, Jörgli," he said, but without any enthusiasm.

"Then it is a bargain!" and Jörgli offered his hand to Moni, that he might seal the argument, as that was the only way to make a promise binding.

Jörgli was very glad that now his secret was safe; but as Moni had become so quiet, and he had much farther to go to reach home than Moni, he considered it well to start along with his two goats. He said good-night to Moni and whistled for his two companions, which meanwhile had joined Moni's grazing goats, but not without much pushing and other doubtful behavior between the two parties, for the goats from Fideris had never heard that they ought to be polite to visitors and the goats from Küblis did not know that they ought not to seek out the best plants or push the others away from them, when they were visiting. When Jörgli had gone some distance down the mountain, Moni also started along with his flock, but he was very still and neither sang a note nor whistled, all the way home.



Chapter IV

Moni Can No Longer Sing


On the following morning Moni came up the path to the Bath House, just as silent and cast down as the evening before. He brought out the landlord's goats quietly and went on upwards, but he sang not a note, nor did he give a yodel up into the air; he let his head hang and looked as if he were afraid of something; now and then he looked around timidly, as if some one were coming after him to question him.

Moni could no longer be merry; he didn't know himself exactly why. He wanted to be glad that he had saved Maeggerli, and sing, but he couldn't express it. To-day the sky was covered with clouds, and Moni thought when the sun came out it would be different and he could be happy again.

When he reached the top, it began to rain quite hard. He took refuge under the Rain-rock, for it soon poured in streams from the sky.

The goats came, too, and placed themselves here and there under the rock. The aristocratic Blackie immediately wanted to protect her beautiful shiny coat and crept in under the rock before Moni did. She was now standing behind Moni and looking out from her comfortable corner into the pouring rain. Maeggerli was standing in front of its protector under the projecting rock and gently rubbed its little head against his knee; then it looked up at him in surprise, because Moni did not say a word, and it was not accustomed to that. Moni sat thoughtfully, leaning on his staff, for in such weather he always kept it in his hand, to keep himself from slipping on the steep places, for on such days he wore shoes. Now, as he sat for hours under the Rain-rock, he had plenty of time for reflection.

Moni thought over what he had promised Jörgli, and it seemed to him that if Jörgli had taken something, he was practically doing the same thing himself, because Jörgli had promised to give him something or do something for him. He had surely done what was wrong, and the dear Lord was now against him. This he felt in his heart, and it was right that it was dark and rainy and that he was hidden under the rock, for he would not even have dared look up into the blue sky, as usual.

But there were still other things that Moni had to think about. If Maeggerli should fall down over a steep precipice again, and he wanted to get it, the dear Lord would no longer protect him, and he no longer dared to pray to Him about it and call upon Him, and so had no more safety; and if then he should slip and fall down with Maeggerli deep over the jagged, rocks, and both of them should lie all torn and maimed! Oh, no, he said with anguish in his heart, that must not happen anyway; he must manage to be able to pray again and come to the dear Lord with everything that weighed on his heart; then he could be happy again, that he felt sure of. Moni would throw off the weight that oppressed him, he would go and tell the landlord everything -- But then? Then Jörgli would not persuade his father, and the landlord would slaughter Maeggerli. Oh, no! Oh, no! he couldn't bear that, and he said: "No, I will not do it! I will say nothing!" But he did not feel satisfied, and the weight on his heart grew heavier and heavier. Thus Moni's whole day passed.

He started home at evening as silent as he had come in the morning. When he found Paula standing near the Bath House, and she sprang quickly across to the goat-shed and asked sympathetically: "Moni, what is the matter? Why don't you sing any more?" he turned shyly away and said:

"I can't," and as quickly as possible made off with his goats.

Paula said to her aunt above: "If I only knew what was the matter with the goat-boy! He is quite changed. You wouldn't know him. If he would only sing again!"

"It must be the frightful rain which has silenced the boy so!" remarked the aunt.

"Everything all comes together; let us go home, Aunt," begged Paula, "there is no more pleasure here. First I lost my beautiful cross, and it can't be found; then comes this endless rain, and now we can't ever hear the merry goat-boy any more. Let us go away!"

"The cure must be finished, or it will do no good," explained the aunt.

It was also dark and gray on the following day, and the rain poured down without ceasing. Moni spent the day exactly like the one before. He sat under the rock and his thoughts went restlessly round in a circle, for when he decided: "Now, I will go and confess the wrong, so that I shall dare to look up to the dear Lord again," then he saw the little kid under the knife before him and it all began over again in his mind from the beginning; so that with thinking and brooding, and the weight he carried, he was very tired by night, and crept home in the streaming rain as if he didn't notice it at all.

By the Bath House below the landlord was standing in the back doorway and called to Moni: "Come in with them. They are wet enough! Why, you are crawling down the mountain like a snail! I wonder what is the matter with you!"

The landlord had never been so unfriendly before. On the contrary he had always made the most friendly remarks to the merry goat-boy. But Moni's changed appearance did not please him, and besides he was in a worse humor than usual because Fraeulein Paula had just complained to him about her loss and assured him that the valuable cross could only have been lost in the house or directly in front of the house-door. She had only stepped out on that day towards evening, to hear the goat-boy sing on his way home. To have it said that it was possible for such a costly thing to be lost in his house, beyond recovery, made him very cross. The day before he had called together the whole staff of servants, examined and threatened them, and finally offered a reward to the finder. The whole house was in an uproar over the lost ornament.

When Moni with his goats passed by the front of the house, Paula was standing there. She had been waiting for him, for she wondered very much whether he would ever sing any more or be merry. As he now crept by, she called:

"Moni! Moni! Are you really the same goat-boy who used to sing from morning till night:

"'And so blue is the sky there My joy can't be told'?"


Moni heard the words very well; he gave no answer, but they made a great impression on him. Oh, how different it really was from the time when he could sing all day long and he felt exactly as he sang. Oh, if it could only be like that again!

Again Moni climbed up the mountain, silent and sad and without singing. The rain had now ceased, but thick fog hung around on the mountains, and the sky was still full of dark clouds. Moni again sat under the rock and battled with his thoughts. About noon the sky began to clear; it grew brighter and brighter. Moni came out of his cave and looked around. The goats once more sprang gayly here and there, and the little kid was quite frolicsome from delight at the returning sun and made the merriest leaps.

Moni stood on the Pulpit-rock and saw how it was growing brighter and more beautiful below in the valley and above over the mountains beyond. Now the clouds scattered and the lovely light blue sky looked down so cheerfully that it seemed to Moni as if the dear Lord were looking out of the bright blue at him, and suddenly it became quite clear in his heart what he ought to do. He could not carry the wrong around with him any more; he must throw it off. Then Moni seized the little kid, that was jumping about him, took it in his arms and said tenderly: "Oh, Maeggerli, you poor Maeggerli! I have certainly done what I could, but it is wrong, and that must not be done. Oh, if only you didn't have to die! I can't bear it!"

And Moni began to cry so hard, that he could no longer speak, and the kid bleated pitifully and crept far under his arm, as if it wanted to cling to him and be protected. Then Moni lifted the little goat on his shoulders, saying:

"Come, Maeggerli, I will carry you home once more to-day. Perhaps I can't carry you much longer."

When the flock came down to the Bath House, Paula was again standing on the watch. Moni put the young goat with the black one in the shed, and instead of going on farther, he came toward the young lady and was going past her into the house. She stopped him.

"Still no singing, Moni? Where are you going with such a troubled face?"

"I have to tell about something," replied Moni, without lifting his eyes.

"Tell about something? What is it? Can't I know?"

"I must tell the landlord. Something has been found."

"Found? What is it? I have lost something, a beautiful cross."

"Yes, that is just what it is."

"What do you say?" exclaimed Paula, in the greatest surprise. "Is it a cross with sparkling stones?"

"Yes, exactly that."

"What have you done with it, Moni? Give it to me. Did you find it?"

"No, Jörgli from Küblis found it."

Then Paula wanted to know who he was and where he lived, and to send some one to Küblis at once to get the cross.

"I will go as fast as I can, and if he still has it I will bring it to you," said Moni.

"If he still has it?" said Paula. "Why shouldn't he still have it? And how do you know all about it, Moni? When did he find it, and how did you hear about it?"

Moni looked on the ground. He didn't dare say how it had all come about, and how he had helped to conceal the discovery until he could no longer bear it.

But Paula was very kind to Moni. She took him aside, sat down on the trunk of a tree, beside him, and said with the greatest friendliness:

"Come, tell me all about how it happened, Moni, for I want so much to know everything from you."

Then Moni gained confidence and began to relate the whole story, and told her every word of his struggle about Maeggerli and how he had lost all happiness and dared no longer look up to the dear Lord, and how to-day he couldn't bear it any longer.

Then Paula talked with him very kindly and said he should have come immediately and told everything, and it was right that he had told her all now so frankly, and that he would not regret it. Then she said he could promise Jörgli ten francs, as soon as she had the cross in her hands again.

"Ten francs!" repeated Moni, full of astonishment, for he knew how Jörgli would have sold it for much less. Then Moni rose and said he would go right away that very day to Küblis, and if he got the cross he would bring it with him early the next morning. He ran along and was once more able to leap and jump, for he had a much lighter heart and the heavy burden no longer weighed him down to the ground.

When he reached home, he only put his goats in, told his grandmother he had an errand to do, and ran at once down to Küblis. He found Jörgli at home and told him without delay what he had done. At first the boy was very angry, but when he considered that all was known, he took out the cross and asked:

"Will she give me anything for it?"

"Yes, and now you can see, Jörgli," said Moni, indignantly, "how by being honorable you will receive ten francs, and by being deceitful only four: the ten francs you are going to have now."

Jörgli was very much amazed. He regretted that he had not gone immediately with the cross to the Bath House, after he had picked it up in front of the door, for now he had not a clear conscience and it might have been so different! But now it was too late. He gave the cross to Moni, who hastened home with it, for it had already grown quite dark.



Chapter V

Moni Sings Again


Paula had given orders to be wakened early the next morning, for she wanted to be on the spot when the goat-boy came. She was anxious to deal with him herself. That evening she had held a long conversation with the landlord, and had then come out of his room quite happy; so she must have planned something delightful with him.

When the goat-boy came along with his flock in the morning, Paula was already standing in front of the house, and she called out:

"Moni, can't you sing even now?"

He shook his head. "No, I can't. I am always wondering how much longer Maeggerli will go with me. I never can sing any more as long as I live, and here is the cross." Whereupon he handed her a little package, for the grandmother had wrapped it carefully for him in three or four papers.

Paula took out the cross from the wrappings and examined it closely. It really was her beautiful cross with the sparkling stones, and quite unharmed. "Well, Moni," she said now very kindly, "you have given me a great pleasure, for if it had not been for you, I might never have seen my cross again. Now, I am going to give you a pleasure. Go take Maeggerli there out of the shed, she belongs to you now!"

Moni stared at the young lady in astonishment, as if it were impossible to understand her words. At last he stammered: "But how -- how can Maeggerli be mine?"

"How?" replied Paula, smiling. "See, last evening I bought her from the landlord and this morning I give her to you. Now can't you sing once more?"

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" exclaimed Moni and ran like mad to the shed, led the little goat out, and took it in his arms. Then he leaped back and held out his hand to Paula and said over and over again:

"I thank you a thousand, thousand times! May God reward you! If I could do something nice for you!"

"Well, then try once more and let us see if you can sing again!" said Paula.

Then Moni sang his song and went on up the mountain with the goats, and his jubilant tones rang down into the valley, so that there was no one in the whole Bath House who did not hear it and many an one turned over in his bed and said: "The goat-boy has good weather once more."

All were glad to hear him sing again, for all had depended on the merry alarm, some in order to get up, others to sleep a while longer.

When Moni, from the first summit, saw Paula still standing below in front of the house, he stepped as far out as possible and sang down at the top of his voice:

"And so blue is the sky there My joy can't be told."


The whole day long Moni shouted for joy, and all the goats caught his spirit and jumped and sprang around as if it were a great festival. The sun shone cheerfully down out of the blue sky, and after the great rain, all the little plants were so fresh, and the yellow and red flowers so bright, it seemed to Moni as if he had never seen the mountains and the valley and the whole world so beautiful before. He didn't let the little kid leave him the whole day; he pulled up the best plants for it and fed it, and said over and over again:

"Maeggerli, you dear Maeggerli, you do not have to die. You are now mine and will come up to the pasture with me as long as we live." And with resounding singing and yodeling Moni came down again at evening and after he had led the black goat to her shed, he took the little kid in his arms, for it was now coming home with him. Maeggerli did not look as if it would rather stay there, but pressed close to Moni and felt that it was under the best protection, for Moni had for a long time treated it better and more kindly than its own mother.

But when Moni came near his grandmother's with Maeggerli on his shoulders, she didn't know at all what to make of it, and although Moni called from a distance:

"She belongs to me, Grandmother, she belongs to me!" she didn't understand for some time what he meant. But Moni couldn't explain to her yet; he ran to the shed, and there right next to Brownie, so that it wouldn't be afraid, he made Maeggerli a fine, soft bed of fresh straw, and laid it down, saying:

"There, Maeggerli, now sleep well in your new home! You must always have this; every day I will make you a new bed!"

Then Moni came back directly to his wondering grandmother, and while they sat together at their supper, he told her the whole story from the very beginning about his three days so full of trouble, and the happy ending to-day.

The grandmother listened very quietly and attentively and when he came to the end, she said earnestly:

"Moni, you must remember what has happened to you now, as long as you live! While you were having so great trouble with wrong-doing in order to help the little creature, the dear Lord had already found a way to help it and make you happy as soon as you would do what was right in His sight. If you had done right at once, and trusted in God, all would have gone well at first. Now the dear Lord has helped you beyond all you deserved, so that you will not forget it your whole life long."

"No, I will surely never forget it," said Moni, eagerly assenting, "and will always truly think, the first thing: I must only do what is right before the dear Lord. He will take care of all the rest."

But before Moni could lie down to sleep, he had to look into the shed once more, to see if it were really possible that the little kid was lying out there and belonged to him.

Jörgli received the ten francs according to the agreement, but he was not allowed to escape from the affair so easily as that. When he returned to the Bath House, he was brought to the landlord who took the boy by the collar, gave him a good shaking, and said threateningly:

"Jörgli! Jörgli! Don't you try a second time to bring my whole house into bad repute! If anything like this happens a single time again, you will come out of my house in a way that will not please you! See, up there hangs a very sharp willow rod for such cases. Now go and think this over."

Moreover, the event had other consequences for the boy. From this time on, if anything was lost anywhere in the Bath House, all the servants immediately exclaimed: "Jörgli from Küblis has it!" and if he came afterwards into the house they all pounced on him together and cried: "Give it here, Jörgli! Out with it!" And if he assured them he had nothing and knew nothing about it, they would all exclaim: "We know you already!" and "You can't fool us!"

So Jörgli had to endure the most menacing attacks continually, and had hardly a moment's peace any more, for if he saw any one approaching him, he at once thought he was coming to ask if he had found this or that. So Jörgli was not at all happy; and a hundred times he thought: "If only I had given back that cross immediately! I will never in my whole life keep anything else that doesn't belong to me."

But Moni never ceased singing and yodeling, the whole summer long, for there was hardly another human being in the world as happy as he was up there with his goats. Often, however, when he lay stretched out in his contentment on the Pulpit-rock, and gazed down into the sunny valley below, he had to think how he had sat that time with the heavy burden on his heart, under the Rain-rock, and all happiness was gone; and he would say again and again in his heart: "I know now what I will do, so that it will never happen again: I will do nothing that will prevent me from looking up gladly to heaven, because this is right to the dear Lord."

But if it chanced that Moni became too long absorbed in his meditation, one or another of the goats would come along, gaze wonderingly at him and try to attract his attention by bleating, which oftentimes he did not hear for quite a while. Only when Maeggerli came and called after him longingly, then he heard at once and came leaping to it immediately, for his affectionate little kid always remained Moni's dearest possession.

<eob>

Rollo's Experiments

By

Jacob Abbott



Jonas An Astronomer.


One day, when Rollo was about seven years old, he was sitting upon the steps of the door, and he heard a noise in the street, as of some sort of carriage approaching. A moment afterwards, a carryall came in sight. It drove up to the front gate, and stopped. Rollo's father and mother and his little brother Nathan got out. His father fastened the horse to the post, and came in.

When Rollo first heard the noise of the carryall, he was sitting still upon the steps of the door, thinking. He was thinking of something that Jonas, his father's hired boy, had told him about the sun's shining in at the barn door. There was a very large double door to Rollo's father's barn, and as this door opened towards the south, the sun used to shine in very warm, upon the barn floor, in the middle of the day.

Rollo and Jonas had been sitting there husking some corn, -- for it was in the fall of the year; -- and as it was rather a cool autumnal day, Rollo said it was lucky that the sun shone in, for it kept them warm.

"Yes," said Jonas; "and what is remarkable, it always shines in farther in the winter than it does in the summer."

"Does it?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said Jonas.

"And what is the reason?" asked Rollo.

"I don't know," said Jonas, "unless it is because we want it in the barn more in the winter than we do in the summer."

"Ho!" said Rollo; "I don't believe that is the reason."

"Why not?" said Jonas.

"O, I don't believe the sun moves about in the heavens, to different places, only just to shine into barn doors."

"Why, it keeps a great many farmers' boys more comfortable," said Jonas.

"Is it so in all barns?" asked Rollo.

"I suppose so," said Jonas.

After some further conversation on the subject, the boys determined to watch the reflection of the sun's beams upon the barn floor for a good many days, and to mark the place that it came in to, at noon every day, with a piece of chalk. It was only a few minutes before the carryall came up, that they had determined upon this, and had marked the place for that day; and then Rollo had come out of the barn, and was sitting upon the door step, thinking of the subject, when his reflections were interrupted in the manner already described.

So, when Rollo saw his father getting out of the carryall, he ran to meet him, and called out to him, talking very loud and rapidly,

"Father, Jonas says that the sun shines farther in, upon the barn floor, in winter than in summer; -- does it, do you think?"

But this was not a proper time for Rollo to bring up his philosophical question. His father had a carpet bag and several packages in his hands, and he was also conducting Rollo's mother in, and thinking about the horse and carryall. So he told Rollo that he must not speak to him then, for he could not attend to him.

Rollo then walked along back into the yard, and began to think of the subject of the sun's shining in at the south door. He looked up towards the sun, and began to consider what sort of a change in its place, at noon, on different days, would be necessary in order to account for its shining in more at south doors and windows, on some days, than on others. He reflected that if the sun were exactly overhead, at noon, it could not shine in at any doors at all; for the rays would then strike perpendicularly down the sides of the houses. While he was standing thus, lost in thought, looking up to the sun, with his arm across his forehead, to shelter his eyes a little from the dazzling rays, he suddenly felt the pressure of two soft hands upon his ears, as of somebody who had come up behind him. He turned round, and found his cousin Lucy standing there.

Lucy asked him what he was thinking of, and he told her. He then took Lucy into the barn, and showed her the chalk mark upon the floor. She looked on with a good deal of interest, and said she thought it was an excellent plan; and she wished there was a great barn with a south floor at their house. Lucy knew more about the subject than Rollo did, and she gave him some explanations about it. "You see," said she, "that the sun rises in the east every morning, and comes up higher and higher, every hour, till noon; and then it begins to go down again, and at last it sets in the west. But, at some times in the year, it comes up higher at noon than it does at other times, and so it does not shine so much into the door."

"It shines more, you mean," said Rollo.

"No," said Lucy; "not so much. In the winter the sun moves around by the south, and keeps pretty low all day, and of course shines farther into doors and windows."

Then, after a moment's pause, she added,

"If we should mark the place on the floor all the year round, we should find what time the sun is farthest to the south."

"So we should," said Rollo.

"It would be in the winter," said Lucy.

"Yes," said Rollo; "in the middle of the winter exactly."

"Yes," said Lucy; "and in the middle of the summer it would be nearest overhead."

"Jonas and I will try it," said Rollo.

"I can try it in the house," said Lucy, "where the sun shines in at my chamber window."

"O no," said Rollo; "that won't do."

"Why not?" said Lucy.

"Because the window does not come down to the floor, and so does not let the sun in enough."

"O, that makes no difference," said Lucy; "we have nothing to do with the bottom of the door; you only mark where it shines in the farthest, and that place is made by the top of the door, for it shines in farthest by the top of the door."

"Well," said Rollo, "I don't know but that the house will do; but then you can't chalk on the carpet."

"Chalk on the carpet?" said Lucy.

"Yes, to mark the place."

"No," said Lucy, thinking; "but I can mark it some other way."

"How?" asked Rollo.

"Why, I can put a pin in," said Lucy.

"O dear," said Rollo, with a laugh, "put a pin in! That's no way to mark a shadow."

"It isn't a shadow," said Lucy.

"Yes, it is," said Rollo.

"No," said Lucy; "a shadow is dark, and this is bright."

"Yes," said Rollo, "this is a bright shadow; some shadows are bright, and some are dark."

"O Rollo!" said Lucy; and she turned away from him, a little out of humor.

The truth was, that Rollo and Lucy were getting decidedly into a dispute. From the sublime heights of practical astronomy, they had fallen, by a sad and very rapid descent, to a childish altercation. Rollo had a very high idea of the superior facilities afforded by Jonas's barn floor for observing the daily changes in the sun's meridian altitude, and he did not like the idea of Lucy's finding that she had equally good opportunities for observation at her home. Lucy was a little fretted at Rollo's captious spirit; but then her mind soon became unruffled again, and she turned back towards Rollo, and said, as they walked along the yard,

"I don't think the sunshine on the floor is a shadow, Rollo; but then I don't see why a shadow would not do, just as well."

"How?" said Rollo.

"Why, look there at the shadow of that post, -- that would do."

She pointed to a post with a rounded top upon it, which stood by the side of the garden gate. The shadow, clear, distinct, and well defined, was projected upon the walk; and Lucy told Rollo that they might mark the place where the top of that shadow came every day, and that that would do just as well.

"But how could we mark it?" said Rollo.

"Why, we could drive a little stake unto the ground."

"O, that would not do," said Rollo. "People would trip over them, and break them down. They would be exactly in the walk."

Lucy saw that this would be a difficulty, and, for a moment, seemed to be at a loss. At length, she said,

"We might go somewhere else, then, where the people would not come."

"But what should we do for a post?" said Rollo.

"Could not we get Jonas to drive a tall stake down?" said Lucy.

"Yes," said Rollo; "I suppose so."

The children went out into the garden to find a good smooth place, and while they were walking about there, Rollo's mother came out, and they told her the whole story. She seemed quite interested in the plan, and told them of a better way than any that they had thought of.

"You see," said she, "that the height of the stake or pole that makes the shadow is not material; for the shadow of a small one will vary just as much, in proportion to its length, as that of a long one will. So, instead of taking a wooden stake, out of doors, you might take a large pin, and drive it down a little way into the window sill, in the house. Then you can mark the shadow with a pen, very exactly."

"So we can," said Lucy, clapping her hands.

"And you might put a piece of white paper, or a card down first," continued Rollo's mother, "and drive the pin through that, and then mark the places where the end of the shadow comes every day, directly on the card, with a fine pen. Thus you could be a great deal more exact than you can in chalking upon a barn floor."

Rollo asked his mother if she would not be kind enough to help them fix their apparatus; but she said she would give them particular directions, though she should prefer letting them do the whole themselves, and then, if they met with any difficulties, they might come and report them to her, and she would tell them how to surmount them. So she recommended to them to go and find a blank card, or piece of white pasteboard, or of stiff white paper, as big as a common card. "Then," said she, "choose some window where the sun shines in at noon, and put the card down upon the sill, and drive the pin down through it. But you must not drive the pin through the middle of the card, for the shadow will always be off to the north of the pin, and therefore the pin may be pretty near the south end of the card. Then the shadow will be more likely to come wholly upon the card, even when it is longest. You had better place the card in such a position, too, that its sides shall lie in the direction of north and south. Then the shadow at noon will lie along exactly in the middle of it. You must get a large and stout pin, too; and drive it in firmly, a little way, with a small hammer. It will be well, too, to drive another smaller pin into the other end of the card, so as to keep it fixed in its north and south position."

"How can we know when it is north and south, exactly?" said Lucy.

"You cannot do it exactly," said Rollo's mother; "but you can get it pretty near. One way is to borrow father's little compass, and adjust it by that. Another way is to see when it is exactly twelve o'clock by the clock, and then the shadow of the pin will of itself be about north.

"Then you might move the north end of the card until the shadow is brought exactly into the middle of the card, and then put the other pin in, and fix it in that place. Then if you make a mark along where the shadow comes, that mark will be a north and south line, and you can mark the place where the shadow of the pin's head crosses that line, when it crosses it every day at noon."

The children said that they believed they understood the directions, and they determined to try the plan. They thought they would fix two cards, one at Rollo's house, and one at Lucy's; and they immediately went off in pursuit of blank cards and big pins.



Pruning.


One afternoon, Rollo saw his father coming out into the garden, with a little saw and a knife, and a small pot of paint in his hands.

"Father," said he, "are you going to prune your trees now?"

"Yes," said his father.

"Then, shall I go and get my wheelbarrow?"

"Yes," replied his father, again.

So Rollo ran off after his wheelbarrow. It had been arranged, between him and his father that morning, that they should work in the garden an hour or two in the afternoon, and that Rollo should pick up all the cuttings from the trees, and wheel them away, and then, when they were dry, make a bonfire with them.

Rollo found his wheelbarrow in its proper place, and trundled it along into the garden.

"Father," said he, "what trees are you going to prune first?"

"O, I am going to begin at the back side of the garden, and prune them all, advancing regularly to the front."

"What is the saw for?" said Rollo.

"To saw off the large branches, that I can't cut off easily with a knife."

"But I should not think you would want to saw off any large branches, for so you will lose all the apples that would grow on them next year."

"Why, sometimes, the branches are dead, and then they would do no good, but only be in the way."

"But do they do any hurt?" said Rollo.

"Why, they look badly."

"But, I mean, would they do any actual hurt to the tree?"

"Why, I don't know," said his father; "perhaps they would not. At any rate, if I cut them off pretty close to the living part of the tree, the bark will then gradually extend out over the little stump that I leave, and finally cover it over, and take it all in, as it were."

By this time, Rollo and his father had reached the back side of the garden, and his father showed him the place where he had cut off a limb the year before, and he saw how the fresh young bark had protruded itself all around it, and was spreading in towards the centre so as to cover it over. Rollo then saw that it was better that all old dead limbs should be cut off.

"That's curious," said Rollo.

"Yes, very curious," said his father. "A tree will take in, and cover up, almost any thing that is fastened to the wood, in the same manner."

"Will it?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said his father. "If you drive a nail into a tree, the bark will, after a time, cover it over entirely. Sometimes people find things in old trees, which were put upon them when they were young."

"How big things?" said Rollo.

"O, I don't know exactly how big. The tree will make an effort to enclose any thing small or large. Only, if it is very large, it will take a great while to enclose it, and it might be so large that it never could enclose it."

"Well, father, how large must it be so that the tree never could enclose it?"

"O, I don't know, exactly. Once I saw a tree that was growing very near a rock. After a time it came in contact with it, and it grew and pressed against it, until the rock crowded into the wood. Then the bark began to protrude in every direction along the rock, as if it was making an effort to spread out and take the rock all in. But I don't think it will ever succeed; for the rock was part of a ledge in a pretty large hill."

"What a silly tree!" said Rollo.

"Father, I believe I will try the experiment some time," continued Rollo, after a pause.

"Very well," said his father.

"What shall I put into the tree?" asked Rollo.

"You might put in a cent," said his father, "and then, if it should get fairly enclosed, I presume the tree will keep it safe for you a good many years."

Rollo determined to do it. "Then," said he, "I shall never be out of money, and that will be excellent." His father told him that he must make a small cleft in the bark and wood, with a chisel and mallet, and then drive the cent in, edgewise, a little way.

So Rollo got his chisel and mallet, and inserted the cent according to his father's directions, and by that time there were a good many branches and twigs on the ground, which his father had taken off from the trees, and so he began to pick them up, and put them into his wheelbarrow.

They went on working together for some time, and talking while they worked. Rollo was continually asking his father questions, and his father sometimes answered them, and sometimes did not, but was silent and thoughtful, as if he was thinking of something else. But whether he got answers or not, Rollo went on talking.

"Father," said Rollo, at length, after a short pause, during which he had been busily at work putting twigs into his wheelbarrow, "Henry has got a very interesting book."

His father did not answer.

"I think it is a very interesting book indeed. Should not you like to read it, father?"

His father was just then reaching up very high to saw off a pretty large limb, and he paid no attention to what Rollo was saying. So Rollo went on talking half to himself -- 

"One story is about Aladdin and his lamp. If he rubbed his lamp, he could have whatever he wished; something would come, I have forgotten what its name was, and bring him whatever he asked for."

Just then, down came the great branch which his father had been sawing off, falling from its place on the tree to the ground.

Rollo looked at it a moment, and then, when his father began sawing again, he said,

"Should not you like such a lamp, father?"

"Such a lamp as what, my son?" said his father.

"Why, such a one as Aladdin's."

"Aladdin's! why, what do you know of Aladdin's lamp?"

"Why, I read about it in Henry's story book," said Rollo. "I just told you, father."

"Did you?" said his father. "Won't you just hand me up the paint brush?"

"Well, father," said Rollo, as he handed him the brush, "don't you wish you had an Aladdin's lamp?"

"No, not particularly," said his father.

"O father!" exclaimed Rollo, with surprise, "I am sure I do. Don't you wish I had such a lamp, father?"

"No," said his father.

"Why, father, I really think I could do some good with it. For instance, I could just rub my lamp, and then have all your trees pruned for you, at once, without any further trouble."

"But that would not be worth while; for you might have a much larger and better garden than this made at once, with thousands of trees, bearing delicious fruit; and ponds, and waterfalls, and beautiful groves."

"O, so I could," said Rollo.

"And, then, how soon do you think you should get tired of it, and want another?"

"O, perhaps, I should want another pretty soon; but then I could have another, you know."

"Yes, and how long do you think you could find happiness, in calling beautiful gardens into existence, one after another?"

"O, I don't know; -- a good while."

"A day?"

"O, yes, father."

"A week?"

"Why, perhaps, I should be tired in a week."

"Then all your power of receiving enjoyment from gardens would be run out and exhausted in a week; whereas mine, without any Aladdin's lamp, lasts me year after year, pleasantly increasing all the time without ever reaching satiety."

"What is satiety, father?"

"The feeling we experience when we have had so much of a good thing that we are completely tired and sick of it. If I should give a little child as much honey as he could eat, or let him play all the time, or buy him a vast collection of pictures, he would soon get tired of these things."

"O father, I never should get tired of looking at pictures."

"I think you would," said his father.

Here the conversation stopped a few minutes, while Rollo went to wheel away a load of his sticks. Before he returned, he had prepared himself to renew his argument. He said,

"Father, even if I did get tired of making beautiful gardens, I could then do something else with the lamp, and that would give me new pleasure."

"Yes, but the new pleasure would be run out and exhausted just as soon as the pleasure of having a garden would have been; so that you would, in a short time, be satiated with every thing, and become completely wretched and miserable."

"But, father," said Rollo, after being silent a little while, "I don't think I should get tired of my beautiful gardens very soon: I don't think I should get tired even of looking at pictures of them."

"Should you like to try the experiment?"

"Yes, sir," said Rollo, very eagerly.

Rollo's father had a great many books of pictures and engravings of various kinds in his library; and sometimes he used to allow the children to see them, but only a very few at a time. They had not yet seen them all. He only allowed them to see them as fast as they had time to examine them thoroughly, and read about them and understand them. But now he said to Rollo,

"I could let you have all the books of prints and engravings I have got, and see them all at one time, and that would be giving you Aladdin's lamp, exactly, so far as my pictures are concerned."

"Well," said Rollo, clapping his hands.

"But then, in a short time, you would get tired of looking at them; you would become satiated, and would in fact spoil the whole pleasure by attempting to enjoy it too fast. But then I think it would perhaps do you good."

"How, father?"

"Why, by teaching you the value of moderation, and the uselessness of Aladdin's lamps in all human enjoyments. It would be a very valuable experiment in intellectual philosophy, which I think it very probable might be of use to you. So, if you please, you may try it."

"Well, father, I am sure I should like to see the pictures."

"That is all settled then," said his father; "some day you shall."



The Great Beetle And Wedge.


Rollo was coming home one morning after having been away on an errand, and he saw a large wood pile near Farmer Cropwell's door. Now it happened that Rollo had once been on a journey pretty far back into the country; it was at the time when Jonas told him and Lucy the stories related in the book called "Jonas's Stories." On that journey, Jonas had one day told him that the sap of the maple-tree was sweet, and had let him taste of some, where it oozed out at the end of the log. Seeing Farmer Cropwell's wood pile reminded Rollo of this; and he thought he would look at the ends of all the logs, and see if he could not find some drops of sweet sap there.

But he could not, for two reasons: none of those trees were maple-trees, and then, besides, they were all dry. There was no sap in them of any kind; at least, not enough to ooze out. While Rollo was looking there, one of Farmer Cropwell's large boys came out with an axe in his hand. He rolled out a pretty large log of wood, though it was not very long, and struck his axe into the end of it, as if he was going to split it.

"I don't believe you can split that great log," said Rollo.

"I don't expect to do it with the axe," said the boy, as he left the axe sticking in the log.

"How then?" said Rollo.

"I have got beetle and wedges here, round behind the wood pile."

So the boy went to another side of the wood pile, and brought a large beetle and an iron wedge. When he got back to his log, he started out the axe which he had left sticking into it. Then Rollo saw that the axe had made a little indentation, or cleft, in the wood. He put the point of the wedge into this cleft, and drove it in a very little, with a few light blows with the axe. Then he took the great heavy beetle, and began driving the wedge in, with very heavy blows.

Presently, Rollo saw a little crack beginning to extend out each side from the wedge. The crack ran along across the end of the log, and thence down the side, and grew wider and wider every moment. At last, the wedge was driven in as far as it would go, and still the log was not split open.

"Now stop," said Rollo; "I will put a stick in, and keep the crack open, while you drive the wedge in, in another place."

"O, that won't do," said the boy; "a stick would not keep it open."

"Why not?" said Rollo.

"Because it is not solid enough; the sides of the cleft draw together very hard. They would crush the stick."

Here Rollo put his hand into his pocket, and drew out a walnut, and he asked the boy if it would crack a walnut.

"Try it," said the boy.

So Rollo put the walnut into the crack. He slipped it along until he got it to a place where the crack was just wide enough to receive it, and hold it steady. He left it there, and then the boy began to knock out the wedge.

He struck it first upon one side, and then upon the other, and thus gradually worked it out. The walnut was crushed all to pieces. The boy then drove in the wedge again, so as to open the log as it was before. He then went to the place where he had got the beetle and wedge at first, and brought a large wooden wedge which he had made before, and began to put that into the crack, not very far from the iron wedge.

"This will keep it open," said he.

"Yes, I think it will," said Rollo. "But put it up close to the iron wedge."

"No," said the boy; "for then I can't knock the iron wedge out."

So the boy put the large wooden wedge in, at a little distance from the iron one, and drove it in rather gently with the beetle. This opened the cleft a little more, so that the iron wedge came out pretty easily.

"I don't see what makes the sides of the logs draw together so hard," said Rollo.

"O, they can't help it," said the boy.

"That is no reason," rejoined Rollo. "I should think that, after the log is once split open, it would stay so. If I split a piece of wood in two with my knife, the pieces don't try to come together again."

So Rollo began to examine the log, and to look into the cracks, to see if he could find out what it was that made the parts draw together so hard as to crush the walnut. Presently, he observed that the log was not split open from end to end. The crack commenced at one end, and extended nearly towards the other, but not quite; so that at this other end the log was solid and whole, just as it always had been. So Rollo perceived that the two halves being joined and held together firmly here, they could only be separated at the other end by the wedge springing them open, and, of course, by their elasticity they tended to spring together again. Then besides, he saw, by looking into the crack, a great number of splinters, large and small, which extended obliquely from one side to the other, and bound the two sides strongly towards each other.

By this time the boy had got the wedge knocked out.

"It is strange," said Rollo, "that such a small wedge will split such a tough and solid log."

"O, not very strange," said the boy. "You see," he continued, taking up the wedge, and pointing to the several parts as he explained them, "you see here at this part, where it enters the wood it is sharp, and the sides spread out each way, so that, when I drive it in, they force the wood apart."

"Why don't they have the back of the wedge wider still? and then it would force the wood open farther; and then you would not have to put in a wooden wedge afterwards, -- so," he added, making a sign with his fingers. He put the tips of his fingers together, and then separated his hands, so as to represent a very blunt-shaped wedge.

"Then it would not drive in so easily," answered the boy. "Perhaps I could not drive it in at all, if it was so blunt."

"They might have the wedge longer then," said Rollo, "and then it would be just as tapering, and yet it would be a great deal broader at the back, because the back would be farther off."

"That would make the wedge a great deal too heavy. It would not drive."

"Why, yes, it would," said Rollo.

"No, it would not," said the boy. "It would be just like a shoemaker's lap-stone; pounding it would hardly move it."

Rollo did not understand what the boy meant by what he said about the shoemaker's lap-stone; so he paused a moment, and presently he said,

"I don't think it would make any difference, if it was heavy. And, besides, it might be made of wood, and that wouldn't be heavy."

"O, wood wouldn't do," said the boy.

Now it happened that while they had been talking, the boy had gone on driving in his wooden wedge into the cleft that the iron one had made, and it had been gradually splitting the log open more and more. So that just as the boy was saying that "a wooden wedge wouldn't do," Rollo was actually seeing with his own eyes that it would do; for at that moment the boy gave the last blow, and the halves of the log came apart and fell over, one to one side, and the other to the other.

"Why, there," said Rollo, "you have split the log open with a wooden wedge."

"O, that is because I had an iron one in first," said the boy.

"What difference does that make?" said Rollo.

"A great deal of difference," said the boy.

"But what difference?" persisted Rollo.

"I don't know exactly what difference," said the boy; "only I know you can't do any thing with a wooden wedge until you have first opened a seam with an iron one."

Rollo was confident that it could not possibly make any difference whether a wooden wedge was used first or last. The boy was sure that it did, though he could not tell why. Finally, they determined to try it; so the boy struck his axe into the end of the next log, and then attempted to drive in his wooden wedge. But he did not succeed at all. The wedge would not stay. Rollo told him that he did not strike hard enough. Then he struck harder, but it did no good. The wedge dropped out the moment he let go of it, and on taking it up, they found that the edge of it was bruised and battered; so that even Rollo gave up all hopes of making it enter.

"Ah!" said the boy, taking up the wedge, and looking at it, "now I know what the reason is. It is the edge."

"Where?" said Rollo. "Let me see."

"Why, when there is no crack," said the boy, "you see the edge of the wedge comes against the solid wood, and when I drive, it only bruises and batters it; but the iron is hard, and goes in. But then, when a crack is made, the wedge can go in easily; for the edge does not touch; then only the sides rub against the wood."

"How?" said Rollo. "I don't understand."

"I'll show you in a minute," said the boy. So he took the iron wedge, and went to work driving it into the log. It soon began to make a crack, which ran along the log, and opened wider and wider. When, at length, it was pretty wide, he put the wooden wedge in, and he showed Rollo that the edge of the wedge did not now have to force its way, but went easily into the crack, and only the sides came in contact with the two parts of the log which it was separating.

"That's curious," said Rollo.

"Yes," said the boy.

"I wish I had a little beetle and wedge," said Rollo. "I have got a hammer. That would do for a beetle, if I only had a wedge."

"O, a hammer won't do," said the boy.

"Why not? Would not an axe do as well as a beetle?"

"No," said the boy, "it would spoil the axe and the wedge too."

"How?" asked Rollo.

"Why, it would bruise it all up, -- hard iron knocking against the hard iron."

"Would it?" said Rollo.

"Yes," replied the farmer's boy; "it would spoil the head of the axe, and the head of the wedge too."

"Is that the reason why they make a wooden beetle?"

"Yes," said the boy; "and they put iron rings around the ends to keep the wood from being bruised and battered."

"O, I wish I had a little beetle and wedge!" said Rollo.

"Perhaps you might make one."

"O, I could not make an iron wedge -- nor the beetle rings."

"No, but you might make wedges of wood, -- pretty hard wood; that would do to split up pieces of pine boards, and then you would not need any rings to your beetle."

"Jonas can help me," said Rollo.

"Yes," said the boy; "Jonas will know all about it."

So Rollo set out to go home, full of the idea of making a wooden beetle and wedge, so as to split up pieces of boards. He determined, in case he should succeed, to make a smaller one still for Thanny.



The Little Beetle And Wedge.


When Rollo got home, he looked about for Jonas every where, but could not find him. He went around the house and yard, calling "Jonas! Jonas!" very loud. Presently Nathan came out to the door, and told him that his mother wanted to see him. So Rollo went in to his mother.

"You ought not to make such a noise," said she, "calling Jonas. You disturb us all."

"But, mother," said he, "I want to find him very much."

"No doubt," said his mother; "but you must find him with your eyes, not with your tongue."

"Why, mother," said Rollo, laughing, "what do you mean by that?"

"Boys very generally have a habit of trying to find people with their tongues, that is, by calling them; but it is a very bad habit. You see," she continued, "there are five or six persons now in and about the house, and if you go around calling out for Jonas, you disturb us all; but if you go about quietly, and look for him, you do not disturb any body."

"But then it is not so easy to find him by looking for him," said Rollo.

"Why not?" asked his mother.

"Because," said Rollo, "I can call out for him, in a moment, in the yard, and then if he is any where within hearing, he answers; and so I know where he is. But it would take me some time to go to all the places that are within hearing."

"True," said his mother, "I see it is more trouble to find any body with your eyes, than with your voice; but then it is so much pleasanter for all the rest of us, that you must submit to it."

So Rollo went away again to look for Jonas. He inquired of Dorothy in the kitchen, and she told him that she saw Jonas going out towards the barn a few minutes before. So Rollo went off in pursuit of him.

He found him at work in a little back room in the barn, looking over some harnesses.

"What are you doing, Jonas?" said Rollo.

"I am overhauling these harnesses, to get them all ready for winter."

"For winter?" said Rollo.

"Yes," replied Jonas; "they are sleigh-harnesses."

"Well, Jonas," said Rollo, "I wanted to see you about a beetle and wedge. Do you think you could help me about making a little beetle and wedge?"

"I can help you by my advice," said Jonas.

"O, but I want you to help me make them."

Then Jonas asked Rollo what made him think of a beetle and wedge; and Rollo told him of the conversation he had held with the farmer's boy. Then Jonas talked a long time about it, giving him particular advice and direction about the plan, though he said he could not himself go and help him then, for he could not leave his harnesses.

The advice which Jonas gave him was, substantially, this: -- 

"The boy was right in what he said about the necessity of having iron wedges, to split up large logs of hard wood; but you had better have short pieces of pine boards for your logs, and then wedges of hard wood will do instead of iron; for hard wood is so much more solid than pine, that I think wedges of it will answer very well. There are some pieces of walnut under the bench, which will do finely, and I will give you one of them."

"I'll go, now, and get it," said Rollo.

"No," said Jonas, "not yet; let me tell you about making the beetle."

So Rollo stood in the door way, waiting to hear what Jonas had to say about the beetle, but evidently quite impatient to go.

"If you make your wedges of hard wood, it will not be necessary to have iron rings to your beetle, because it will not get battered much, in driving wooden wedges. Now you must go to the wood pile, and look out a piece of round wood, about as large round as my arm, and bore a hole in it."

"A hole in it!" said Rollo.

"Yes, a small auger hole, to put the handle into. Then you must put the wood into the saw-horse, and saw off the ends, at a little distance from the hole, so that, when the handle is put in, it will be like a mallet."

"A mallet!" said Rollo. "But I wanted a beetle."

"Well, a mallet is a small beetle, without rings."

"Is it?" said Rollo, thoughtfully.

"Yes," replied Jonas; "and if you work slowly and carefully, I think you can make a pretty good one yourself."

Rollo thought so too, and away he ran to make the experiment. Under the great work bench, he found, among a quantity of boards and bits of wood, a number of long bars of walnut, which Jonas had split out from the wood pile to keep for handles. He took one of these, and carried it off to the shed, to look for the saw and the hatchet.

The first thing was, as he supposed, to saw off a piece of the wood just long enough for a wedge. But in this he was mistaken. In doing any piece of work of this kind, it is always very important to consider which part it is best to do first. Rollo did not think of this, and so he marked off a piece of the walnut wood about long enough for a wedge, and then sawed it off.

"Now," said he, "I must make the sides smooth, and sharpen it."

So he took the piece of wood in his hand, and put one end of it down upon a large log of wood, and then attempted to smooth and sharpen it, as he had seen Jonas sharpen a stake. But he could not succeed very well. The wood was very hard, and he could not cut it. Then it was so short that it was almost impossible to hold it. At almost every blow of the hatchet it slipped out of his hand; and then, besides, he was very much afraid of cutting his fingers; so that, after working laboriously for some time, he came back to Jonas in despair, holding his wedge in his hands, which, however, instead of being properly sharpened, was only rounded off a little at the corners.

"O dear me!" said he to Jonas, as he came up to him with the intended wedge in his hands, "I can't make a wedge at all. It's no use to try." Then he explained to Jonas the difficulties that he had met with.

"True," said Jonas; "I see. I advise you to give it up."

"Yes," said Rollo, "the wood is so hard."

"O, no," said Jonas; "that is no great trouble -- you could easily manage that."

"But then I can't hold it."

"That is of no consequence either. I could tell you a way to hold it well enough."

"What is the reason, then, why you think I had better give up?"

"Because you have not patience enough."

Rollo stood silent and thoughtful as Jonas said this, with his piece of wood in one hand, and his hatchet in the other.

"It takes a great deal of patience to make a thing which we never made before."

"Why?" said Rollo.

"O, because there are always unforeseen difficulties. We don't know exactly how to do it, and are apt to make mistakes; and so we spoil some of our work, and this makes us impatient and fretful."

"But I could not help coming to you," said Rollo, "when I found I could not sharpen my wedge."

"I did not blame you for coming to me," said Jonas.

"But you said I was impatient."

"Yes, but not for coming to me -- I judged by your looks and tone of voice. Now if you can keep good-natured and pleasant, so as to go on steadily and patiently, difficulties or no difficulties, I will help you by my advice; otherwise, I think you had better give up the plan."

Rollo stood a few minutes leaning on the door, and swinging it back and forth a little. He seemed to be in doubt whether to be good-natured or not. At length, the better feelings triumphed, and he said,

"Well, Jonas I will try. How can I hold my wedge while I sharpen it?"

"You must not saw it off until it is all sharpened and smoothed. By that means, you see, the long end of the stick, that you make it from, will serve for a handle."

"So it will," said Rollo; "I never thought of that."

So Rollo went off in pursuit of the stick from which he had sawed off his first wedge, intending to make another upon the end of it, and then saw it off when it was all ready.

He found that now he could hold his wood very easily, and there was no danger of cutting his fingers. So he could strike much heavier blows. He soon sharpened his wedge, and then carried it to Jonas to ask him if he thought it would do.

"No," said Jonas, "I don't think it will do, very well."

"Won't it?" asked Rollo, looking somewhat disappointed.

"Why, you see the sides are not smooth; and then you have not sharpened it uniformly. You have cut away more at the corners than you have in the middle, so that it is thicker in the middle. That is the way that boys always sharpen wedges."

"Why do they?" asked Rollo.

"I suppose it is because it is easier to cut away at the edges, and so they get more off there. Now you had better get your wedge as true, and perfect, and smooth as you can, before you saw it off. It will be a great deal pleasanter to work with a good wedge than with a poor one, and so you had better take pains with it, and make as perfect a one as you can, if you make any."

"But, Jonas," said Rollo, "I can smooth it and finish it, after I get it sawed off."

"Not half as easily as you can now," said Jonas.

During all this time Jonas kept on with his own work; and now he said no more, and seemed disposed to leave Rollo to his own decision.

Rollo walked slowly back to the shed. He longed to have his wedge done; but then Jonas had often told him before, that if he was attempting to make any thing, it was best to take pains with it, and make it as complete and perfect as possible, and then he would prize it more, and take more pleasure in it, when it was done. Rollo knew that this was good advice, though, like almost all other boys, he was always in such a hurry to finish any thing that he undertook, and to have it ready for use, that he did not like to take the necessary pains.

On reflection, however, he concluded to take Jonas's advice; and he accordingly began to smooth the sides of his wedge again with the hatchet. He did it slowly and carefully; and after some time he found that he had got the wedge into a much more perfect shape than before. He then carried it to Jonas again.

Now Jonas approved it very much, but told him that he had better smooth it a little more with his knife before sawing it off. Rollo did so; and then he carried it back to the horse, and sawed it off at the right distance, and it made an excellent wedge. The edges, at the head of the wedge, were left somewhat rough by the saw. These, however, he trimmed off with his knife, and then carried the wedge to Jonas.

"Very well," said Jonas; "now you want one more."

"One more?" said Rollo. "No, I want my beetle next."

"No," said Jonas, "one more wedge. Make all your wedges first."

"Why, Jonas, you see, if I make my beetle next, I can try it with this wedge, and then I can make another, if I want it, afterwards."

"No," replied Jonas, "that is not a good way. You ought to finish up your apparatus all complete, before you try it at all. Then you will take a great deal more pleasure in trying it. Besides, if you get to work splitting up your wood, you will not want to leave it, and go to making a new wedge then. Now is the time to do it."

Rollo felt very desirous to make his beetle first, so as "just to try it a little," as he said. Still, he had so often found, when he had not followed Jonas's advice, that he was sorry for it afterwards, that he concluded to make another wedge now. He accordingly went to work again, and having learned how to do it by his practice upon the first one, he succeeded very easily, and finished it much quicker than he did before.

Then he went to work upon his beetle. He selected a round stick of wood, of about the right size, and then examined it carefully to find the part which was most uniform and regular in its shape; and he bored a hole for the handle in the middle of this part. He made his handle of pine wood, for this was much easier to cut, and Jonas told him he thought it would do nearly as well. When the handle was finished, he drove it into the hole, and then he sawed off the ends of the stick of wood at the right distances from the hole. He first took pains to measure on each side, so as to have the distances exactly the same.

When this was done, he had quite a pretty little mallet. That is, it was made very much like a carpenter's mallet; still, as a mallet is made chiefly for the purpose of driving a chisel, and this was, on the other hand, only intended to be used for splitting wood with a wedge, Jonas told him he thought it would be strictly proper to call it a little beetle. He worked so slowly and carefully, however, in doing all this, that the afternoon had entirely passed away when he got the beetle and the wedges done; and just when he was thinking that he was ready to try them, he saw Dorothy at the kitchen door, ringing the bell to call him in to tea.



Splitting.


When play time came the next day, Rollo ran after Nathan to show him his beetle and wedges, and to get him to go out and see him 'split' with them. Nathan trotted along after him, very much pleased.

Rollo had his beetle in one hand, and his two wedges in the other, and, as he walked along, he looked over his shoulder towards Nathan, who was following him, and talked to him by the way, explaining to him something about his beetle and wedges.

"You see I am going to split, Thanny. I am going to split some kindling wood for Dorothy. I shall put my wedges into the wood, and then drive them in with my beetle, and that will make the wood split open more and more; and perhaps I will let you split a little, Thanny."

By this time Rollo had got out to the shed, and he put his beetle and wedges down upon the floor, while he went away to get some boards to split. There were some old boards behind the barn, which Jonas told him were to be split up to burn, and from these he chose one, which was not very long, and dragged it to the shed. He placed this upon the saw-horse, and then sawed off a piece from one end, about as long as he thought it would be well to have the sticks of kindling wood. After he had sawed off one piece, he was going to split it up, but then he reflected that it would be more systematic and workmanlike to finish his sawing first. So he sawed off another, and another piece, until the board was all sawed up into short pieces. He placed these together neatly in a pile, and then taking one of them, he sat down upon the floor, with Thanny, and prepared to try his beetle and wedges.

"Now," said Rollo, "I think I must have a knife, -- some old knife or other, -- to make a little place to drive my wedge in. Thanny, why can't you go and ask Dorothy to let me have a knife? Come, that's a good boy."

So Nathan got up off of the floor, where he had been sitting by Rollo's side, and went in for a knife. In a few minutes he came out, and asked Rollo if a broken one would do. He had brought out a broken knife. The handle was whole and strong, but the blade was broken in two, about in the middle.

"Why, yes," said Rollo, taking the knife and looking at it, "I believe that will do.

"Yes," he continued, "I shall like this better, for I can keep this all the time, with my wedges. And besides, I believe that I can drive it better."

So Rollo held the edge of the knife to the end of the board, and then drove it in a little way, with his little beetle. This made a small opening or cleft in the angle or edge of the board at one end. Then he began to drive in his wooden wedge, telling Nathan to look carefully and see when it began to split. Nathan stood near him, stooping down, with his hands upon his knees, and looking on with great attention.

Rollo drove in his wedge, and it proceeded admirably. The wood soon began to crack, and the crack gradually extended almost to the end of the board. When he had driven it in pretty far, he told Nathan to see how he was going to manage with his second wedge. He was now very glad that he had followed Jonas's advice, and made the second wedge before trying the first. He inserted the second wedge in the crack, and drove it in. This forced the wood open more, and loosened the first wedge, so that he could easily get it out again, and very soon the board was split entirely in two. Nathan was very much delighted with the whole operation.

In the same manner, Rollo split two or three other pieces off from his board, and then Nathan wanted him to let him split one. Rollo was at first somewhat unwilling to let his little beetle go out of his hand at all, he was so interested in using it; but considering that it would give Nathan a good deal of pleasure, he concluded to let him try it once.

"I will start it for you, Thanny," said he. And he accordingly made a small cleft by driving in his knife; and then he inserted the wedge, and drove that in too, just far enough to start the crack, and enable the wood to retain the wedge. Nathan then took the beetle, and pounded away.

He found that he could not strike such heavy blows as Rollo could, and yet the wedge gradually penetrated farther and farther, and the crack opened wider and wider, to Nathan's great delight. Rollo was himself gratified to see how much his little brother was pleased with his beetle and wedges. When the first wedge was driven fully in, he handed him the other, and showed him how to insert that into the crack made by the first wedge, at a little distance from it. Nathan then drove in the second wedge, and this soon finished the work, for it split the piece off entirely, and Nathan took it up, and looked at it, very much pleased at what he had done.

"Now," said Rollo, "give me the beetle again."

"No," said Nathan, "I want to split some more."

"O, no," said Rollo, in a tone of good-humored expostulation; "no; it is my beetle and wedge. I let you have it to split one stick off; but now you ought to let me have it again, immediately."

"No," said Nathan, "I want to split some more."

Rollo took up the two wedges, and would not let Nathan have them, and Nathan held the beetle away behind him so that Rollo should not have that. Thus they seemed to be in inextricable difficulty. Rollo did not know what to do.

"Nathan," said he, at length, after a pause, "give me my beetle."

"No," said Nathan, "I want to split."

"O, dear me!" said Rollo, with a sigh.

At first, he thought that he would take the beetle away from Nathan by force; but he reflected in a moment that this would be wrong, and so finally he concluded to go and state the case to his mother.

So he rose, and began to walk away, saying,

"Well, Nathan, I mean to go and tell mother, that you won't let me have my beetle."

Then Nathan, whose conscience secretly reproved him for what he was doing, pulled the beetle round from behind him, and threw it down upon the floor, where Rollo had been sitting. This was wrong. It was a very ill-natured way of giving it up. If he was satisfied that he was wrong, he ought to have handed it to Rollo pleasantly. Instead of that, he threw it down, with a sullen look, and sat still.

Then Rollo, thinking that it was now no longer necessary to go and trouble his mother with the difficulty, began to return. As he came back, he said, in a kind and soothing tone,

"Now, you are a good boy, Nathan. That is right -- to give me back my beetle. Now I will let you split again, some time."

But Rollo was mistaken in supposing that Nathan was a good boy. Boys are not good until their hearts are right. When a child has something which he ought not to have, it is not enough for him to throw it down upon the floor, sullenly, because he is afraid to have his father or mother told that he has got it. He ought to give it up pleasantly, and feel that it is right that he should do so. If Nathan had said to himself, "I ought not to keep this beetle, for it is not mine -- it is Rollo's; he made it, and he has been kind enough to lend it to me, and now I ought to be willing to give it back to him pleasantly again;" and then had given it to him with a pleasant countenance, -- that would have been really being a good boy. But to throw it down in a pet, because he was afraid to have Rollo complain to his mother, was very far from being like a good boy.

However, it was very kind in Rollo to speak soothingly and pleasantly to Nathan; though, if he had reflected how much goodness depends upon the state of the heart, he would not have supposed that Nathan was yet a good boy. In fact, when he saw that Rollo was coming back again, and was not going to his mother, after standing still, looking quite sullen for a moment, he suddenly stooped down, seized Rollo's knife, and ran off with it out into the yard.

Rollo instantly pursued him, calling out, "Nathan! bring back my knife; Nathan! Nathan! give me my knife."

Nathan, however, ran on, though Rollo ran the fastest, and was rapidly overtaking him; and just at the instant before he reached him, Nathan's foot tripped; he fell, and as he threw forward his hands to try to save himself, they came down upon the ground, and his forehead struck the corner of the knife blade. He immediately screamed out with pain and terror. Dorothy, alarmed by his cries, came out, took him up in her arms, and carried him into the house.

She took him to the table, and began to bathe the wounded forehead in cold water. This was what she always did when the children got cut or scratched, or hurt in any such way. It prevents inflammation. She saw that Nathan was not hurt much, though he continued to cry very loud. His crying was, however, partly from pain, and partly from vexation.

In a few minutes, Rollo's mother came down stairs to see what was the matter. Rollo thought that his mother might suppose that he had hurt Nathan, and so he began to explain at once how it happened. But his mother held up her hand to him, as a signal for him to be silent. She knew that it was then no time to ascertain the facts.

She came up and looked at Nathan's forehead a moment, and she saw that it was not much hurt. Besides, she knew, by the sound of Nathan's cries, that they did not proceed from much pain. She therefore said to him, gently,

"Stop crying, Nathan!"

Now Nathan knew that his mother did not tell him not to cry, except when she was sure that he could control himself if he chose to do so; and he also knew that she punished him if he did not obey. So he began immediately to repress his sobs and cries, and very soon became still. She then put a small plaster, of some sort, upon his forehead, and then carried him up stairs and laid him on the bed.

"There," said she, "Thanny, lie still there a little while, till your forehead has done aching, and you get pleasant again; then you may get up, and come to me."

Then she went to her work again, and Rollo came and stood by her side, and told her the whole story.

"Nathan did wrong," said she; "but it would have been better for you not to have run after him."

"Why, mother," said Rollo, "he was running away with my knife; and I can't split at all without my knife. One thing I know, -- I shall not let him split any more with my beetle and wedges."

"That would be one way to treat him," said his mother; "but there is another thing you might do, if you chose."

"What, mother?" asked Rollo.

"Why, make him a beetle and wedge, for his own."

"Why, mother!" said Rollo, with surprise.

"Yes," said she. "You might make him one. Think how pleased he would be with it. Then he could sit down with you, and you could both be splitting together."

"But, seems to me, mother, that that would be rewarding him for being a naughty boy."

"It would be so, if you were to make him a beetle and wedge, because he was a bad boy; but I proposed that you should make it for another reason, that is, to please him."

"But perhaps he would think I did it because he ran away with my knife," said Rollo.

"I don't think there is any danger that he would imagine that you did it as a reward for that," replied his mother.

Here Rollo paused a moment. He did not feel quite ready to undertake to make Nathan a beetle and wedges; but he did not know exactly how to reply to his mother's reasoning. At length he said, in a timid and hesitating voice,

"But, mother, it seems to me that it would be better to punish Nathan, rather than reward him, or do any thing which would seem like rewarding him for acting so."

"That may be true," said his mother. "And it is true, also, that if you should refuse to let him split wood any more with your wedges, it would be punishing him; while, on the other hand, if you should make him a little beetle and wedge of his own, it would be forgiving him. Now I do not say that he ought not to be punished; but which do you think is your duty towards him, -- you, yourself, being only another child, a few years older than he, -- to punish or to forgive?"

"Why, -- to forgive, -- I suppose," said Rollo, rather doubtfully.

"I am rather inclined to that opinion, myself," said his mother: "but you can do just as you please."

Rollo remained some minutes about his mother's chair, not knowing exactly what to do or say next. He sat down upon the floor, and began to play with some shreds of cloth which were lying there. Presently, he looked up and said,

"Mother, what was the reason why you would not let me tell you what was the matter with Nathan in the kitchen?"

"Because," said she, "he was crying then, and it is no time to learn how an injury happened, during the excitement of the moment. If you find Nathan crying out in the yard, for instance, and try to get him to tell you how he got hurt, you only make him cry the more. Get him quiet first, and then learn the story afterwards.

"Then, besides the difficulty of his speaking intelligibly," she continued, "at such a time, boys are very strongly tempted to misrepresent the facts, during the excitement of the first moments. They are very likely to be a little vexed or angry, and, under the influence of those feelings, not to give a correct and honest account. So that it is always best to put off inquiries till the trouble is all over."

Here Nathan came into the room. His forehead had ceased to give him pain, and so he had clambered down from the bed where his mother had placed him, and now came into the room, looking quiet and calm, though still not very happy.

Rollo went to him, and said, "Come, Nathan, now we will go down stairs to play again." And he began to lead him down stairs. As they walked along, Rollo said,

"I am going to make you a beetle and wedge for your own, Nathan, and then you and I can split together: only, it is not a reward, you must understand. It was wrong for you to keep my beetle, and run away with my knife, and you are sorry you did so, an't you, Nathan?"

"Yes," said Nathan.

"And you won't do so any more, will you, Nathan?"

"No," said Nathan, "I won't do so any more."

Whether Nathan was really sorry for what he had done, or whether he only said so because Rollo was going to make him a beetle, is very doubtful; though it is not impossible that he was a little sorry.

Rollo went down into the shed again with Nathan; and while he was at work making the new beetle and wedge, he let Nathan use his. The first piece of board had been split up; so he laid another one before Nathan, and gave him his beetle and wedges and knife, and then went away out to the barn to get some more wood for wedges, and an auger.

When he came back, he found Nathan standing at the shed door, with the little beetle in his hand, waiting for him. As Nathan saw Rollo coming, he called to him, saying,

"Come, Rollo, come and help me; the board won't split."

"What is the matter with it?" said Rollo.

"I don't know," said Nathan, "only it won't split."

So Rollo went in to see. He found that Nathan had gone to work wrong. Instead of trying to drive the wedge into the end of the board, so as to split it along the grain, he had made the cleft with the knife in the side of the board, and was attempting to drive it in there, as if he supposed he could split the board across the grain.

"Why, Nathan," said Rollo, "that isn't right. You can't split it across."

Then he put the wedge into the end, where it ought to be put, and set Nathan to driving it. Now it began to split at once; though Nathan could not see why the board should not split one way as well as the other.

Rollo himself did not understand it very well. Nathan asked him why it would not split the other way, and he said that that was across the grain. But when Nathan asked him what he meant by grain, he could not tell.

He took up the wood and examined it, and observed little lines and ridges, running along in the direction in which it would split; but at the ends of the board, where it had been sawed across the grain, it was rough. He determined to ask Jonas about it, or his father.

He then went to work, and made the wedges and a little beetle for Nathan. He made Nathan's beetle smaller than his own, because Nathan was not strong enough to strike hard with such a heavy beetle. He did not get it done in season to use that day; but, the next day, he and Nathan sat down upon the shed floor, and spent an hour in splitting up the boards. They split them all up into good, fine kindling wood. Then they piled the pieces up in a neat pile, and then brought Dorothy out to see them.

Dorothy seemed very much pleased, and promised the boys that, the next time she baked pies, she would kindle the fire in the oven with their kindling wood, and then she would bake them each a little apple turnover.

*    *    *    *    *

That evening, just before Rollo went to bed, he asked Jonas if he could tell him why boards would only split along the grain.

"Yes," said Jonas, "I think I can tell you. But do you know what the grain is?"

"No," said Rollo, "I don't know any thing about it."

"You know that boards are made from the stems of tall trees."

"Yes," said Rollo.

"Well, now when trees are growing, there are little channels running up and down from the roots to the branches."

"What are they for?" said Rollo.

"They are for the sap. The sap flows up and down in them. But then there are no channels across from one side of the tree to the other, because there is no sap to go across. The sap all has to go up from the roots to the branches; and so the channels must all be up and down the tree.

"Now," continued Jonas, "when they cut down the tree, the trunk will split easily, up and down, the way the channels and fibres all go; but it won't split easily across. And just so, when they saw it up into boards, the boards will all split lengthwise, from end to end, for this is the way the channels and fibres all lie; but it won't split across, for that would be across all the fibres, and the wood is made very strong in that direction, and it is well it is so."

"Why?" said Rollo.

"Because, if trees would split across, as easily as they do up and down, the first good wind would blow down all the forests in the world."

"O, Jonas!" exclaimed Rollo, "all the forests in the world?"

"Yes," replied Jonas, "if the wind blew all over the world."



Horology.


One day, at eleven o'clock, Rollo, after having put away his books carefully into his desk, went out to play. It was a calm and pleasant autumnal day. Brown and yellow leaves were falling from the trees, and lying about the yard. Rollo found Nathan sitting upon the steps of the door which looked toward the garden yard. He felt satisfied and happy, for he had studied his lessons diligently, and, when he saw Nathan, he concluded to have a little play with him.

"Now, Nathan," said Rollo, "I will lie down upon the steps, and make believe I am a bear gone to sleep, and you come and poke me with your stick, and then I will growl at you."

"Well," said Nathan, "I will."

So Rollo laid down upon the steps, putting his arms upon the threshold of the door for a pillow, and his head upon his arms, and pretended to be asleep; but he did not look much as if he was asleep, after all, for he could not look quite sober. He tried to look sober; but there was a lurking smile upon his face, which made his countenance look quite different from that of a bear. Nathan came creeping along softly, and when he got near enough, he began to poke him with the end of his little whip-handle; then Rollo would start up and begin to growl, when Nathan would scamper away, shouting with laughter, Rollo after him, upon all-fours.

This play lasted several minutes, until at length Nathan spoiled it by punching Rollo too hard with his whip-handle. A great many plays are spoiled by roughness on the part of some who are engaged. Rollo, being hurt a little, got out of patience. He ought to have asked Nathan, pleasantly, not to punch him so hard. Instead of that, however, he declared that he would not play any more, and got up and went away. Nathan followed him, lashing the ground and the leaves with his whip.

They both went into a corner of the yard, where Rollo used to have his sand-garden. This sand-garden was made of clean sand, which Rollo and his cousin James once wheeled up from the brook; and then, after they had smoothed it out, and raked it over, they used to get plants and flowers, without any roots, and stick down, and then call it their garden. They used to water the plants, and so they could keep them green and bright for several days, which was long enough for them; for, after that, they generally preferred putting down fresh ones. But, now, the sand-garden had been for a long time neglected. The remains of some of the old plants were there, withered and dried, and the leaves of autumn were scattered over its surface.

Rollo began to rake off the leaves with his fingers, and then sat down, and went to digging a hole in the sand. It was very dry upon the top, but on digging down a little way, he found it damp, and so it would hold together pretty well, and he could pat it into any shape. A load of clean sand makes a very good place for children to play in, in a corner of a yard.

Rollo sat down on one side of the sand-garden, and Nathan on the other, and both busied themselves in digging and building little houses. They both became very much interested, and sat some time very still, until, at length, Rollo looked around to see what Nathan might be doing.

"What are you doing, Thanny?" said he.

"O, I'm making the sand run down through."

Rollo observed that Nathan had an old tin dipper, which he was holding up in one hand, and putting some dry sand into it with the other. There was a very small hole in the bottom of the dipper, for it was an old one which had been worn out and thrown away; and the sand ran out of this little hole in a fine stream, and it was this which interested Nathan so much.

"O, Nathan," said Rollo, "let me have the dipper."

"No," said Nathan, "I want it myself."

Rollo would not take it away from Nathan, though he wanted it very much indeed.

"Yes, Nathan," said he, "let me have the dipper, and I will make you an hour-glass out of it."

But Nathan said, "No, no," and moved away a little farther.

Rollo then remembered that such a little boy was generally not interested in any one thing very long, and that, if he should let Nathan alone, he would soon put the dipper down, and then he could have it without any difficulty. So he went on making houses in the sand, and in a few minutes Nathan put the dipper down. Then, soon after, Rollo took it up and put some dry sand into it, and he found that the sand would run very smoothly, in a fine stream, through a small hole there was in the bottom of it.

He determined to make an hour-glass of it. He had seen an hour-glass at his uncle George's. It was made of glass, big at the bottom and at the top, and narrow in the middle between the two. Through the narrow part in the middle, there was a very small hole, to let the sand run down through; and there was just sand enough put in to run through in an hour. So that, if a person should set the sand to running, he would know when an hour had expired, by observing when the sand had all run through.

Rollo thought that he could make an hour-glass; and he thought it would be a great convenience to him to have an hour-glass in the yard; because it often happened, when he came out to play, that his mother would tell him that he might stay out an hour; and then he had to go in very often to look at the clock, in order to know exactly when the hour had expired.

There were, however, so many little sticks and old leaves in the sand, that it kept getting continually clogged up, and at last Rollo began to get discouraged. He tried to pick out the little sticks; but he found he could not do that, and at last it occurred to him that probably Dorothy had some sand in the house that was cleaner.

He accordingly went in and asked her. She told him that he must wash his own sand, and that would make it clean.

"But haven't you got some that is clean already?" said he.

"Yes," said Dorothy; "but you will like your hour-glass better if you make it all yourself."

So Dorothy told him how to wash sand, for Rollo said that he did not know. She said he must put a little in a basin, and then pump water into it. "When the basin is nearly full of water, you must stir it round, and then pour off the water, and pump in more; -- do this until the water comes off clear."

So Rollo took the basin which Dorothy gave him, and went out to his sand-garden, and put in a little sand. Then he went to the pump, and pumped water into it. Then he stirred it about with his hand. The water immediately became very turbid, and a great many little sticks and leaves came floating up to the surface. Rollo was surprised to find how rapidly the water separated the light things which would float upon the top, from the heavy sand which would sink to the bottom. He kept pouring off the water, and pumping in more, until at length no more sticks and leaves came off, and the water appeared pretty clear. Then he carried the sand away, and spread it out upon a clean board in the sun to dry.

While he was thus at work preparing the sand for his hour-glass, Jonas happened to come by, and asked Rollo what he was doing. Rollo told him that he was making an hour-glass. Jonas looked on for a few minutes, and then he told Rollo that he thought that was a pretty good plan. "And I am going to have a time-keeper, too," said he.

"Are you?" said Rollo. "What?"

"I am going to make a dial," said he.

"A dial!" said Rollo; "what, a real dial?"

Rollo had an idea that a dial was exceedingly complicated and difficult to make, or to understand; and, in fact, it is difficult to make one that shall be exact in its indications. He did not think it possible that Jonas could make one.

"Yes," said Jonas, "a real dial; and I have got a noon mark already."

"A noon mark!" said Rollo; "what is a noon mark?"

"It is a mark to show when it is exactly twelve o'clock."

"Let me go and see it," said Rollo, "while my sand is drying."

Rollo followed Jonas off into the barn, and when there, Jonas pointed to a small line which he had cut with his penknife upon the barn floor. It began at the foot of one of the posts, by the side of the door, and extended back into the barn exactly straight.

"Is that the noon mark?" said Rollo. He was surprised to see that a noon mark was nothing but a cut with a penknife upon a barn floor.

"Yes," said Jonas; "that is a meridian."

"A meridian!" said Rollo, looking upon it with an air of great curiosity and respect.

"Yes," said Jonas; "a line drawn exactly north and south, is called a meridian line; and that is exactly north and south."

"What do you call it a noon mark for?" said Rollo.

"Because," said Jonas, "the shadow of the edge of the door post will always be exactly upon it at noon. So that I can always tell now when it is noon, by the shadow of the post upon my noon mark, if the sun shines."

All this was very new and very curious to Rollo. He had never seen or heard of a noon mark before; and it seemed to him a very simple and beautiful way of knowing when it was noon. He asked Jonas how he found out about it, and Jonas told him that he had been reading about it in a book on astronomy.

"Your father let me have the book," said he; "and see my chalk marks for the sun's shadow."

Rollo looked, and found that Jonas had put down quite a number of chalk marks along in a line, where they had first began to mark the place where the shadow of the door reached into. Rollo and Lucy had forgotten all about their plan of making such a series of observations; but Jonas had gone on regularly, making a mark every Monday, at noon, precisely. As the sun, at that season of the year, was going round farther and farther to the south every week, it shone in farther and farther upon the floor, so that each chalk mark was farther in than the one made the week before.

In order to make his marks at the right time, Jonas wanted to know, every Monday, when it was precisely twelve o'clock, and this led him to make his noon mark, having seen the account of it in the book which Rollo's father had lent him. He learned there that the shadows of all upright objects are cast exactly north at twelve o'clock, or rather very nearly north; near enough for his purposes. Now, as the post of the barn door was upright, he knew that the shadow of it would be in the north and south line at noon. Of course, if he had a north and south line, or a meridian line, as it was called in the book, drawn upon the floor, he knew that he could tell when it was noon, by the shadow of the post coming then exactly upon that line. He explained this all to Rollo, and Rollo was very much pleased with it indeed. He determined to have a noon line somewhere in the house.

Rollo asked Jonas what was the way to draw a noon line. Jonas told him that there were several ways. One way, he said, was to observe some day, by the clock, when it was exactly noon, and then to mark, upon the barn floor, the line where the shadow of the edge of the post fell precisely at that moment. Another way was to get a compass needle, and put it down upon the floor, and then draw a north and south line precisely in the direction that the needle indicated. That would, of course, be a north and south line, because the compass needle always pointed north and south. He said that he adopted both these methods to make his noon line. First, he got a compass needle, which Rollo's father had lent him, and put that down upon the barn floor just at the foot of the door post, and observed the direction; and he also noticed when it was twelve, by the clock in the house, and he found that, when it was twelve by the clock, the shadow of the post came exactly to the line indicated by the direction of the compass needle; and so he knew that that was a correct meridian line.



Jonas's Dial.


That evening, Rollo told his father about his hour-glass, and also about Jonas's noon line. His father said it was very difficult to draw a meridian line.

"O no, father," said Rollo; "Jonas has drawn one, and he told me how, and it was a very easy way."

"Yes," said his father, "it is easy to draw something which you can call a noon mark; but it is a very difficult and delicate operation to do it with any considerable degree of exactness."

"I think that Jonas's is exact," said Rollo.

"It probably may be as exact as he could make it with his means and instruments; but there are a great many sources of error which he could not possibly have avoided."

"What?" asked Rollo.

"Why, in the first place, the clock is not exact. It is near enough to answer all the purposes of a family; but it may often be a minute or more out of the way. Then besides, while Jonas is going from the clock out to the barn, the shadow is slowly moving on, all the time; so that he cannot tell exactly where the shadow was, when it was precisely twelve by the clock.

"Then again, it is not always exactly noon when the shadow comes to the north and south line. It varies a little at different seasons of the year, though it is so near that we say, in general terms, that at noon all shadows of upright objects point to the north. Still, it is not precisely true, except on a very few days in the year. Then, again, the post of the barn door is not exactly upright."

"I thought they always made door posts exactly upright," said Rollo.

"They do make them as nearly upright as they can, with the common carpenters' instruments; but they are not exact. To set a post of any kind, with great precision, perpendicular to the horizon, would require very expensive mathematical instruments, and very laborious and nice observations. Then, again, if the clock had been exact, and the post perfectly upright, Jonas could not have marked the place of the shadow exactly. The shadow has not an exact and well-defined edge; and then, even while he was marking at one end, the shadow would be moving along at the other end, and so his noon mark would not be exactly straight."

"Why, father, he could make the mark right along quick."

"No matter how quick he might make it. It would take some time, wouldn't it?"

"Only a very little," said Rollo.

"And do you suppose the sun would stand still, even during that little time, so as to let the shadow remain stationary?

"However," continued his father, "I don't say this to disparage Jonas's noon mark. I dare say, it is accurate enough for his purposes. He only wants to know from it when it is time for him to come in to dinner, or something like that. I only want you to understand what exactness is, and to see, a little, how difficult it is to attain to any considerable degree of it, in such cases. So thus, it seems, that Jonas has got a sort of a dial?"

"Why, it only tells him what o'clock it is at one hour in the day," said Rollo. "But I think he might make it do for all the afternoon and forenoon."

"How?" inquired his father.

"Why, all he has got to do is to watch some day when it is nine o'clock, and ten o'clock, and so on, every hour; and then make a line where the shadow comes every hour, just as he did for twelve o'clock. Then he will have marks for every hour in the day, and when the shadow comes along to these marks, one after another, he will know what time it is."

"O, but the difficulty is," said his father, "that the shadow will not come to the same places, at the same hours, on different days. It will come to the meridian line, at twelve, always, -- that is, nearly to it; but it will not come to any other lines regularly, -- that is, if the object, which casts the shadow, is upright."

"Will any other kind of object carry the shadow regularly?" asked Rollo.

"Yes," said his father, "an object that leans over to the north, so as to point to the North Star. If you and Jonas could put a post into the ground so as to have it point to the North Star, then you could mark, all around it, the places to which the shadow would come for every hour in the day, and afterwards it would come to the same places regularly, or nearly so. It would be near enough for your purposes; and I don't know but that it would be quite a respectable dial for you."

Rollo then asked his father why it was that a post, which pointed to the North Star, would bring a shadow any more regularly to the hour marks, than an upright one would; but he said that Rollo did not know enough, yet, to understand the explanation, even if he were to try to explain it. "Therefore," said he, "you must wait until you study astronomy before you can expect to understand it; but you can now, in the mean time, make such a dial, if you wish to do it."

Rollo did wish to do it very much. He accordingly told Jonas all that his father had said. It seemed very strange to Jonas, that a post, pointing to the North Star, should have its shadows move round any more regularly than a post in any other position. He could not imagine what the North Star could have to do with the shadows. Still, he determined to try the experiment.

A few days after this, Jonas did try the experiment. He got two narrow boards, which were once pickets belonging to a picket fence, one end of each was sharp, so that it could be driven down into the ground. Then he selected a certain part of the yard, in a corner, where the dial would be out of the way, and yet the path to the barn led along pretty near it. The reason why Jonas got two boards was this: he knew that, if he drove only one stake into the ground, and inclined it towards the North Star, it would be very likely to get started out of its proper position; but if he had two, he could drive the second one down perpendicularly from the end of the first, and then nail the two ends together; and that would keep all steady.

After having got every thing ready, the boys waited till the evening before fixing up the dial, because they could not see the North Star in the day time. But when the evening came, they went out, and began their preparations. It was a clear and pretty cold evening, and the stars were out in thousands.

"Which is the North Star?" asked Rollo.

Jonas looked about a minute or two, saying, "Let me see -- where's the Dipper? O, I see a part of it; the rest is down behind the barn. It was up high the last time I saw it."

"Where is the Dipper?" said Rollo, looking eagerly in the direction to which Jonas was turned.

"Come this way," said Jonas, "so as to be out of the way of the barn, and you can see it better."

So Jonas pointed out the Dipper to Rollo, with its square body, and long, bent handle. It was at first quite difficult for Rollo to see any thing that looked at all like a dipper; as it consisted only of stars, which it required some imagination to make look like one.

"The handle reaches almost down to the ground," said Rollo.

"Down to the horizon, you mean," said Jonas.

"Is that the horizon?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said Jonas, "where the earth and sky meet. Not long ago the Dipper handle was away up there," he continued, pointing up very high.

"Does the Dipper move?" said Rollo.

"Yes, it goes round and round the North Star, all the time. All the stars that are near the North Star keep going round and round it, once every day."

"And the rest of the stars," said Rollo, "do they go round too?"

"Yes," said Jonas; "only they are so far from the North Star, that they go in larger circles, and so go down below the horizon, and are out of sight sometimes. They come up in the east, like the sun, and go over and down in the west. But they don't go over straight," he added. "They don't come right up straight; and so go directly over. They slant away, off to the south, so as to keep always just so far from the North Star."

"That's curious," said Rollo.

"I think it is," said Jonas. "And they all go together; they don't move about among themselves, at all."

"Don't they?" said Rollo.

"No," said Jonas; "only there are a few wandering stars, that keep wandering about among the others. But the rest all keep exactly in their places, and all go round together; so they are called fixed stars."

"Show me one of the wandering stars," said Rollo.

"I don't know which they are," said Jonas, "only they are pretty bright ones."

"I guess that's one," said Rollo, pointing to a pretty bright star in the east.

"Perhaps it is," said Jonas.

"I wish I knew," said Rollo.

"I'll tell you how you can find out," said Jonas.

"How?" asked Rollo.

"Why, when you go into the house, take a piece of paper, and go to the window, and make some dots upon it, for all the stars around that one. Make the dots just in the places that the stars seem to be in. Then let them all go. They will rise more and more, and go overhead, and down in the west, and to-morrow night they will come up in the east again; and then you can look at them again, and see if the bright star has changed its place at all."

Rollo said that he meant to do that; and then he said that he began to feel cold, and wanted to go in. But Jonas told him that he ought to wait and help finish the dial.

So they went to the place which Jonas had selected, and Jonas, looking up first at the North Star, made a hole in the ground, with an iron bar, in an oblique direction, so that the bar should point pretty nearly to the North Star. Then he drove in one of his stakes in the same way. He then made a hole, perpendicularly, directly under the end of this inclined stake, and drove the other stake down into that. The two upper ends of the stakes were now together.

Then Jonas stooped down, so as to bring his eye near the edge of the inclined stake, at the lower end, so that he could "sight" along the edge of it, towards the star. He had previously cut a notch in it, so that he could get his eye down far enough to look directly along the edge. At the same time, Rollo took hold of the upper end, and stood ready to move it either way, as Jonas might direct, until it should point exactly towards the North Star.

"Down," said Jonas.

Then Rollo moved it a little down.

"Down more."

Rollo moved it farther.

"Up -- up a little," added Jonas. "There -- that will do. Now hold the two stakes firmly together, exactly so."

Then Jonas took some nails, which he had before provided, and nailed the tops of the stakes together, Rollo holding the axe up against them, on the opposite side. This supported the end of the inclined stake firmly, so that it could not move up or down. This was all that the boys wanted to do in the evening, and so they both went in.

The next day, Jonas sawed off the ends of both stakes where they projected beyond the junction; and then Rollo said he would watch the clock all day, and mark the place where the shadow came each hour, and drive a little stake down. "Then," said he, "our dial will be done."

"But what do you suppose is the reason," said Rollo, "that we must make it point to the North Star more than to any other?"

"I don't know," said Jonas, "unless it is because the North Star is the only one that keeps always in the same place. The rest move round and round every day. Those that are far enough from the North Star to go down below the horizon, rise and set; and those that are not far enough, go round and round in circles, in the open sky. But the North Star keeps still."

"Does it?" said Rollo, turning around, and looking up to the part of the heavens where he had seen the star the evening before.

"Yes," said Jonas; "and the reason why we cannot see it now, is the bright daylight. It is up there now, just where it was last night."

"And the Dipper, too?" said Rollo.

"Yes, and the Dipper, too; only that has moved half round, I suppose, and is now away up above the North Star."

"I wish I could see it," said Rollo. And he looked as steadily and intently into the clear blue sky, as he could; but he could not possibly see the least sign of a star.

*    *    *    *    *

However, the sun shone bright, and it cast a strong shadow from the stakes which they had driven into the ground. Jonas soon went away to his work, and left Rollo to mark the hours by means of the clock.

So Rollo had to go into the house very often to see what time it was; and at last his father, who was sitting there at his writing, asked him what made him want to see the clock so much. Rollo told him the reason. So his father put down his pen, and came out to see the dial.

When he saw the two stakes, with their lower ends driven into the ground, and the upper ends nailed firmly together, he looked at them with a smile, but did not say any thing.

"Will that do?" said Rollo, looking up very eagerly into his father's face.

His father did not answer, but continued to examine the work on all sides, with a countenance expressive of curiosity and pleasure.

"It points to the North Star, exactly," added Rollo. "Jonas sighted it."

"Yes," said his father; "I think that will do; you have got quite a respectable gnomon."

"Gnomon?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said his father; "we call such a thing a gnomon. In common dials, they are made of brass; but I don't see why this won't do very well. It is rather a large gnomon."

"Is it?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said his father, "I think it is the biggest gnomon I ever saw.

"But how are you going to mark the hour lines, Rollo?" asked his father.

"Why, we are going to drive little stakes down into the ground."

"'Seems to me that you can contrive some better plan than that," said his father.

"Why?" said Rollo. "Is not that a good plan?"

"Not very good," he replied; "because you cannot be exact in driving down stakes. The beauty of a dial is its exactness. I should think that you would do better to put a board down upon the ground, and mark your lines upon that."

"O, the board would get knocked about," said Rollo.

"I dare say that Jonas would contrive some way to keep it steady."

"But he says he can't do any thing more about the dial to-day, for he must attend to his work."

"Let me see -- he is putting the harnesses in order, I believe."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo.

"Well, you may tell him that after he has done the harness that he is at work upon now, he may finish his dial."

Then Rollo's father went into the house, and away went Rollo in pursuit of Jonas.

Jonas liked the plan of putting a board down very much, and in a short time he went to work to do it. He planed out a board of the right length, and then put it down upon the ground, under and between the two stakes, but nearest to the upright one. They placed it across at right angles to the line between the stakes, and of course, as the stakes were in a north and south line, the board was in an east and west line, and so the shadows were cast exactly across it.

The board being planed smooth, the edge of the shadow could be seen much more distinctly upon it, than upon the ground; so Jonas was satisfied that it would be a great deal better to draw the hour lines upon the board. After having determined upon the place where it was to go, he took it up again, and then drove down two strong but short stakes, sawed off square at the top, into the ground, one on each side; so that they should come under the two ends of the board. Then he laid the board down again upon the stakes, and nailed the ends of the board to them. The stakes had been driven in until they were just level with the surface of the ground, and so the board seemed to be lying along upon the ground too, though it was, in fact, fastened securely to the short stakes. Then the boys marked the hour lines upon the board with some black paint; and thus they had a very respectable dial. When the sun shone, Rollo could tell what o'clock it was near enough for all his purposes.



The Bee-Hive.


One of the drollest of all of Rollo's experiments was his plan for getting a bee-hive.

One day, he was in the garden with a playmate of his, named Henry, who lived not very far from his father's house.

In the back part of the garden were some tall hollyhocks growing. They were in full flower. Hollyhocks are very tall. They grow up in a straight stem, as high as a man's head, with leaves and flowers from top to bottom.

The flowers are large, and shaped somewhat like a cup, or rather a wine-glass, and bees often go into them to get honey.

Now it happened that as Rollo and Henry were sauntering about, near these hollyhocks, Rollo happened to see a bee in one of the flowers, loading himself up with wax or honey. The flower, that the bee was in, was just about as high as Rollo's head.

"O, there's a bee!" said Rollo; "let's catch him."

"Catch him!" said Henry. "If you do, you'll catch a sting, I rather think."

"No," said Rollo, "I can catch him without getting stung."

"How?" said Henry.

"I will show you," said Rollo.

So saying, Rollo approached the hollyhocks, and put both his hands up slowly to the flower which the bee was in. He then very carefully gathered together the edges of the flower, so as to enclose and imprison the bee. He then gently broke off the stem of the flower, and held it up to Henry's ear, to let him hear the bee buzz within.

"Now," said Rollo, "I wish I had a little bee-hive. I would put him in, and perhaps he would make some honey in there."

"Do you think he would?" said Henry.

"Yes," replied Rollo, "I have no doubt he would; bees always make honey in bee-hives."

"Haven't you got some box that will do?" said Henry.

"I don't know," said Rollo; "let us go along towards the barn, and see if we can't find one. I suppose it is no matter what the shape of it is," he added, "if it is only a box, with a small hole for the bees to go in and out."

"But you haven't got but one bee," said Henry, as they walked along towards the barn.

Rollo held the flower, with the bee imprisoned in it, safely in his fingers.

"O, I can catch plenty more. I could catch a whole hive of them, in time."

"But I don't believe they will stay and work in your hive," said Henry. "They will all fly off and go home to where they belong."

"No," said Rollo, "I will plug up the hole, and keep them shut in until they get used to it. When they get wonted to the new hive, they will stay there, after that, I know. That's the way they do with doves."

"But you won't have any queen bee," said Henry. "Bees won't work without a queen bee. I read it in a book."

"Well, perhaps I can catch a queen bee, some day," said Rollo, rather doubtfully.

Rollo was so much interested in his plan, that he was determined not to see any difficulties in the way of it; and yet he could not help feeling that there was some uncertainty about his succeeding in entrapping a queen bee.

However, just at this point in the conversation, he suddenly stopped, and pointed down to a flower-pot, which stood bottom upwards, upon a seat, near where they were walking.

"There," said he, "that will do for a bee-hive."

"Ho!" said Henry, "that is not a box."

"No matter," said Rollo; "it is just as good, and there is a little hole for the bees to go out and in at."

There is always a little hole in the bottom of a flower-pot.

"So there is," said Henry; "but do you think that the bees will make honey in an earthen pot?"

"O, yes," said Rollo, "just as well as in any thing. The bees don't care what they make the honey in. Sometimes they make it in old logs."

"Well," said Henry, "and we'll call it a honey-pot. And where shall we put it?"

"We can keep it on this seat: it is as good a place as any; the bees will be right in the garden as soon as they come out of their hive."

So saying, Rollo asked Henry to hold his bee a minute, while he got the honey-pot ready. Henry took the flower very carefully, so as not to let the bee escape, and then Rollo lifted up the flower-pot, and looked inside. It was pretty clean; but as Rollo knew that bees were very nice in their habits, he thought he would just take it to the pump, and wash it out a little.

In a few minutes, he brought it back, and replaced it, bottom upwards, upon the seat, and then prepared to put the bee in. He took the flower again from Henry's hand, and then very carefully inserted the edges of it, which had been gathered together with his fingers, into the hole. He then began to knock and push the bottom of the flower, to make the bee go in. The bee, not knowing what to make of this treatment, kept up a great buzzing, but soon went in.

"There," said Rollo. "Now, Henry, you be ready to clap your thumb over the hole, as soon as I take the flower away, or else he'll come out."

"O, no," said Henry; "he'll fly up and sting me."

"No, he won't," said Rollo. "I only want you to keep him in a minute, while I go and get a plug."

Henry then, with much hesitation and fear, put his thumb over the hole, as Rollo withdrew the flower. He stood there while Rollo went for a plug; but he seemed to feel very uneasy, and continually called Rollo to be quick.

Rollo could not find a plug, but he picked up a small, flat stone, and concluded that that would do just as well. So he released Henry from his dangerous position, and put the stone over the hole.

"There," said Rollo, with a tone of great satisfaction, when he had done this, "now he is safe. We'll let him stay, while we go and catch another bee."

So they went back to the hollyhocks, and there, quite fortunately, they found another bee just going into one of the flowers. Rollo secured him in the same way, and carried him along, and pushed him into the flower-pot. Henry stood ready to clap the stone on, as soon as he was in, and then they came back to the hollyhocks again. They had then to wait a little while, watching for bees; at length, however, one came, and, by and by, another; and so, in the course of an hour or two, they got seven bees, all safe in the honey-pot, and Rollo said he thought seven were about enough to go to work, at least, to begin. They had not yet found any one, however, that seemed to Rollo to be a queen bee.

At last, it was time for Henry to go home, and Rollo concluded to leave his bee-hive until the next morning. He thought he would leave the hole stopped up, so that the bees might get used to their new accommodations; but he intended to open it the next day, in order to let them begin their work.

The next morning, Henry came over soon after breakfast to see how affairs stood in respect to the bee-hive. He and Rollo went out into the garden to look at the establishment, and found every thing as they had left it the night before. Rollo felt quite confident of the success of his experiment. The only thing that gave him any uneasiness was the want of a queen bee. He and Henry were just speculating upon the expediency of sending in a bumble-bee instead, for a king, when their attention was arrested by hearing Jonas calling Rollo. They looked up, and saw him standing at the garden gate.

"Rollo," said Jonas, "do you want to go out with me to the pasture, and catch the horse?"

"Why, -- yes," said Rollo. But yet he did not go. He seemed to feel in doubt. "Must you go this minute?" said he.

"Yes," said Jonas. "Come; and Henry may go, too."

"Well, wait a minute, just till I go and open the door in my bee-hive."

"Your bee-hive!" said Jonas; "what do you mean by that?"

But Rollo did not hear what Jonas said; for he had run off along the alley, Henry after him, towards the place where they had established their hive.

"What does he mean by his bee-hive?" said Jonas to himself. "I mean to go and see."

So Jonas opened the garden gate, and came in. When he came up near the seat where Henry and Rollo stood, he found the boys standing a step or two back from the flower-pot, both watching the hole with the utmost intentness.

"What are you looking at, there, boys?" said Jonas, with great surprise.

"O, we are looking to see the bees come out."

"The bees come out!" said Jonas.

"Yes," said Rollo; "that is our bee-hive, -- honey-pot we call it. We have put some bees in it."

Here Jonas burst into a loud, and long, and apparently incontrollable fit of laughter. Henry and Rollo looked upon him with an expression of ludicrous gravity and perplexity.

"What are you laughing at?" said Rollo.

Jonas could hardly control himself sufficiently to speak; but presently he succeeded in asking Rollo if he supposed that bees would make honey there.

"Certainly I do," said Rollo, with a positive air. "Why should they not? They don't care what shape their hive is, or what it is made of, and this flower-pot is as good as any thing else. There! there! see, Henry," he exclaimed, interrupting himself, and pointing down to the flower-pot, "one is coming out."

Henry and Jonas both looked, and they saw a poor, forlorn-looking bee cautiously putting forth his head at the hole, and then slowly crawling out. He came on until he was fairly out of the hole, and then, extending his wings, rose and flew away through the air.

Here Jonas burst out again in a fit of laughter.

"You needn't laugh, Jonas," said Rollo; "he'll come back again; I know he will. That's the way they always do."

"And you suppose that the bees will fill up the flower-pot with honey?" said Jonas.

"Yes," said Rollo; "and then I shall take it away without killing any of the bees. I read how to do it in a book."

"How shall you do it?" said Jonas.

"Why, when this honey-pot is full of honey, I shall get another, and put on the top of it, bottom upwards. Then the bees will work up into that, and come out at the upper hole. When they get fairly at work in the upper hive, then I shall get Henry to hold it, while I slip the lower one out, and put the upper one down in its place."

As Rollo was speaking these words, in order to show Jonas more exactly how he meant to perform the operation, he took hold of the flower-pot with both his hands, and slid it suddenly off of the seat. Now it happened that the poor bees that were inside, chilled with the dampness and cold, were nearly all crawling about upon the seat; and when Rollo suddenly moved the flower-pot along, forgetting for a moment what there was inside, the rough edges of the flower-pot bruised and ground them to death, and they dropped down upon the walk, some dead, some buzzing a little, and one trying to crawl.

"There now, Rollo," said Henry, in a tone of great disappointment and sorrow, "now you have killed all our bees!"

Rollo looked astonished enough. He had no idea of such a catastrophe; and he and Henry both at the same instant took up the honey-pot to see if any of the bees had escaped destruction. Their eyes fell, at the same moment, upon one solitary bee that was standing upon the inside of the flower-pot. His attention had been arrested by the sudden glare of light, and so, just as Rollo and Henry first observed him, and before they had time to put the flower-pot down again, he spread his wings and flew out towards them.

Down dropped the flower-pot. The boys started. "Run!" exclaimed Jonas, following them with shouts of laughter, "run, run, boys, for dear life!" and away they all went towards the garden gate.

The bee, however, was not following them. His only object was to get away. He flew in another direction; but Rollo, Henry, and Jonas did not stop to look behind them. They kept on running, until Jonas was well on his way towards the pasture, and Rollo and Henry were safe in the shed. And this was the last time that Rollo ever attempted to make up a hive of bees.



Jonas's Magnet.


One evening, after tea, Rollo was seated upon his cricket, before the fire, reading. His mother was upon the sofa, also reading, and so the room was very still.

By and by, Rollo finished his book. It was quite a small story-book, and he had been reading it some time, and so he had got to the end. He laid the book down, therefore, upon the table, and began to consider what he should do next.

"Mother," said Rollo, "what shall I do?"

"I don't know," said his mother; "you must contrive some way to amuse yourself, for I am busy reading, now."

Rollo sat still, looking at the fire a few minutes, and then he thought he would go out into the kitchen, and see what Nathan was about. Accordingly, he went into the kitchen. Dorothy was at work, making some bread for the next day. Jonas was bringing in wood. Nathan was sitting upon the floor before the fire, very much interested in looking at something which he held in his hand.

"What have you got, Nathan?" said Rollo.

"I am seeing this nail stick on," said Nathan.

"Stick on!" said Rollo; "what does the child mean?" He accordingly came up to Nathan, and found that he had a smooth, flat bar of steel, not very regular in its shape, in one hand, and a nail in the other; and he was amusing himself with applying the nail to the bar of steel, and seeing it adhere.

"It is a magnet," said Rollo. "What a big magnet! Where did you get it, Nathan?"

"Jonas gave it to me," said Nathan.

"Let me try it," said Rollo. And he stooped down by the side of Nathan, and offered to take away the magnet.

But Nathan held it off upon one side, and said, "No, no; I must have it. Jonas gave it to me."

"Well, Thanny," said Rollo, "I won't take it away; only you let me sit here and see you play with it."

So Rollo sat still, and did not molest Nathan, but only looked on and saw him touch the little nail to the bar, and leave it hanging there. Rollo knew it was a magnet, for he had heard of magnets, though he had never before had an opportunity of seeing one. As Nathan found that Rollo was not going to take the magnet away from him, he soon ceased to appear afraid of him, and presently he let Rollo have the magnet in his hands. Rollo said he only wanted to look at it a moment, to see what made the nail stick on.

He examined the steel bar carefully. It was not quite a foot long, and was shaped like a common flat ruler; only, instead of being straight from end to end, it was swelled out a little along in the middle. On looking at the bar very attentively, Rollo observed some very fine, hair-like lines, crossing each other, so as to produce the appearance of fine net-work. Rollo supposed that this was what caused the magnet to take up the nail. He observed that there was one place, near the middle of the bar, where this net-work was more distinct and strong than in the other parts of the bar, and so he put the nail there, expecting that it would be attracted very strongly. But he was surprised at observing that it was not attracted there at all. He then tried it at different places, all along the bar, and he found that it was not attracted any where in the middle, but only at the two ends.

While he was wondering what could be the cause of this, he heard the front door open, and he knew that his father had come home. So he jumped up and ran off into the entry, Nathan following him, to show his father the magnet. His father was busy putting away his coat and hat, and told the boys to go into the parlor, and he would come in, in a moment, and see it. When he came in, he sat down before the fire, and took the magnet, Rollo and Nathan standing by his side, and looking on with eager curiosity.

Rollo's father examined the magnet from end to end, very carefully, for some time, without speaking. At length, he said,

"It is an old file."

"An old file!" said Rollo.

"Yes," said his father. "Some of Jonas's work, I suppose."

"Yes, sir," replied Rollo; "at least it is Jonas's magnet."

"There you see the marks," continued his father, pointing to the net-work, "of the old file teeth. Jonas ground them nearly out."

"Are those the marks of the file teeth?" said Rollo. "I thought it was the magnetism."

"No," said his father, smiling, "those are the traces of the file teeth, undoubtedly. You may go and ask Jonas how he got his magnet."

So away went Rollo and Nathan in pursuit of Jonas. They found him in the kitchen, just arranging his wood for the morning fires. They asked him where he got his magnet, and Jonas replied as follows: -- 

"Why, the other day, I went into town with your father's watch, to get a new crystal put in; and when I was at the watchmaker's, I saw a curious-shaped piece of iron hanging up. I asked the man what it was. He said it was a magnet, that he kept to touch needles. Then he gave me a nail, and let me see how the magnet would attract it. He told me, too, that if I had a knife, and would rub my knife on the magnet, the knife would attract, too; and so I did rub it, and I found that my knife would attract the nail, though not very strong. Then I asked him if any piece of iron would attract, after it was rubbed upon the magnet; and he said that iron would not, but that any piece of steel would. He told me that if I would bring a larger piece of steel, when I came after the watch, he would rub it for me, and then I should have a larger magnet. I told him I had not any steel. But he said any old file would do, and that I might grind the sides and edges a little, and make it smooth.

"So, when I came home, I found some old files in the barn. Some were three-cornered, and some were flat. I thought the flat would be the best shape, and I asked your father if he would give me one of them. He said he would; and so I ground the ends square, and the sides smooth, upon the grindstone. Then, when I went after the watch, the man rubbed it for me, and it makes a very good magnet."

Then Rollo and Nathan went back, and repeated this story to their father.

"Very well," said their father; "that was a very good way to get a magnet. I remember giving Jonas the file; but I did not know what he wanted it for."

"I think a magnet is a very curious thing," said Rollo. "See how the nail sticks to it!"

"There are a great many other things curious about it," said his father, "besides that."

"What?" said Rollo.

"I should want some other apparatus to show you," replied his father.

"And can't you get the other apparatus?"

"I don't know. Perhaps mother might get it. Yes, I'll tell you what we will do. I will name some things which mother may prepare, and you may get them together upon the table in the kitchen, when they have got the kitchen all in order. Then I will come out, and give you all, out there, a lecture upon magnetism."

Rollo and Nathan were exceedingly pleased with this plan; and even Rollo's mother looked somewhat gratified. She said she did not know much about magnetism, and she meant to go out into the kitchen herself, and hear the lecture.

"And what things shall we get?" said Rollo.

"Two or three needles," replied his father, "some fine, and some coarse; some thread, a saucer nearly full of water, a cork, the sand-box off of my table, and a sheet of white paper. Put them all in good order upon the table, and set the chairs around it. Then, when all is ready, come and tell me."

So Rollo's mother put down her book and went to help Rollo collect the articles which his father had said he should require. She began to look into her needle book for the needles and thread, while Rollo went for the sand-box. When Rollo came back with the sand-box and the sheet of paper in his hand, he found Nathan with his high chair, at the kitchen door, trying to get in.

"What are you doing here, Nathan?" said Rollo.

"I want to get my high chair in," he replied.

The truth was, that Nathan, having learned from the conversation what was going on, was eager to secure a good seat for himself, and so he was attempting to drag out the high chair which was kept in the parlor for him to sit up to the table in.

Rollo, as he happened to feel rather good-natured than otherwise, just then, after putting down his things, helped Nathan get his chair through the door, and placed it up at the kitchen table, which stood out in the middle of the floor. He then went into a closet, and opened a little drawer, where he knew corks were kept, and brought out one or two, selecting the cleanest and softest that he could find. When he came back, he found Nathan, pouring out some black sand, from the sand-box, upon the sheet of paper.

"Now, Nathan," exclaimed Rollo, running up to him, and seizing the sand-box, "you are a very naughty boy." And he attempted to take away the sand-box violently.

But Nathan, though he knew very well that he was doing wrong, did not seem fully disposed to admit Rollo's authority to set him right by violence. He resisted; and, in the struggle, the table was pushed away, and the water in the saucer spilled over. The water ran along under the sheet of paper. Nathan, seeing the mischief that had been done, was a little frightened, and released his hold. Rollo then took up the paper, which had sand upon the upper side, and water dripping off from the under side, saying,

"There, Nathan, now see what you have done!"

"I didn't do it," said Nathan.

"You did," said Rollo.

"I didn't," said Nathan.

Hereupon, Jonas came up to the table to see what was the matter. Each of the boys told his story.

"Now we are in pretty trouble," said Jonas; "we thought we were going to have a fine lecture; instead of that, there are two boys to be punished, and wet paper to be dried."

"Punished?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said Jonas, "Nathan for touching the sand-box, and you for touching him."

"Why, he was pouring out all the sand," said Rollo, "and I was only trying to stop him."

"Yes, but you know," said Jonas, "that you had no right to stop him by violence. That always makes the difficulty worse."

Here Rollo began to look pretty sober. He knew that he had done what he had very often been forbidden to do.

"Now," said Jonas, "we can wait and tell your mother about it, when she comes out, or we can just settle it all among ourselves."

"How?" said Rollo, with an anxious look.

"Why, I can dry the paper and the sand," said Jonas, "if you and Nathan will only punish the boys."

"How shall we do it?" asked Rollo, looking up with a faint and doubtful smile.

"I think a pretty good punishment," said Jonas, "would be for you and Nathan to go and sit in two corners of the room, with your faces to the wall, until I get the paper and sand dry -- if you think that would be punishment enough."

"Well," said Rollo, -- his eye brightening at the idea of winding up so unpleasant a business so easily, -- "well, Nathan, let's go."

Nathan was ready, and so he climbed down from his high chair, and as Rollo went to one corner of the room, he went to the other, and they took their places, as Jonas had directed; only Nathan could not resist the temptation of looking round, now and then, to see how Jonas got on with the drying of the paper. They, however, bore their self-inflicted punishment very patiently; and when Jonas had got the paper dried, and the table wiped down, and every thing replaced as it was before, he told them that it was time for them to get up again. The punishment was not very severe, it is true; but then, it was probably a pretty efficacious one, in respect to its effect in impressing it upon Nathan's mind that he must not touch things without leave, and upon Rollo's, that, when Nathan is doing wrong, he must not set him right by violence.

In a short time after this, the things were all ready upon the table, the chairs were placed around it, and Rollo went to call his father. He found him writing a letter. As soon as he reached the end of a sentence, he came out, and took his place at the table. Rollo's mother sat next to him at the same side of the table, and Jonas and Dorothy in two chairs, on the opposite side. Rollo then was placed at one end of the table, and Nathan, in his high chair, at the other.

Just then, however, Rollo's mother observed that the table was wet a little.

"Why, Rollo," said she, "how came the table wet?"

"Why, Nathan and I did it," said he.

"How?" said his mother.

"Why, we did it -- eh -- pulling. But Jonas has settled it all, mother."

"Ah! Jonas has settled it, has he? very well. Then we will all now attend to the lecture."



Magnetism.


Rollo's father looked over the things which had been arranged upon the table, for a moment, in silence, and then took up Jonas's magnet.

"This bar is what they call a magnet," said he; "but all the magnetism is in the two ends."

"It is?" said Rollo; "and what is the reason of that?"

"You can see that it is so," said his father, without answering Rollo's question, "in this way."

So he laid a small nail down upon the table, and then touched the middle of the magnet to the nail. It was not attracted at all. Then he moved it along a little, towards one end, and touched it again. Still it was not attracted. Then he moved it along farther and farther; but the nail was not attracted until he got to the end of the bar, and then the nail hopped up and adhered to it quite strongly.

"How curious!" said Rollo.

His father then repeated the same experiment with the other half of the bar, and found the result the same. The nail did not appear to be at all attracted until he reached the end, and then it was lifted and held by this end, just as it was by the other.

"So that, you see," said Rollo's father, "that the attractive power of the magnet resides in the ends."

"Well, father, what is the reason?"

"I don't know," said his father.

"Don't you know, father?" said Rollo. "I thought you were going to tell us all about it."

"No," said his father. "I only know a very little about it, myself. I am going to explain to you some of the facts, -- such as I happen to know. So you must all remember this fact, that in the magnet, the attractive power is not distributed over the whole mass, but resides only in the opposite ends. These ends are called poles."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo, "we will remember."

"Now I can make this apparent in another way," said his father. Then he asked Rollo's mother to thread a needle; and when it was threaded, he asked Jonas to stand up and hold the thread in such a manner as to let the needle hang over the middle of the table.

Then, when the needle was still, he brought up the middle of the magnet very near to the needle; but it did not move towards it at all. Then he drew the magnet along towards himself, keeping it at the same distance from the needle, and when the end of the bar came opposite to the needle, it immediately leaped out of its place, and adhered strongly to it.

"There is another way still," continued the lecturer, "better than either of these."

So saying, he took off the needle, which had adhered to the magnet, and drawing out the thread, he laid the needle itself carefully away upon a distant corner of the table. Rollo took it up, and was going to place it back with the others. But his father told him to put it down again, by itself, where he had placed it, and not to touch any of the things without his direction.

"I am going to show you another way," he added, "of making it evident that the attractive power of the magnet resides at or near the poles."

So saying, he opened the sheet of paper, and spread it out upon the table. Then he laid the magnet down upon it.

"Now, Jonas," said he, "sprinkle some sand upon it from my sand-box, carefully, and see where the sand will adhere."

So Jonas took the sand-box, and held it over the bar, not very high, and moved it slowly along, from one end to the other, and thus sanded the magnet all over. The sand fell off of it, however, freely, at every part except the ends; and Jonas, observing that it seemed to adhere there, held the sand-box a little longer over those places; and thus there was formed a sort of a black bur at the extremities, consisting of an accumulation of the black particles of sand. Rollo's father then took up the bar carefully, and passed it around, so that all who were seated at the table could examine it closely.

"It is thickest on all the edges and corners," said Rollo.

"Yes," said his mother; "and the sand forms little black bristles, pointing off in every direction."

They all examined it attentively, and observed the little black bristles pointing out every way from the edges and corners at the ends.

"This shows you," said Rollo's father, "exactly how the magnetic power, so far as its attractive force on other bodies is concerned, is distributed. You see it resides in the two ends, and the two ends seem to be exactly alike."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo, "exactly."

"They seem to be so," continued his father; "but the fact is, the magnetism of one end is very different from that of the other."

"I see that the cluster of sand is a little bigger at one end, than it is at the other," said Rollo's mother. She was more observing than the others, and had noticed a little difference, which had escaped the rest.

"That indicates only a difference in degree," said Rollo's father; "but there is a difference in kind."

"What do you mean by that, father?" asked Rollo.

"Why, if the attractive powers at the two ends were both alike in their nature, only one was stronger than the other, then the difference would be in degree; but there is a difference in the nature of the magnetism itself. In fact, the magnetisms of the two ends are of opposite natures in some respects."

"Why, both ends attract the sand," said Rollo, "just alike."

"True," said his father; "they seem to attract the sand in precisely the same way; and, looking at the bar, as I now hold it up," he added, "with the sand adhering in the same way at the two ends, one would suppose that they were both magnetic alike. But, in fact, there is a great difference between them."

All the company looked upon the two ends of the bar, as Rollo's father held it up, wondering how he would show that there was any difference between them.

"Now, in the first place," he continued, "we must get the sand off of the ends. Do you think you can get it off for me, Rollo?" said he.

Rollo took the bar very eagerly, and attempted to brush the sand back upon the paper. He succeeded in brushing off a little of it; but the greater portion remained. When he rubbed upon one side, it moved round to the other; and he could not get it off.

"Hand it to me," said his father, "and I will show you how it can be done."

He also asked Jonas to hand him the tongs, which were standing by the side of the fire. He then held the tongs over the sheet of paper, in a horizontal position, and gently rapped the end of the magnet against them, letting the end project a little over the tongs. This knocked all the sand off, and left the bar clean as it was before.

"Now let me see," said he, "what was it that I was going to tell you next?"

"You were going to show us," said Rollo's mother, "that there are two different kinds of magnetisms in the two ends of the bar."

"O, yes," said he. "In order to do this, I must poise a needle in a new way."

He then took up one of the corks which Rollo had put upon the table. From one end of this cork, he cut off, with his penknife, a round, flat piece. It was about as large around as a wafer, but somewhat thicker. He cut a little groove along the upper side of this, and laid the same needle which he had before used, and which he had put away upon the corner of the table, into this groove. Then he put the whole carefully into the saucer of water, which he had previously drawn up towards him.

"There," said he, "we call a cork like that, a float; because it is intended to float a needle upon. Now, you see, the needle being supported by the cork, and the cork floating freely in the water, the needle is at liberty to move in any way."

Nathan thought it was a very curious experiment to poise a needle so, upon a piece of cork, -- even without the magnetism. And he watched it as it slowly moved about, with a face full of interest and curiosity.

The needle swung round a little one way and the other, and finally came to a state of rest. Then Rollo's father held the magnet in his hands, in such a manner as to point it towards the needle, and then gradually brought it down near the water, just by the side of the point of the needle. The point immediately began to move slowly towards the bar; but Rollo's father lifted it up suddenly, before the needle had time to touch it. Then he brought the same end of the magnet down upon the other side of the point of the needle, and that drew it back again.

"There," said he, "you all see that the point of the needle is attracted by the bar, whichever side I put it."

They all said they saw it very plainly.

"Now," said he, "I am going to turn the magnet, and bring the other end of it down to the point of the needle; and if the magnetism at this end is the same with that in the other, the point of the needle will of course be attracted by this end too."

"Certainly," said Rollo's mother.

Then he brought down the other end of the bar towards the needle. This other end was a little bigger than the one which he had tried first, because the file had been a little bigger at that end. But the needle, instead of being drawn towards it, as it had been towards the other end, began to move slowly away from it.

"Why, it is going away," said Rollo.

His father did not answer, but immediately raised the bar and put it down upon the other side of the point, and then the point began to move away back again; being evidently driven away from the large end of the magnet, on whichever side it was presented.

Then Rollo's father reversed the magnet again; that is, he brought the smaller end towards the needle as at first. The point of the needle was now attracted, that is, drawn towards the magnet; and then when he changed it again, and brought the large end to the needle, it was always repelled; that is, driven away again.

"Now you see," he said, "that the small end of the magnet attracts the point of the needle, and the large end drives it away. That shows that the magnetism in the two ends is of two different kinds.

"And now," he continued, "there is one thing more which is remarkable about it; and I want you to observe it very carefully. You see," he says, "that the small end of the magnet attracts the point of the needle. But if I try it now upon the other end of the needle, where the eye is, it will repel that, just as the large end of the magnet repels the point."

He tried it, and the result was just as he had said. And he repeated the experiment in a great many ways, and they always found that the large end of the magnet would draw the eye of the needle towards it, and drive the point away; and the small end of the magnet would draw the point of the needle, and drive the eye away. This proved, as Rollo's father said, some great difference between the magnetisms of the two ends. "And you see," he added, "that it is a difference in kind, not merely a difference in degree."

"But one thing seems strange to me," said Rollo's mother, "and that is, that both ends of the magnet don't attract the point of the needle, just as both of them attracted the nail."

"And the sand," said Rollo.

"Yes," added his mother. "When you brought both ends of the magnet, one after the other, to the nail, they both attracted it."

"And so they did the needle which hung down by the thread," said Jonas.

"Yes," said Rollo's mother; "but now this needle, that is floating upon the water, is half attracted, and half repelled."

"The reason is," said Rollo's father, "that the needle, that is floating upon the water, is a magnet itself, and has two magnetic poles; but the sand, and the nail and the needle that Jonas held up by the thread, were not magnets. They were only common pieces of iron and steel."

"Why, father," said Rollo, "that was the very same needle; you laid it away upon the corner of the table."

"Yes," said his father; "but it was not a magnet then."

"When?" asked Rollo.

"Why, when Jonas held it up by the thread."

"And is it a magnet now?"

"Yes," said his father. "We will see if it is not."

So he took the needle off from the float, and put it upon the paper. He then sprinkled a little sand over it, from the sand-box, and, upon taking it up, they all saw that there was a little tuft of black sand both upon the point and at the eye, showing that it was magnetic at both ends.

"It became magnetic," said Rollo's father, "only by being touched by the bar magnet; and that was the reason why I put it away by itself as soon as it had touched the bar. I did not want to have it mixed with the other needles, which had not been touched, and which, of course, were not magnetic. Now, if I take one of the needles which has not been touched, and put it upon the float, you will see that both ends of it will be attracted by both ends of the bar."

So he placed away the magnetized needle upon the corner of the table again, and took another one, and placed it very carefully upon the float. Then he brought down one end of Jonas's magnet very near the point of the needle. It attracted it. Then he brought it down very near the eye of the needle. It attracted the eye too. Then he turned the magnet, and tried the other end, and he found that that end also would attract both the eye and the point of the needle.

"Try the magnetized needle, and see if that will attract it too," said Rollo's mother.

Then Rollo's father took the magnetized needle from the corner again, and brought the two ends of that, one after another, near to the ends of the needle upon the float. It attracted them just as Jonas's magnet had done, only a great deal more feebly.

"So, you see that this needle is really a little magnet, just like Jonas's great one."

"Only there is no proof that it has the two different kinds of magnetism in the two ends," said Rollo's mother.

"We can easily show that," said his father. He asked Dorothy to get another saucer full of water, while he prepared another float. Then he put the magnetized needle upon the new float, leaving the unmagnetized one upon the old float. They both looked almost precisely alike, each upon its own little disc of cork in its saucer of water.

"There," said he, "you cannot see any difference between them; but there is a great deal of difference between them; for one is only a common needle of steel, but the other has its two extremities magnetic in opposite ways."

To prove this, Rollo's father brought one end of the bar to the point of the magnetized needle, and the point was repelled. He brought it then to the eye of the same needle, and it attracted it. Then he brought the same end of the bar, first to the point, and then to the eye of the unmagnetic needle, and it attracted them both; so it was evident that there was a considerable difference, in reality, between the condition of the two, though there was no difference in external appearance.

"Now you see, from all this," added Rollo's father, "that when a magnet touches a piece of steel, like a needle, it immediately makes it a magnet itself; that is, it makes the two ends magnetic, one having one kind of magnetism, and the other the other kind; and then, if you take two magnets, and bring those two poles which have the same magnetism together, they repel one another; and if you bring those together which have different magnetisms, they attract each other."

"How do you know that they are the same magnetisms that repel, and different that attract?" said Rollo's mother.

"I will show you," said his father.

Then he took the needles that he had used off from their floats, and laid them away. He took next two new needles, exactly of a size, and he held them together between his thumb and finger, with the eyes projecting together. Then he rubbed them once or twice upon the end of Jonas's magnet, saying,

"There, you see I use both of these needles alike. Of course the eyes have both the same magnetisms. Now you will find that when I put one of them upon the float, and then bring the eyes together, they will repel each other; but an eye and a point will attract. So two points will repel."

"But you have not magnetized the points," said Rollo's mother.

"Yes," said his father. "When we magnetize one end, the other end becomes magnetized, itself, in the contrary way."

So he put one of the needles upon the float, and then brought the eye of the other down very near to its eye. It was repelled, as he had said it would be. He then brought the two points together, and they were repelled. But if he brought an eye towards a point, or a point towards an eye, they were attracted.

"This is the end of my lecture," said he, "for to-night."

"O, father," said Rollo, "a little more."

"No more to-night, only to recapitulate," said he.

"Recapitulate? what is that?"

"Why, tell you, briefly, the substance of what I have explained, so that you may remember it."

"Well, father," said Rollo.

"In the first place, a magnet has a peculiar and mysterious attractive power for iron, residing in its two extremities, which are called its poles; and the power which resides in one extremity is, in some way or other, opposite in its nature to that of the other extremity. Each of these poles repels a pole like itself, and attracts one different from itself, in any other magnet."

Poor Nathan could not understand this grave, philosophical disquisition very well, and he began to get pretty sleepy. He had, however, been somewhat amused, during the greater part of the time, in seeing the corks float about upon the water, with the needles upon them. So his father took the needles off, and let him have the two floats in one of the saucers to play with, a few minutes, while Dorothy put the other things away. He asked her to put all the things away together, so that they could get them ready the next evening, and then he said that perhaps he would give them another lecture.



Intellectual Philosophy


Rollo's father gave one or two other lectures upon magnetism, in the course of which Rollo found out a good deal about the subject; and, having learned from his father's explanations that any magnet, when balanced freely, would point to the north and south, that is, one end to the north and the other to the south, he determined to try the experiment. He accordingly poised a needle carefully upon a cork, as his father had done in his lecture, and put it in a basin of water upon the platform. But he did not succeed very well. The needle would always swing round, and turn its point towards the garden gate; but Rollo knew very well that the garden gate was not north from the platform. He remembered that the North Star was over the barn, for he and Jonas had noticed it particularly when they had made the dial. The needle, therefore, ought to have pointed towards the barn, according to his father's lecture; but it would not. Rollo took up a straw, and pushed the point of the needle round, and said, "Point there! point there, I tell you!" But all in vain. The needle would not heed either his pushing or his commands; but, as soon as he let it go, it would immediately swing back into its old position, where it pointed towards the garden gate.

Rollo was just about giving up in despair, when he saw his sister Mary coming in from the garden gate, with a book under her arm.

"O Mary," said he, "what shall I do? My needle won't point right."

"Why, what is the matter with it?" said Mary.

"It will point over towards the garden," said Rollo; "look."

So Mary came up, and looked at his needle. She saw that it was pointing towards the garden gate.

"Now I'll push it away," said Rollo, "and you will see that it comes directly back again."

So he took up his straw, and pushed the point of the needle away. The cork moved, turning round rapidly, until at length it swung away towards one side of the basin, and then suddenly drifted up against the side, and stuck there.

"That's another plague," said Rollo. "It will run up to the side of the basin, and stick there."

"What makes it?" said Mary.

"I don't know," said Rollo.

Mary sat down upon the platform, and examined the needle and the surface of the water very carefully. She observed that the water was heaped up a little against the side of the basin, all around. She asked Rollo to observe it.

"Yes," said he, "and the needle and cork run right up that ridge of water."

"And the bubbles too," said Mary.

Mary pointed, when she said this, to several little bubbles which were adhering closely to the side of the basin, in another place.

She took up a little straw, and pushed away some of the bubbles from the side of the basin, and then gently moved them back again until they were pretty near, and observed that they would immediately rush up against the side again. She did not understand this phenomenon, especially as the water was raised a little along the edge by the side of the basin, so that the bubbles and the needle actually appeared to rush up hill.

After examining this for some time, Mary moved the cork float, with the needle upon it, back into the middle of the basin, and then left it to itself. It slowly moved around until it pointed to the garden gate, as it had done before.

"Now what is the reason?" said Rollo; "that isn't north."

Mary looked upon it very attentively for a few minutes in silence, and then said, suddenly,

"O, I see."

"What?" said Rollo.

She did not answer, but pointed down to the platform by the side of the basin.

Rollo looked where she pointed, and saw the hammer lying there. He had had it to play with a short time before, and, when he brought the basin of water, he had laid it down by his side.

"What?" said Rollo.

"The hammer attracts the needle," replied Mary.

"The hammer?" said Rollo.

"Yes," replied Mary. "Don't you know that iron attracts the needle, and it will not point to the north if there is any iron near to draw it away?"

Rollo was just going to take the hammer up, but Mary stopped him, saying,

"Wait a moment. Let me take it away slowly, and see the effect."

So Mary told Rollo to watch the needle, while she carefully drew the hammer away.

Rollo did so. He and Mary both watched the needle. It was pointing pretty nearly toward the hammer, and when Mary gently moved the hammer away, the needle, released from the influence which the iron exerted upon it, slowly moved back towards the direction of the barn, that is, the direction of a north and south line, which is called the meridian.

"It's going back! it's going back!" said Rollo.

Mary said nothing, but watched it carefully. The needle swung beyond the direction of the meridian a little way, and then came slowly back again. So it continued vibrating from one side to the other, though to a less and less distance every time. Finally, it came to a state of rest; but it was not then, however, exactly in the meridian.

"What makes it swing so, back and forth?" said Rollo.

"I don't know exactly," said Mary. "I suppose the force that it moves with, carries it a little beyond, and then it is drawn back again, and that makes the oscillations."

"Oscillations?" said Rollo, inquiringly.

"Yes. They call this swinging back and forth, oscillating; and each movement is an oscillation."

"Is that the name of it?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said Mary. "When you tie a little stone to a string, and hold the upper end of the string still, and let the stone swing back and forth, it makes oscillations."

"I mean to try it," said Rollo.

"Yes," said Mary; "and I will help you by and by, after I have studied my philosophy lesson."

"Your philosophy lesson?" asked Rollo. "Have you got a philosophy lesson to get?"

"Yes," said Mary, "in that great book."

So Rollo took up Mary's book, which she had laid down upon the platform near Rollo's apparatus. He found that the title of it was "Intellectual Philosophy."

"Intellectual Philosophy?" said Rollo; "and what sort of philosophy is intellectual philosophy?"

"It is the philosophy of the mind," replied Mary. "It explains to us about the thoughts and feelings of our minds."

"Are there any experiments in intellectual philosophy?" asked Rollo.

"Yes," said Mary, "we can try experiments in intellectual philosophy."

"What experiments?" said Rollo.

"Why, there is a question whether we always dream when we are asleep."

"I do," said Rollo, "every night."

"Yes, but perhaps not all night long."

"Yes, I do," said Rollo. "I have good long dreams."

"But," replied Mary, "you may dream several hours in the night, so as to remember good long dreams in the morning, and yet perhaps you might have been, for some time, perfectly sound asleep, so as not to have any dreams in your mind at all. Some persons think we dream all the time when we are asleep, and others think we don't dream all the time. Now we might contrive some experiments to decide the question."

"How?" said Rollo.

"Why, you and I might agree to wake each other up several times, from a sound sleep, and then, if we were dreaming at that time, we should probably remember it."

"Well," said Rollo, "let us try it."

"That would be an experiment in intellectual philosophy," said Mary.

Rollo determined to try the experiment; and then he took Mary's book, and asked her where her lesson was that day. She found the place, and Rollo read a little. He could not understand it very well, and so he concluded that he would rather have Mary go and study her lesson, and then come down and help him make the experiments of oscillation.

Mary accordingly took her book and went in, and left Rollo at his play.



Oscillations.


In about an hour, Mary came down into the yard in pursuit of Rollo, in order to try the experiments which she had proposed.

When Rollo saw her coming, he left his play, and ran to meet her.

"Well, Mary," said he, "have you come to make the oscillations?"

"Yes," said Mary. "I have brought some thread for strings, and I want you to get some pebble stones -- some large, and some small ones."

Rollo went for the pebble stones, while Mary looked about for a suitable place for making the experiments. In a corner of the yard there was a bench under a tree, and the branches came down pretty low. Mary thought that this would be a good place, for she could tie her strings to these branches with the pebbles hanging down below; and she and Rollo could watch the oscillations, while seated upon the bench.

Mary took her station here, and Rollo presently appeared, with the crown of his cap half filled with pebble stones. Mary said they would do finely. She poured them out upon the bench by her side, and Rollo put his cap upon his head again.

"Now, Rollo," said she, "we will study the art of experimenting."

"No," said Rollo, "we are going to study oscillation."

"Yes," replied Mary; "the experiments are to be on oscillations; but what I want principally to teach you, is, the proper way to make experiments."

"Well," said Rollo.

Mary said no more, but she proceeded to tie a small pebble to the end of one of the long threads which she had brought out with her. Then she tied the other end of the thread to the branch of the tree, which was over her head. The pebble then hung down before them, so that both Rollo and herself could plainly see all its motions.

"The first thing," said Mary, "is to get a clear idea of the nature of the oscillation, for we must know what we are experimenting about."

So saying, Mary carefully took hold of the suspended pebble stone, and began to draw it off towards one side. She showed Rollo that, as it was confined by its string above, it must move in a curved line when she drew it away from its place, rising higher and higher the farther it was drawn away. And when she had drawn it out to a considerable distance, to one side, it was at a much higher level, than when it hung down freely in its natural position.

"Now," said Mary, "you see that if I let it go, it will descend of course as much as it can, for the earth draws it downwards."

"The earth draws it?" said Rollo.

"Yes," said Mary. "The reason why things fall is that they are attracted, or drawn down, by the earth. Now the earth draws the pebble. It would go straight towards it, if it could; but the string confines it, and so it can only go down in the same way that it came up; that is, by the curved line."

Mary then held one of her hands open at the place where the pebble had hung when it had been at liberty, and let go the pebble, which she had been holding with the other. It fell down in the curved line, or arc, as Mary had said it would, until it struck her hand, and there it stopped and remained at rest.

"What did you stop it for?" said Rollo.

"So that we could see and attend to one part of the phenomenon at a time," said Mary; "that is, the descent of the pebble. You see the attraction of the earth causes the pebble to go down if it can, and the confinement of the string prevents its going down in any other way than in that curve or arc. For the string keeps it always just its own length from the branch, and so that makes the curved line the arc of a circle."

"Yes," said Rollo, "I understand."

Then Mary drew up the pebble once or twice more, and let Rollo see it fall against her hand. Rollo observed that it was a very regular arc.

"Now we see," continued Mary, "that I hold my hand so as to stop the pebble stone at the lowest point to which it can go; for I hold it exactly under the point where the upper end of the string is fastened to the tree. Now I will take my hand away, and then let the pebble fall, and we will see what takes place."

So Mary took her hand away, and let the pebble fall freely. It descended as before through the arc, and then, by the force which it acquired in moving so far, it was propelled beyond the lowest point, and ascended in another curve, upon the other side, similar to the first. When the force was expended, it came back again; and thus it swung to and fro, several times, and at length came almost to a state of rest.

"There," said Mary, "those are the oscillations we are going to experiment upon."

"Yes," said Rollo.

"And first," said Mary, "we notice that they are regular."

So she swung the pebble again; and as it moved to and fro, she counted the oscillations aloud, beating time with her hand, down and up, thus, -- 

"One, -- two, -- three, -- four," &c. Rollo perceived that they were very regular.

"Now, first we will endeavor to ascertain by our experiments," said Mary, "what the time of the vibrations depends upon."

"Well," said Rollo.

"You see," continued Mary, "it swings back and forth with a certain degree of rapidity. Now we want to know what this rapidity depends upon, and then we could make a pendulum so that it would oscillate faster or slower, just as we pleased."

"A pendulum?" asked Rollo.

"Yes," said Mary, "we call it a pendulum. Any heavy body hung in this manner, so as to swing back and forth by its weight, is called a pendulum. So that we are experimenting upon the oscillations of a pendulum."

"Yes," said Rollo, "I understand."

"Now the question which we are going to examine," said Mary, "is, what the rapidity of the vibrations depends upon."

"O, it depends upon the bigness of the pebble," said Rollo.

"How do you know?" said Mary.

"Why, of course, a bigger pebble will be heavier, and will fall quicker, and that will make it vibrate faster."

"That is reasoning about it," said Mary, "and what we want to do, now, is to experiment. Now, in order to decide it by experiment, we must try two pendulums, one with a small pebble, and the other with a large one."

"Very well," said Rollo, "we will; and then we shall see that the big one will vibrate the quickest."

"Let us think, first, what other circumstances there are, that it may depend upon."

"I can't think of any thing else," said Rollo.

"Why, there is the nature of the body which we suspend. A piece of cork may oscillate differently from a piece of stone."

"Yes," said Rollo, "it will oscillate slower."

"We must not decide," said Mary, "in our own minds, before we try the experiment. We must leave our minds free to observe the facts, and wait until we make the experiment, before we come to any conclusion, or else we shall not be good experimenters."

"Why not?" said Rollo.

"Because," said Mary, "when persons make up their minds beforehand what the facts will be, they are very apt not to observe fairly. So good observers or experimenters always take care to keep their minds free and unbiassed."

"Well," said Rollo, "and what else is there that the oscillations may depend upon?"

"The length of the string," replied Mary.

"O yes," said Rollo, "it may depend upon that."

"Let us see," continued Mary. "There are three experiments we have already proposed; a large and a small pebble; a pebble and a cork; a long and a short string; and now there is one more, -- a long and short arc."

"How?" said Rollo.

"Why, if I draw up the weight, which forms the pendulum, pretty high, it will swing back and forth through a long arc. But if I move it only a little way, it will swing through only a short arc, and that may make a difference in the length of the vibrations."

"Well," said Rollo, "and now let us try."

"First, let us see whether we have got all the apparatus we want. Here are strings and pebbles, -- only we want a cork."

"I'll go and get one," said Rollo.

So Rollo went off towards the house to get the cork. In a few minutes he came back, saying,

"I have got the cork. Now how shall we begin?"

"First," replied Mary, "we will try what effect the weight of the pebble will have upon the oscillations."

"Very well," said Rollo.

"Now, in order to test that," added Mary, "we must take two pebble stones, of different sizes, and hang them together, by strings of the same kind, and of the same length; and then we must set them a-going exactly together, and then watch the oscillations. You see that as they will be alike in every respect, excepting the size of the pebble stones, whatever difference there is in the mode of vibration will probably be caused by the difference in the size of the stones."

"Is that the way they do it?" said Rollo.

"Yes," replied Mary. "Whenever we want to know what effect any one circumstance produces, in such a case, we always arrange two experiments, making them very different in respect to the circumstance which we wish to examine, and as nearly alike as possible in all other respects."

"I think that is a very good way," said Rollo.

"Yes," replied Mary, "I think it is an excellent way."

While Mary was thus explaining her plan to Rollo, she was going on steadily with preparations, Rollo standing all the time by her side, looking on with great interest. Mary selected two pebbles. One was as big as a walnut, and the other about as big as an egg. She tied two of her threads to these stones, one to each, and then tied the other ends of these threads to a small branch of the tree which extended horizontally over their heads. They hung down about two feet. She took care so to adjust the strings, as to have the centres of the stones as nearly as possible on a level.

"The big one is twice as large, and so it will go twice as fast," said Rollo.

"We shall see," said Mary.

She then drew them both carefully out a little way on one side, and holding them there steadily a moment, she let them go. They immediately began to swing back and forth, together.

After a few oscillations, however, the large stone began to gain a little upon the other, and seemed to be moving faster. Presently it had gained half an oscillation, i. e. when the large one was moving forward, the small one would be coming back.

"The big one moves the fastest," said Rollo.

"Not much," said Mary.

"No," said Rollo, "not much."

"And I don't think it is owing to the difference in the bigness of the stones."

"What else can it be?" said Rollo. "They are exactly alike in all other respects."

"Not exactly," said Mary. "We have made them as nearly alike as we could, but not exactly. There may be a good many little differences that we do not observe. But if the size of the stone would cause any difference in the vibrations, I should think it would make a much greater difference, for one is twice as big as the other."

"Let us try a very big stone," said Rollo.

"Well," said Mary.

So Rollo got a stone as large as an orange, which was as heavy a one as Mary thought the thread would hold; and Mary suspended that from the branch of the tree, and then swung it in company with the two others. They all went very nearly together at first, though there was evidently a slight difference, which, in a short time, separated the oscillations, so that the stones did not keep together; while yet they each swung back and forth, in nearly the same time. Rollo and Mary both concluded, from the result of this experiment, that the size of the vibrating body did not perceptibly affect the rapidity of the vibrations.

"Now," said Mary, "we will try different lengths of string."

So she began to look over Rollo's pebbles, to find two as nearly as possible alike.

"The pebble stones must be of the same size, this time, for we want the two pendulums to be alike in all respects, except the length of the string, for that is the circumstance which we are now going to consider. We will have one string twice as long as the other."

Mary found two pebbles very nearly equal in size, and similar in shape. She tied them to two strings, making one string twice as long as the other. She suspended them as before, and then, taking hold of one with one hand, and the other with the other, she drew them out to the same distance on one side, and let them go. The short one began at once to swing back and forth very quick, while the other followed quite slowly.

"That makes a difference," said Rollo, clapping his hands.

"It goes twice as fast," said Mary.

"More than twice as fast," said Rollo, "I think."

"Let us see," said Mary.

They set them vibrating again; but they did not succeed in ascertaining whether the short one went more or less than twice as fast as the other. The two motions, so rapid and so near together, confused them. At length, Mary proposed that Rollo should count the vibrations of the long pendulum, while she counted those of the short one, and when she had got up to twenty, she said they would both stop, and then Rollo could tell how many he had got in the same time. But this plan, though apparently a very simple one, they found it somewhat difficult to put into practice. Mary's pendulum puzzled Rollo's counting, and Rollo, who could not count very well without at least whispering the numbers, puzzled Mary, and so pretty soon they gave it up.

Rollo then said that he meant to try a very short pendulum indeed, and he asked Mary to tie one up for him, not more than an inch in length. She, however, said that it would not be necessary to tie it to the branch; but, instead of that, she took hold of the string of one of the pebbles which was already hanging before them, about an inch above the pebble itself, and then set the pebble in motion; and they were both very much interested in observing how quick it vibrated to and fro.

Rollo then wanted to try a very long one, and proposed that he should climb up into the tree, and tie the end of the string to a high branch. But Mary was afraid that he would fall; and besides, she said that the pendulum would not swing clear of the branches below. She, however, immediately thought of the chamber window, and said that she would try it there. She accordingly went up into her chamber, taking a large pebble stone with her, and Rollo remained below to set the pendulum in motion, when it should be ready. Mary soon appeared at the window, and Rollo watched her while she tied her pebble to the end of a thread.

"Have you got your thread long enough?" said Rollo. "It will take a good long thread to reach away down here."

"It is a whole spool of cotton," said Mary. And, so saying, she held up in her hand the spool, to the thread of which she was tying her pebble stone.

When it was secured, she slowly let it down, until it reached Rollo's hand, which was held up from below, ready to receive it. Mary then held the thread steady above, at a little distance out from the window, while Rollo took the stone along the side of the house, three or four feet from the place where it would naturally hang. He then let it go, and it swung back very slowly.

"O, how slow!" said Rollo.

"Yes," said Mary, "it is very slow, indeed."

"I wish you had gone up to the garret window," said Rollo.

"O, this will do very well," said Mary.

Rollo determined to see how many he could count while the stone made one oscillation to and fro. He counted sixteen.

Mary then said she was tired of experimenting, and so she should not come down again. She, however, asked Rollo to set the pendulum swinging, and that then she would draw the thread in, and he could see that it would go faster and faster, the farther she drew it up, for that would make the string grow shorter and shorter.

Rollo did so; and this was the end of the experiments on oscillations.

<eob>

Blue Lights

By

R.M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

Hot Work In The Soudan.

The False Step.

There is a dividing ridge in the great northern wilderness of America, whereon lies a lakelet of not more than twenty yards in diameter. It is of crystal clearness and profound depth, and on the still evenings of the Indian summer its surface forms a perfect mirror, which might serve as a toilet-glass for a Redskin princess.

We have stood by the side of that lakelet and failed to note the slightest symptom of motion in it, yet somewhere in its centre there was going on a constant and mysterious division of watery particles, and those of them which glided imperceptibly to the right flowed southward to the Atlantic, while those that trembled to the left found a resting-place by the frozen shores of Hudson's Bay.

As it is with the flow and final exit of those waters, so is it, sometimes, if not always, with the spirit and destiny of man.

Miles Milton, our hero, at the age of nineteen, stood at the dividing ridge of his life. If the oscillating spirit, trembling between right and wrong, had decided to lean to the right, what might have been his fate no one can tell. He paused on the balance a short time, then he leaned over to the left, and what his fate was it is the purpose of this volume to disclose. At the outset, we may remark that it was not unmixed good. Neither was it unmitigated evil.

Miles had a strong body, a strong will, and a somewhat passionate temper: a compound which is closely allied to dynamite!

His father, unfortunately, was composed of much the same materials. The consequences were sometimes explosive. It might have profited the son much had he studied the Scripture lesson, "Children, obey your parents in the Lord." Not less might it have benefited the father to have pondered the words, "Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath."

Young Milton had set his heart on going into the army. Old Milton had resolved to thwart the desire of his son. The mother Milton, a meek and loving soul, experienced some hard times between the two. Both loved her intensely, and each loved himself, not better perhaps, but too much!

It is a sad task to have to recount the disputes between a father and a son. We shrink from it and turn away. Suffice it to say that one day Miles and his father had a Vesuvian meeting on the subject of the army. The son became petulant and unreasonable; the father fierce and tyrannical. The end was that they parted in anger.

"Go, sir," cried the father sternly; "when you are in a better frame of mind you may return."

"Yes, father, I will go," cried the son, starting up, "and I will never return."

Poor youth! He was both right and wrong in this prophetic speech. He did return home, but he did not return to his father.

With fevered pulse and throbbing heart he rushed into a plantation that lay at the back of his father's house. He had no definite intention save to relieve his feelings by violent action. Running at full speed, he came suddenly to a disused quarry that was full of water. It had long been a familiar haunt as a bathing-pool. Many a time in years past had he leaped off its precipitous margin into the deep water, and wantoned there in all the abandonment of exuberant youth. The leap was about thirty feet, the depth of water probably greater. Constant practice had rendered Miles so expert at diving and swimming that he had come to feel as much at home in the water as a New-Zealander.

Casting off his garments, he took the accustomed plunge by way of cooling his heart and brain. He came up from the depths refreshed, but not restored to equanimity. While dressing, the sense of injustice returned as strongly as before, and, with it, the hot indignation, so that, on afterwards reaching the highway, he paused only for a few moments. This was the critical point. Slowly but decidedly he leaned to the left. He turned his back on his father's house, and caused the stones to spurt from under his heels as he walked rapidly away.

If Miles Milton had thought of his mother at that time he might have escaped many a day of bitter repentance, for she was as gentle as her husband was harsh; but the angry youth either forgot her at the moment, or, more probably, thrust the thought of her away.

Poor mother! if she had only known what a conflict between good and evil was going on in the breast of her boy, how she would have agonised in prayer for him! But she did not know. There was, however, One who did know, who loved him better even than his mother, and who watched and guarded him throughout all his chequered career.

It is not improbable that in spite of his resolves Miles would have relented before night and returned home had not a very singular incident intervened and closed the door behind him.

That day a notorious swindler had been tracked by a red-haired detective to the manufacturing city, to which Miles first directed his steps. The bills describing the swindler set forth that he was quite young, tall, handsome, broad-shouldered, with black curling hair, and a budding moustache; that he was dressed in grey tweeds, and had a prepossessing manner. Now this chanced to be in some respects an exact description of Miles Milton!

The budding moustache, to be sure, was barely discernible, still it was sufficiently so for a detective to found on. His dress, too, was brown tweed, not grey; but of course dresses can be changed; and as to his manner, there could not be two opinions about that.

Now it chanced to be past one o'clock when Miles entered the town and felt himself impelled by familiar sensations to pause in front of an eating-house. It was a poor eating-house in a low district, but Miles was not particular; still further, it was a temperance coffee-house, but Miles cared nothing for strong drink. Strong health and spirits had served his purpose admirably up to that date.

Inside the eating-house there sat several men of the artisan class, and a few of the nondescript variety. Among the latter was the red-haired detective. He was engaged with a solid beef-steak.

"Oho!" escaped softly from his lips, when his sharp eyes caught sight of our hero. So softly did he utter the exclamation that it might have been a mere remark of appreciation addressed to the steak, from which he did not again raise his eyes for a considerable time.

The place was very full of people -- so full that there seemed scarcely room for another guest; but by some almost imperceptible motion the red-haired man made a little space close to himself. The man next to him, with a hook-nose, widened the space by similar action, and Miles, perceiving that there was room, sat down.

"Bread and cheese," he said to the waiter.

"Bread an' cheese, sir? Yessir."

Miles was soon actively engaged in mechanically feeding, while his mind was busy as to future plans.

Presently he became aware that the men on either side of him were scanning his features and person with peculiar attention.

"Coldish weather," remarked the red-haired man, looking at him in a friendly way.

"It is," replied Miles, civilly enough.

"Rather cold for bathin', ain't it, sir?" continued the detective carelessly, picking his teeth with a quill.

"How did you know that I've been bathing?" demanded Miles in surprise.

"I didn't know it."

"How did you guess it then?"

"Vell, it ain't difficult to guess that a young feller 'as bin 'avin' a swim w'en you see the 'air of 'is 'ead hall vet, an' 'is pocket-'ankercher lookin' as if it 'ad done dooty for a towel, not to mention 'is veskit 'avin' bin putt on in a 'urry, so as the buttons ain't got into the right 'oles, you see!"

Miles laughed, and resumed his bread and cheese.

"You are observant, I perceive," he said.

"Not wery partiklarly so," returned Redhair; "but I do obsarve that your boots tell of country roads. Was it a long way hout of town as you was bathin' this forenoon, now?"

There was a free and easy familiarity about the man's tone which Miles resented, but, not wishing to run the risk of a disagreement in such company, he answered quietly -- "Yes, a considerable distance; it was in an old quarry where I often bathe, close to my father's house."

"Ha! jest so, about 'alf-way to the willage of Ramplin', w'ere you slep' last night, if report speaks true, an' w'ere you left the grey tweeds, unless, p'r'aps, you sunk 'em in the old quarry."

"Why, what on earth do you mean?" asked Miles, with a look of such genuine surprise that Redhair was puzzled, and the man with the hooked nose, who had been listening attentively, looked slightly confused.

"Read that, sir," said the detective, extracting a newspaper cutting from his pocket and laying it on the table before Miles.

While he read, the two men watched him with interest, so did some of those who sat near, for they began to perceive that something was "in the wind."

The tell-tale blood sprang to the youth's brow as he read and perceived the meaning of the man's remarks. At this Redhair and Hook-nose nodded to each other significantly.

"You don't mean to say," exclaimed Miles, in a tone of grand indignation which confirmed the men in their suspicion, "that you think this description applies to me?"

"I wouldn't insinivate too much, sir, though I have got my suspicions," said Redhair blandly; "but of course that's easy settled, for if your father's 'ouse is anyw'ere hereabouts, your father won't object to identify his son."

"Ridiculous!" exclaimed Miles, rising angrily at this interruption to his plans. The two men rose promptly at the same moment. "Of course my father will prove that you have made a mistake, but -- "

He hesitated in some confusion, for the idea of re-appearing before his father so soon, and in such company, after so stoutly asserting that he would never more return, was humiliating. The detective observed the hesitation and became jocose.

"If you'd rather not trouble your parent," said Redhair, "you've got no call to do it. The station ain't far off, and the sooner we get there the better for all parties."

A slight clink of metal at this point made Miles aware of the fact that Hook-nose was drawing a pair of handcuffs from one of his pockets.

The full significance of his position suddenly burst upon him. The thought of being led home a prisoner, or conveyed to the police-station handcuffed, maddened him; and the idea of being thus unjustly checked at the very outset of his independent career made him furious. For a few moments he stood so perfectly still and quiet that the detectives were thrown slightly off their guard. Then there was an explosion of some sort within the breast of Miles Milton. It expended itself in a sudden impulse, which sent Redhead flat on the table among the crockery, and drove Hook-nose into the fireplace among the fire-irons. A fat little man chanced to be standing in the door-way. The same impulse, modified, shot that little man into the street like a cork out of a bottle, and next moment Miles was flying along the pavement at racing speed, horrified at what he had done, but utterly reckless as to what might follow!

Hearing the shouts of pursuers behind him, and being incommoded by passers-by in the crowded thoroughfare, Miles turned sharply into a by-street, and would have easily made his escape -- being uncommonly swift of foot -- had he not been observed by an active little man of supple frame and presumptuous tendencies. Unlike the mass of mankind around him -- who stared and wondered -- the active little man took in the situation at a glance, joined in the pursuit, kept well up, thus forming a sort of connecting-link between the fugitive and pursuers, and even took upon himself to shout "Stop thief!" as he ran. Miles endeavoured to throw him off by putting on, as schoolboys have it, "a spurt." But the active little man also spurted and did not fall far behind. Then Miles tried a second double, and got into a narrow street, which a single glance showed him was a blind alley! Disappointment and anger hereupon took possession of him, and he turned at bay with the tiger-like resolve to run a-muck!

Fortunately for himself he observed a pot of whitewash standing near a half-whitened wall, with a dirty canvas frock and a soiled billycock lying beside it. The owner of the property had left it inopportunely, for, quick as thought, Miles wriggled into the frock, flung on the billycock, seized the pot, and walked in a leisurely way to the head of the alley. He reached it just as the active little man turned into it, at the rate of ten miles an hour. A yell of "Stop thief!" issued from the man's presumptuous lips at the moment.

His injunction was obeyed to the letter, for the would-be thief of an honest man's character on insufficient evidence was stopped by Miles's bulky person so violently that the whitewash was scattered all about, and part of it went into the active man's eyes.

To squash the large brush into the little man's face, and thus effectually complete what his own recklessness had begun, was the work of an instant. As he did it, Miles assumed the role of the injured party, suiting his language to his condition.

"What d'ee mean by that, you houtrageous willain?" he cried savagely, to the great amusement of the bystanders, who instantly formed a crowd round them. "Look wot a mess you've bin an' made o' my clean frock! Don't you see?"

The poor little man could not see. He could only cough and gasp and wipe his face with his coat-tails.

"I'd give you in charge o' the pleece, I would, if it wasn't that you've pretty well punished yourself a'ready," continued Miles. "Take 'im to a pump some o' you, 'cause I ain't got time. Good-day, spider-legs, an' don't go for to run into a hartist again, with a paint-pot in 'is 'and."

So saying, Miles pushed through the laughing crowd and sauntered away. He turned into the first street he came to, and then went forward as fast as was consistent with the idea of an artisan in a hurry. Being utterly ignorant of the particular locality into which he had penetrated -- though well enough acquainted with the main thoroughfares of the city -- his only care was to put as many intricate streets and lanes as possible between himself and the detectives. This was soon done, and thereafter, turning into a darkish passage, he got rid of the paint-pot and borrowed costume.

Fortunately he had thrust his own soft helmet-shaped cap into his breast at the time he put on the billycock, and was thus enabled to issue from the dark passage very much like his former self, with the exception of a few spots of whitewash, which were soon removed.

Feeling now pretty safe, our hero walked a considerable distance through the unknown parts of the city, before he ventured to inquire the way to thoroughfares with which he was familiar. Once in these, he proceeded at a smart pace to one of the railway stations, intending to leave town, though as yet he had formed no definite plan of action. In truth, his mind was much troubled and confused by the action of his conscience, for when the thought of leaving home and entering the army as a private soldier, against his father's wishes, crossed his mind, Conscience faithfully shook his head; and when softer feelings prevailed, and the question arose irresistibly, "Shall I return home?" the same faithful friend whispered, "Yes."

In a state of indecision, Miles found himself borne along by a human stream to the booking-office. Immediately in front of him were two soldiers, -- one a sergeant, and the other a private of the line.

Both were tall handsome men, straight as arrows, and with that air of self-sufficient power which is as far removed from arrogance as it is from cowardice, and is by no means an uncommon feature in men of the British army.

Miles felt a strong, unaccountable attraction towards the young private. He had not yet heard his voice nor encountered his eye; indeed, being behind him, he had only seen his side-face, and as the expression on it was that of stern gravity, the attractive power could not have lain in that. It might have lain in the youthful look of the lad, for albeit a goodly man in person, he was almost a boy in countenance, being apparently not yet twenty years of age.

Miles was at last roused to the necessity for prompt and decisive action by the voice of the sergeant saying in tones of authority -- 

"Portsmouth -- third -- two -- single."

"That's the way to go it, lobster!" remarked a shabby man, next in the line behind Miles.

The grave sergeant paid no more regard to this remark than if it had been the squeak of a mouse.

"Now, then, sir, your carridge stops the way. 'Eave a'ead. Shall I 'elp you?" said the shabby man.

Thus admonished, Miles, scarce knowing what he said, repeated the sergeant's words -- 

"Portsmouth -- third -- two -- single."

"Vy, you ain't agoin' to pay for me, are you?" exclaimed the shabby man in smiling surprise.

"Oh! beg pardon. I mean one," said Miles to the clerk, quickly.

The clerk retracted the second ticket with stolid indifference, and Miles, hastening to the platform, sat down on a seat, deeply and uncomfortably impressed with the fact that he possessed little or no money! This unsatisfactory state of things had suddenly burst upon him while in the act of paying for his ticket. He now made a careful examination of his purse, and found its contents to be exactly seven shillings and sixpence, besides a few coppers in his trousers-pocket.

Again indecision assailed him. Should he return? It was not too late. "Yes," said Conscience, with emphasis. "No," said Shame. False pride echoed the word, and Self-will re-echoed it. Still our hero hesitated, and there is no saying what the upshot might have been if the bell had not rung at the moment, and, "Now, then, take your seats!" put an end to the controversy.

Another minute, and Miles Milton was seated opposite the two soldiers, rushing towards our great southern seaport at the rate of forty miles an hour.



Chapter Two.

Shows Some Of The Consequences Of The False Step, And Introduces The Reader To Peculiar Company.

Our hero soon discovered that the sergeant was an old campaigner, having been out in Egypt at the beginning of the war, and fought at the famous battle of Tel-el-Kebir.

In his grave and undemonstrative way and quiet voice, this man related some of his experiences, so as not only to gain the attention of his companion in arms, but to fascinate all who chanced to be within earshot of him -- not the least interested among whom, of course, was our friend Miles.

As the sergeant continued to expatiate on those incidents of the war which had come under his own observation, three points impressed themselves on our hero: first, that the sergeant was evidently a man of serious, if not religious, spirit; second, that while he gave all due credit to his comrades for their bravery in action, he dwelt chiefly on those incidents which brought out the higher qualities of the men, such as uncomplaining endurance, forbearance, etcetera, and he never boasted of having given "a thorough licking" to the Egyptians, nor spoke disparagingly of the native troops; lastly, that he seemed to lay himself out with a special view to the unflagging entertainment of his young comrade.

The reason for this last purpose he learned during a short halt at one of the stations. Seeing the sergeant standing alone there, Miles, after accosting him with the inevitable references to the state of the weather, remarked that his comrade seemed to be almost too young for the rough work of soldiering.

"Yes, he is young enough, but older than he looks," answered the sergeant. "Poor lad! I'm sorry for him."

"Indeed! He does not seem to me a fit subject for pity. Young, strong, handsome, intelligent, he seems pretty well furnished to begin the battle of life -- especially in the army."

"'Things are not what they seem,'" returned the soldier, regarding his young questioner with something between a compassionate and an amused look. "'All is not gold that glitters.' Soldiering is not made up of brass bands, swords, and red coats!"

"Having read a good deal of history I am well aware of that," retorted Miles, who was somewhat offended by the implication contained in the sergeant's remarks.

"Well, then, you see," continued the sergeant, "all the advantages that you have mentioned, and which my comrade certainly possesses, weigh nothing with him at all just now, because this sudden call to the wars separates him from his poor young wife."

"Wife!" exclaimed Miles; "why, he seems to me little more than a boy --  except in size, and perhaps in gravity."

"He is over twenty, and, as to gravity -- well, most young fellows would be grave enough if they had to leave a pretty young wife after six months of wedded life. You see, he married without leave, and so, even if it were a time of peace, his wife would not be recognised by the service. In wartime he must of course leave her behind him. It has been a hard job to prevent him from deserting, and now it's all I can do to divert his attention from his sorrow by stirring him up with tales of the recent wars."

At this point the inexorable bell rang, doors were banged, whistles sounded, and the journey was resumed.

Arrived at Portsmouth, Miles was quickly involved in the bustle of the platform. He had made up his mind to have some private conversation with the sergeant as to the possibility of entering her Majesty's service as a private soldier, and was on the point of accompanying his military travelling companions into the comparative quiet of the street when a porter touched his cap -- 

"Any luggage, sir?"

"Luggage? -- a -- no -- no luggage!"

It was the first moment since leaving home that the thought of luggage had entered into his brain! That thought naturally aroused other thoughts, such as lodgings, food, friends, funds, and the like. On turning to the spot where his military companions had stood, he discovered that they were gone. Running to the nearest door-way he found it to be the wrong one, and before he found the right one and reached the street the two soldiers had vanished from the scene.

"You seem to be a stranger here, sir. Can I direct you?" said an insinuating voice at his elbow.

The speaker was an elderly man of shabby-genteel appearance and polite address. Miles did not quite like the look of him. In the circumstances, however, and with a strangely desolate feeling of loneliness creeping over him, he did not see his way to reject a civil offer.

"Thank you. I am indeed a stranger, and happen to have neither friend nor acquaintance in the town, so if you can put me in the way of finding a respectable lodging -- a -- a cheap one, you will greatly oblige me."

"With pleasure," said the man, "if you will accompany -- "

"Stay, don't trouble yourself to show me the way," interrupted Miles; "just name a house and the street, that will -- "

"No trouble at all, sir," said the man. "I happen to be going in the direction of the docks, and know of excellent as well as cheap lodgings there."

Making no further objection, Miles followed his new friend into the street. For some time, the crowd being considerable and noisy, they walked in silence.

At the time we write of, Portsmouth was ringing with martial music and preparations for war.

At all times the red-coats and the blue-jackets are prominent in the streets of that seaport; for almost the whole of our army passes through it at one period or another, either in going to or returning from "foreign parts." But at this time there was the additional bustle resulting from the Egyptian war. Exceptional activity prevailed in its yards, and hurry in its streets. Recruits, recently enlisted, flocked into it from all quarters, while on its jetties were frequently landed the sad fruits of war in the form of wounded men.

"Have you ever been in Portsmouth before?" asked the shabby-genteel man, on reaching a part of the town which was more open and less crowded.

"Never. I had no idea it was so large and bustling," said Miles.

"The crowding and bustling is largely increased just now, of course, in consequence of the war in Egypt," returned the man. "Troops are constantly embarking, and others returning. It is a noble service! Men start in thousands from this port young, hearty, healthy, and full of spirit; they return -- those of them who return at all -- sickly, broken-down, and with no spirit at all except what they soon get poured into them by the publicans. Yes; commend me to the service of my Queen and country!"

There was a sneering tone in the man's voice which fired his companion's easily roused indignation.

"Mind what you say about our Queen while in my company," said Miles sternly, stopping short and looking the man full in the face. "I am a loyal subject, and will listen to nothing said in disparagement of the Queen or of her Majesty's forces."

"Bless you, sir," said the man quickly, "I'm a loyal subject myself, and wouldn't for the world say a word against her Majesty. No more would I disparage her troops; but, after all, the army ain't perfect, you know. Even you must admit that, sir. With all its noble qualities there's room for improvement."

There was such an air of sincerity -- or at least of assumed humility -- in the man's tone and manner that Miles felt it unjustifiable to retain his indignation. At the same time, he could not all at once repress it, and was hesitating whether to fling off from the man or to forgive him, when the sound of many voices, and of feet tramping in regular time, struck his ear and diverted his attention. Next moment the head of a regiment, accompanied by a crowd of juvenile admirers, swept round the corner of the street. At the same instant a forest of bayonets gleamed upon the youth's vision, and a brass band burst with crashing grandeur upon his ear, sending a quiver of enthusiasm into the deepest recesses of his soul, and stirring the very marrow in his bones!

Miles stood entranced until the regiment had passed, and the martial strains were softened by distance; then he looked up and perceived that his shabby companion was regarding him with a peculiar smile.

"I think you've a notion of being a soldier," he said, with a smile.

"Where is that regiment going?" asked Miles, instead of answering the question.

"To barracks at present; to Egypt in a few days. There'll be more followin' it before long."

It was a distracting as well as an exciting walk that Miles had through the town, for at every turn he passed couples or groups of soldiers, or sailors, or marines, and innumerable questions sprang into and jostled each other in his mind, while, at the same moment, his thoughts and feelings were busy with his present circumstances and future prospects. The distraction was increased by the remarks and comments of his guide, and he would fain have got rid of him; but good-feeling, as well as common-sense, forbade his casting him off without sufficient reason.

Presently he stopped, without very well knowing why, in front of a large imposing edifice. Looking up, he observed the words SOLDIERS' INSTITUTE in large letters on the front of it.

"What sort of an Institute is that?" he asked.

"Oh! it's a miserable affair, where soldiers are taken in cheap, as they say, an' done for," returned the shabby man hurriedly, as if the subject were distasteful to him. "Come along with me and I'll show you places where soldiers -- ay, and civilians too -- can enjoy themselves like gentlemen, an' get value for their money."

As he spoke, two fine-looking men issued from a small street close to them, and crossed the road -- one a soldier of the line, the other a marine.

"Here it is, Jack," exclaimed the soldier to his friend; "Miss Sarah Robinson's Institoot, that you've heard so much about. Come an' I'll show you where you can write your letter in peace -- "

Thus much was overheard by Miles as they turned into a side-street, and entered what was obviously one of the poorer districts of the town.

"Evidently that soldier's opinion does not agree with yours," remarked Miles, as they walked along.

"More's the pity!" returned the shabby man, whose name he had informed his companion was Sloper. "Now we are getting among places, you see, where there's a good deal of drinking going on."

"I scarcely require to be told that," returned Miles, curtly; for he was beginning to feel his original dislike to Mister Sloper intensified.

It did not indeed require any better instructor than eyes and ears to inform our hero that the grog-shops around him were full, and that a large proportion of the shouting and swearing revellers inside were soldiers and seamen.

By this time it was growing dark, and most of the gin-palaces were beginning to send forth that glare of intense and warm light with which they so knowingly attract the human moths that constitute their prey.

"Here we are," said Sloper, stopping in front of a public-house in a narrow street. "This is one o' the respectable lodgin's. Most o' the others are disreputable. It's not much of a neighbourhood, I admit."

"It certainly is not very attractive," said Miles, hesitating.

"You said you wanted a cheap one," returned Sloper, "and you can't expect to have it cheap and fashionable, you know. You've no occasion to be afraid. Come in."

The arguments of Mr Sloper might have failed to move Miles, but the idea of his being afraid to go anywhere was too much for him.

"Go in, then," he said, firmly, and followed.

The room into which he was ushered was a moderately large public-house, with a bar and a number of tables round the room, at which many men and a few women were seated; some gambling, others singing or disputing, and all drinking and smoking. It is only right to say that Miles was shocked. Hitherto he had lived a quiet and comparatively innocent country life. He knew of such places chiefly from books or hearsay, or had gathered merely the superficial knowledge that comes through the opening of a swing-door. For the first time in his life he stood inside a low drinking-shop, breathing its polluted atmosphere and listening to its foul language. His first impulse was to retreat, but false shame, the knowledge that he had no friend in Portsmouth, or place to go to, that the state of his purse forbade his indulging in more suitable accommodation, and a certain pride of character which made him always determine to carry out what he had resolved to do -- all these considerations and facts combined to prevent his acting on the better impulse. He doggedly followed his guide to a small round table and sat down.

Prudence, however, began to operate within him. He felt that he had done wrong; but it was too late now, he thought, to retrace his steps. He would, however, be on his guard; would not encourage the slightest familiarity on the part of any one, and would keep his eyes open. For a youth who had seen nothing of the world this was a highly commendable resolve.

"What'll you drink?" asked Mr Sloper.

Miles was on the point of saying "Coffee," but, reflecting that the beverage might not be readily obtainable in such a place, he substituted "Beer."

Instead of calling the waiter, Mr Sloper went himself to the bar to fetch the liquor. While he was thus engaged, Miles glanced round the room, and was particularly struck with the appearance of a large, fine-looking sailor who sat at the small table next to him, with hands thrust deep into his trousers-pockets, his chin resting on his broad chest, and a solemn, owlish stare in his semi-drunken yet manly countenance. He sat alone, and was obviously in a very sulky frame of mind -- a condition which he occasionally indicated through a growl of dissatisfaction.

As Miles sat wondering what could have upset the temper of a tar whose visage was marked by the unmistakable lines and dimples of good-humour, he overheard part of the conversation that passed between the barman and Mr Sloper.

"What! have they got hold o' Rattling Bill?" asked the former, as he drew the beer.

"Ay, worse luck," returned Sloper. "I saw the sergeant as I came along lead him over to Miss Robinson's trap -- confound her!"

"Don't you go fur to say anything agin Miss Robinson, old man," suddenly growled the big sailor, in a voice so deep and strong that it silenced for a moment the rest of the company. "Leastways, you may if you like, but if you do, I'll knock in your daylights, an' polish up your figur'-head so as your own mother would mistake you fur a battered saucepan!"

The seaman did not move from his semi-recumbent position as he uttered this alarming threat, but he accompanied it with a portentous frown and an owlish wink of both eyes.

"What! have you joined the Blue Lights?" asked Sloper, with a smile, referring to the name by which the religious and temperance men of the army were known.

"No, I ha'n't. Better for me, p'r'aps, if I had. Here, waiter, fetch me another gin-an'-warer. An' more o' the gin than the warer, mind. Heave ahead or I'll sink you!"

Having been supplied with a fresh dose of gin and water, the seaman appeared to go to sleep, and Miles, for want of anything better to do, accepted Sloper's invitation to play a game of dominoes.

"Are the beds here pretty good?" he asked, as they were about to begin.

"Yes, first-rate -- for the money," answered Sloper.

"That's a lie!" growled the big sailor. "They're bad at any price --  stuffed wi' cocoa-nuts and marline-spikes."

Mr Sloper received this observation with the smiling urbanity of a man who eschews war at all costs.

"You don't drink," he said after a time, referring to Miles's pot of beer, which he had not yet touched.

Miles made no reply, but by way of answer took up the pot and put it to his lips.

He had not drunk much of it when the big seaman rose hurriedly and staggered between the two tables. In doing so, he accidentally knocked the pot out of the youth's hand, and sent the contents into Mr Sloper's face and down into his bosom, to the immense amusement of the company.

That man of peace accepted the baptism meekly, but Miles sprang up in sudden anger.

The seaman turned to him, however, with a benignantly apologetic smile.

"Hallo! messmate. I ax your parding. They don't leave room even for a scarecrow to go about in this here cabin. I'll stand you another glass. Give us your flipper!"

There was no resisting this, it was said so heartily. Miles grasped the huge hand that was extended and shook it warmly.

"All right," he said, laughing. "I don't mind the beer, and there's plenty more where that came from, but I fear you have done some damage to my fr -- "

"Your friend. Out with it, sir. Never be ashamed to acknowledge your friends," exclaimed the shabby man, as he wiped his face. "Hold on a bit," he added, rising; "I'll have to change my shirt. Won't keep you waitin' long."

"Another pot o' beer for this 'ere gen'lem'n," said the sailor to the barman as Sloper left the room.

Paying for the drink, he returned and put the pot on the table. Then, turning to Miles, he said in a low voice and with an intelligent look -- 

"Come outside for a bit, messmate. I wants to speak to 'ee."

Miles rose and followed the man in much surprise.

"You'll excuse me, sir," he said, when a few yards away from the door; "but I see that you're green, an' don't know what a rascally place you've got into. I've been fleeced there myself, and yet I'm fool enough to go back! Most o' the parties there -- except the sailors an' sodgers -- are thieves an' blackguards. They've drugged your beer, I know; that's why I capsized it for you, and the feller that has got hold o' you is a well-known decoy-duck. I don't know how much of the ready you may have about you, but this I does know, whether it be much or little, you wouldn't have a rap of it in the mornin' if you stayed the night in this here house."

"Are you sure of this, friend?" asked Miles, eyeing his companion doubtfully.

"Ay, as sure as I am that my name's Jack Molloy."

"But you've been shamming drunk all this time. How am I to know that you are not shamming friendship now?"

"No, young man," returned the seaman with blinking solemnity. "I'm not shammin' drunk. I on'y wish I was, for I'm three sheets in the wind at this minute, an' I've a splittin' headache due i' the mornin'. The way as you've got to find out whether I'm fair an' above-board is to look me straight in the face an' don't wink. If that don't settle the question, p'r'aps it'll convince you w'en I tells you that I don't care a rap whether you go back to that there grog-shop or not. Only I'll clear my conscience -- leastways, wot's left of it -- by tellin' ye that if you do --  you -- you'll wish as how you hadn't -- supposin' they leave you the power to wish anything at all."

"Well, I believe you are a true man, Mister Molloy -- "

"Don't Mister me, mate," interrupted the seaman.

"My name's Jack Molloy, at your service, an' that name don't require no handle -- either Mister or Esquire -- to prop it up."

The way in which the sailor squared his broad shoulders when he said this rendered it necessary to prop himself up. Seeing which, Miles afforded the needful aid by taking his arm in a friendly way.

"But come, let us go back," he said. "I must pay for my beer, you know."

"Your beer is paid for, young man," said Molloy, stopping and refusing to move. "I paid for it, so you've on'y got to settle with me. Besides, if you go back you're done for. And you've no call to go back to say farewell to your dear friend Sloper, for he'll on'y grieve over the loss of your tin. As to the unpurliteness o' the partin' -- he won't break his heart over that. No -- you'll come wi' me down to the Sailors' Welcome near the dock-gates, where you can get a good bed for sixpence a night, a heavy blow-out for tenpence, with a splendid readin'-room, full o' rockin' chairs, an' all the rest of it for nothin'. An there's a lavatory -- that's the name that they give to a place for cleanin' of yourself up -- a lavatory -- where you can wash yourself, if you like, till your skin comes off! W'en I first putt up at the Welcome, the messmate as took me there said to me, says he, 'Jack,' says he, 'you was always fond o' water.' 'Right you are,' says I. 'Well,' says he, 'there's a place in the Sailors' Welcome where you can wash yourself all day, if you like, for nothing!'

"I do b'lieve it was that as indooced me to give in. I went an' saw this lavatory, an' I was so took up with it that I washed my hands in every bason in the place -- one arter the other -- an' used up ever so much soap, an' -- would you believe it? -- my hands wasn't clean after all! Yes, it's one the wery best things in Portsm'uth, is Miss Robinson's Welcome -- "

"Miss Robinson again!" exclaimed Miles.

"Ay -- wot have you got to find fault wi' Miss Robinson?" demanded the sailor sternly.

"No fault to find at all," replied Miles, suffering himself to be hurried away by his new friend; "but wherever I have gone since arriving in Portsmouth her name has cropped up!"

"In Portsmouth!" echoed the sailor. "Let me tell you, young man, that wherever you go all over the world, if there's a British soldier there, Miss Sarah Robinson's name will be sure to crop up. Why, don't you know that she's 'The Soldiers' Friend'?"

"I'm afraid I must confess to ignorance on the point -- yet, stay, now you couple her name with 'The Soldier's Friend,' I have got a faint remembrance of having heard it before. Have I not heard of a Miss Weston, too, in connection with a work of some sort among sailors?"

"Ay, no doubt ye have. She has a grand Institoot in Portsm'uth too, but she goes in for sailors only -- all over the kingdom -- w'ereas Miss Robinson goes in for soldiers an' sailors both, though mainly for the soldiers. She set agoin' the Sailors' Welcome before Miss Weston began in Portsm'uth, an' so she keeps it up, but there ain't no opposition or rivalry. Their aims is pretty much alike, an' so they keep stroke together wi' the oars. But I'll tell you more about that when you get inside. Here we are! There's the dock-gates, you see, and that's Queen Street, an' the Welcome's close at hand. It's a teetotal house, you know. All Miss Robinson's Institoots is that."

"Indeed! How comes it, then, that a man -- excuse me -- 'three sheets in the wind,' can gain admittance?"

"Oh! as to that, any sailor or soldier may get admittance, even if he's as drunk as a fiddler, if he on'y behaves his-self. But they won't supply drink on the premises, or allow it to be brought in -- 'cept inside o' you, of coorse. Cause why? you can't help that -- leastwise not without the help of a stomach-pump. Plenty o' men who ain't abstainers go to sleep every night at the Welcome, 'cause they find the beds and other things so comfortable. In fact, some hard topers have been indooced to take the pledge in consekince o' what they've heard an' seen in this Welcome, though they came at first only for the readin'-room an' beds. Here, let me look at you under this here lamp. Yes. You'll do. You're something like a sea-dog already. You won't object to change hats wi' me?"

"Why?" asked Miles, somewhat amused.

"Never you mind that, mate. You just putt yourself under my orders if you'd sail comfortably before the wind. I'll arrange matters, an' you can square up in the morning."

As Miles saw no particular reason for objecting to this fancy of his eccentric friend, he exchanged his soft cap for the sailor's straw hat, and they entered the Welcome together.



Chapter Three.

The "Sailors' Welcome" -- Miles Has A Night Of It And Enlists -- His Friend Armstrong Has An Agreeable Surprise At The Soldiers' Institute.

It was not long before our hero discovered the reason of Jack Molloy's solicitude about his appearance. It was that he, Miles, should pass for a sailor, and thus be in a position to claim the hospitality of the Sailors' Welcome, -- to the inner life of which, civilians were not admitted, though they were privileged, with the public in general, to the use of the outer refreshment-room.

"Come here, Jack Molloy," he said, leading his friend aside, when he made this discovery. "You pride yourself on being a true-blue British tar, don't you?"

"I does," said Jack, with a profound solemnity of decision that comported well with his character and condition.

"And you would scorn to serve under the French flag, or the Turkish flag, or the Black flag, or any flag but the Union Jack, wouldn't you?"

"Right you are, mate; them's my sentiments to a tee!"

"Well, then, you can't expect me to sail under false colours any more than yourself," continued Miles. "I scorn to sail into this port under your straw hat, so I'll strike these colours, bid you good-bye, and make sail for another port where a civilian will be welcome."

Molloy frowned at the floor for some moments in stern perplexity.

"You've took the wind out o' my sails entirely, you have," he replied at last; "an' you're right, young man, but I'm troubled about you. If you don't run into this here port you'll have to beat about in the offing all night, or cast anchor in the streets, for I don't know of another lodgin' in Portsm'uth w'ere you could hang out except them disrepitible grog-shops. In coorse, there's the big hotels; but I heerd you say to Sloper that you was bound to do things cheap, bein' hard up."

"Never mind, my friend," said Miles quickly. "I will manage somehow; so good-night, and many thanks to you for the interest you have taken in -- "

"Avast, mate! there's no call to go into action in sitch a hurry. This here Sailors' Welcome opens the doors of its bar an' refreshment-room, an' spreads its purvisions before all an' sundry as can afford to pay its moderate demands. It's on'y the after-cabin you're not free to. So you'll have a bit supper wi' me before you set sail on your night cruise."

Being by that time rather hungry as well as fatigued, Miles agreed to remain for supper. While they were engaged with it, he was greatly impressed with the number of sailors and marines who passed into the reading-room beyond the bar, or who sat down at the numerous tables around to have a hearty supper, which they washed down with tea and coffee instead of beer or gin -- apparently with tremendous appetite and much satisfaction.

"Look ye here," said Jack Molloy, rising when their "feed" was about concluded, "I've no doubt they won't object to your taking a squint at the readin'-room, though they won't let you use it." Following his companion, Miles passed by a glass double door into an enormous well-lighted, warm room, seventy feet long, and of proportionate width and height, in which a goodly number of men of the sea were busy as bees -- some of them reading books or turning over illustrated papers and magazines, others smoking their pipes, and enjoying themselves in rocking-chairs in front of the glowing fire, chatting, laughing, and yarning as free-and-easily as if in their native fo'c's'ls, while a few were examining the pictures on the walls, or the large models of ships which stood at one side of the room. At the upper end a full-sized billiard-table afforded amusement to several players, and profound interest to a number of spectators, who passed their comments on the play with that off-hand freedom which seems to be a product of fresh gales and salt-water. A door standing partly open at the upper end of this apartment revealed a large hall, from which issued faintly the sound of soft music.

"Ain't it snug? and there's no gamblin' agoin' on there," remarked Molloy, as they returned to their table; "that's not allowed -- nor drinkin', nor card-playin', but that's all they putt a stop to. She's a wise woman is Miss Robinson. She don't hamper us wi' no rules. Why, bless you, Jack ashore would never submit to rules! He gits more than enough o' them afloat. No; it's liberty hall here. We may come an' go as we like, at all hours o' the day and night, an' do exactly as we please, so long as we don't smash up the furnitur', or feed without payin', or make ourselves a gineral noosance. They don't even forbid swearin'. They say they leave the matter o' lingo to our own good taste and good sense. An' d'you know, it's wonderful what an' amount o' both we've got w'en we ain't worried about it! You'll scarce hear an oath in this house from mornin' to evenin', though you'll hear a deal o' snorin' doorin' the night! That's how the place takes so well, d'ee see?"

"Then the Welcome is well patronised, I suppose?"

"Patronised!" exclaimed the seaman; "that's so, an' no mistake. Why, mate -- But what's your name? I've forgot to ax you that all this time!"

"Call me Miles," said our hero, with some hesitation.

"Call you Miles! Ain't you Miles?"

"Well, yes, I am; only there's more of my name than that, but that's enough for your purpose, I daresay."

"All right. Well, Miles, you was askin' how the house is patronised. I'll tell 'ee. They make up about two hundred an' twenty beds in it altogether, an' these are chock-full a'most every night. One way or another they had forty-four thousand men, more or less, as slep' under this roof last year -- so I've bin told. That's patronisin', ain't it? To say nothin' o' the fellers as comes for -- grub, which, as you've found, is good for the money, and the attendants is civil. You see, they're always kind an' attentive here, 'cause they professes to think more of our souls than our bodies -- which we've no objection to, d'ee see, for the lookin' arter our souls includes the lookin' arter our bodies! An' they don't bother us in no way to attend their Bible-readin's an' sitchlike. There they are in separate rooms; if you want 'em you may go; if you don't, you can let 'em alone. No compulsion, which comes quite handy to some on us, for I don't myself care much about sitchlike things. So long's my body's all right, I leaves my soul to look arter itself."

As the seaman said this with a good-natured smile of indifference, there sprang to the mind of his young companion words that had often been impressed on him by his mother: "What shall it profit a man if he should gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" but he made no reference to this at the time.

"Hows'ever," continued Molloy, "as they don't worrit us about religion, except to give us a good word an' a blessin' now an' again, and may-hap a little book to read, we all patronises the house; an it's my opinion, if it was twice as big as it is, we'd fill it chock-full. I would board as well as sleep in it myself -- for it's full o' conveniences, sitch as lockers to putt our things in, an' baths, and what not, besides all the other things I've mentioned -- but the want o' drink staggers me. I can't git along without a drop o' drink."

Miles thought that his nautical friend appeared to be unable to get along without a good many drops of drink, but he was too polite to say so.

"Man alive!" continued Jack Molloy, striking his huge fist on his thigh with emphasis; "it's a wonderful place is this Welcome! An' it's a lively place too. Why, a fellow hanged his-self in one o' the bunks overhead not long ago."

"You don't mean that?" exclaimed Miles, rather shocked.

"In course I does. But they heard 'im gaspin', an cut him down in time to save him. It was drink they say as made him do it, and they got him to sign the pledge arterwards. I believe he's kep' it too. Leastwise I know many a hard drinker as have bin indooced to give it up and stuck to it -- all through comin' here to have a snooze in a comfortable hunk. They give the bunks names -- cubicles they calls 'em in the lump. Separately, there's the 'Commodore Goodenough Cot,' an' the 'Little Nellie Cot,' an' the 'Sunshine Cot' -- so called 'cause it hain't got a port-hole to let in the daylight at all; and the 'Billy Rough 'un' -- "

"The what?"

"'The Billy Rough 'un' -- arter the ship o' that name, you know -- "

"Oh! you mean the Bellerophon."

"Well, young man, an' didn't I say the 'Billy Rough 'un'? Then there's the -- But what's your hurry?" said the seaman, as Miles rose.

"It's getting late now, friend. If I'm to find another lodging I must be off. Doubtless, I'll find some respectable house to take me in for the night." Miles suppressed a yawn as he put on his cap.

"I don't believe you will," returned Molloy, also rising, and giving full vent to a sympathetic and vociferous yawn. "Hows'ever, w'en a young feller insists on havin' his way, it's best to give him plenty of cable and let him swing. He's sure to find out his mistake by experience. But look ye here, Miles, I've took a fancy to you, an' I'd be sorry to think you was in difficulties. If," he continued, thrusting a hand into his breeches-pocket, and bringing up therefrom a mass of mixed gold, silver, and copper -- "if you don't objec' to accep' of a loan of -- "

"Thank you -- no, my friend. It is very kind of you," said Miles quickly; "but I have quite enough for present necessities. So good-night."

"All right," returned the sailor, thrusting the money back into his pocket. "But if you should ever want a jaw with Jack Molloy while you're in this here port you've only got to hail him at the Sailors' Welcome, an' if he should happen to be out, they always can tell you where he's cruisin'. Good-night, an' luck go wi' ye!"

Another tremendous yawn finished the speech, and next moment Miles found himself in the street, oppressed with a strange and miserable sensation which he had never before experienced. Indeed, he had to lean against the house for a few minutes after coming out into the fresh air, and felt as if the power of connected thought was leaving him.

He was aroused from this condition by the flashing of a light in his eyes. Opening them wide, he beheld a policeman looking at him earnestly.

"Now, then, young fellow," said the guardian of the night; "d'you think you can take care of yourself?"

"Oh! yes, quite well. It's only a giddy feeling that came over me. I'm all right," said Miles, rousing himself and passing on.

He staggered slightly, however, and a short "Humph!" from the policeman showed that he believed the youth to be something more than giddy.

Ashamed to be even unjustly supposed to be intoxicated, Miles hurried away, wondering very much what could be the matter with him, for he had not tasted a drop of strong drink, except the half-glass of beer he had swallowed before Molloy chanced to knock it out of his hand. Suddenly he remembered that the sailor had said the beer was drugged. If he could have asked the barman who had served him, that worthy could have told him that this was true; that the whole glassful, if swallowed, would, ere long, have rendered him insensible, and that what he had already taken was enough to do him considerable damage.

As he walked onward, he became rapidly worse; the people and the streets seemed to swim before him; an intense desire to sleep overpowered every other feeling, and at last, turning into a dark entry, he lay down and pillowed his head on a door-step. Here he was found by a policeman; a stretcher was fetched, and he was conveyed to the station as "drunk and incapable!"

When brought before the Inspector the following morning, shame and reckless despair were the tenants of his breast. Those tenants were not expelled, but rather confirmed in possession, when the Inspector -- after numerous questions, to which Miles returned vague unsatisfactory replies -- adopted the role of the faithful friend, and gave him a great deal of paternal advice, especially with reference to the avoidance of strong drink and bad companions.

Miles had the wisdom, however, to conceal his feelings, and to take the reproof and advice in good part. Afterwards, on being set free, he met a recruiting sergeant, who, regarding him as a suitable subject for the service of her Majesty, immediately laid siege to him. In his then state of mind the siege was an easy one. In short, he capitulated at once and entered the Queen's service, under the name of John Miles.

We need scarcely say that his heart misgave him, that his conscience condemned him, and that, do what he would, he could not shut out the fact that his taking so hasty and irrevocable a step was a poor return for all the care and anxiety of his parents in years gone by. But, as we have said, or hinted, Miles was one of those youths who, when they have once made up their minds to a certain course of action, fancy that they are bound to pursue it to the end. Hence it was that he gave his name as John Miles instead of Miles Milton, so that he might baffle any inquiries as to what had become of him.

Once enlisted, he soon began to realise the fact that he was no longer a free agent -- at least not in the sense in which he had been so up to that period of his life. Constant drill was the order of the day for some weeks; for there was a demand for more troops for Egypt at the time, and regiments were being made up to their full strength as fast as possible.

During this period Miles saw little of his companions in arms personally, save that group of recruits who were being "licked into shape" along with him. At first he was disappointed with these, for most of them were shy, unlettered men; some, raw lads from the country; and others, men who seemed to have been loafers before joining, and were by no means attractive.

The drill-sergeant, however, was a good, though stern man, and soon recognised the differences in character, aptitude, and willingness among his raw recruits. This man, whose name was Hardy, made a powerful impression on our hero from the first; there was something so quiet and even gentle about him, in spite of his firm and inflexible demands in regard to the matters of drill and duty. To please this man, Miles gave himself heart and soul to his work, and was soon so efficient as to be allowed to join the regiment.

And here he found, to his surprise and satisfaction, that the sergeant and young soldier with whom he had travelled to Portsmouth, were members of the company to which he was attached. As we have said, Miles had taken a great fancy at first sight to the young private, whose name was William Armstrong. Our hero was of an affectionate disposition, and would have allowed his warm feelings to expend themselves on a dog rather than have denied them free play. No wonder, then, that he was attracted by the handsome manly countenance and deferential manner of Armstrong, who, although an uneducated youth, and reared in the lower ranks of life, was gifted with those qualities of the true gentleman which mere social position can neither bestow nor take away. His intellect also was of that active and vigorous fibre which cannot be entirely repressed by the want of scholastic training.

The affection was mutual, for the contrasts and similarities of the two men were alike calculated to draw them together. Both were tall, broad, square-shouldered, erect, and soldierly, yet, withal, modest as well in demeanour as in feeling, and so exactly like to each other in size and figure, and in the quiet gravity of their expressions, that they might well have been taken for twin brothers. When, in uniform, the two strode along the streets of Portsmouth, people were apt to turn and look at them, and think, no doubt, that with many such men in the British army it would go hard with the foes of Old England!

The bond of union was still further strengthened by the fact that, while the comparatively learned Miles was enthusiastic and communicative, the unlettered Armstrong was inquisitive and receptive, fond of prying into the nature of things, and always ready as well as competent to discuss --  not merely to argue. Observe the distinction, good reader. Discussion means the shaking of any subject into its component parts with a desire to understand it. Argument has come very much to signify the enravelment of any subject with a view to the confusion and conquest of an opponent. Both young men abhorred the latter and liked the former. Hence much of their harmony and friendship.

"Will you come with me up town?" said Armstrong to Miles one day, as he was about to quit the barrack-room. "I'm going to see if there's any news of my Emmy."

"I did not know you expected her," said Miles. "Come along, I'm ready."

"I don't expect her yet," returned Armstrong, as they left the barracks; "I only look for a letter, because it was on Wednesday that I wrote telling her of my going to Egypt, and she can scarce have had time to get ready to come down, poor girl! In fact I am going to engage a room for her. By the way, I heard this morning that there's to be another draft for Egypt, so you'll have a chance to go."

"I'm rejoiced to hear it," returned Miles; "for, to say the truth, I had been growing envious of your good fortune in being ordered on active service."

"Hooroo, Armstrong, where away now?" cried an unmistakably Irish voice, as a smart little soldier crossed the street to them, and was introduced to Miles as Corporal Flynn, belonging to another company in his own regiment.

"My blissin' on ye, Miles. John, is it?"

"Yes, John," replied our hero, much amused at the free-and-easy address of the little corporal.

"Well, John Miles," he said, "I don't know whether ye'll laugh or cry whin I tell ye that you'll likely be warned this evenin' for the draft that's goin' to Aigypt."

"I certainly won't cry," returned Miles, with a laugh. Yet the news brought a sudden feeling into his breast which was strongly allied to the opposite of laughter, for the thought of parting from father and mother without bidding them farewell fell upon his spirit with crushing weight; but, like too many men who know they are about to do wrong, Miles hardened his heart with the delusive argument that, having fairly taken the step, it was impossible for him now to retrace it. He knew --  at least he thought -- that there was still the possibility of being bought off, and that his stern father would only be too glad to help him. He also knew that at least he had time to write and let them know his circumstances, so that they might run down to Portsmouth and bid him good-bye; but he had taken the bit in his teeth, and now he resolved to abide the consequences.

Turning from his companions while they conversed, he looked into a shop-window.

"Your chum's in the blues," said the lively corporal, in a lower voice.

"Young fellows are often in that state after joining, ain't they?" returned Armstrong.

"True for ye -- an' more shame to them, whin they ought to be as proud as paycocks at wearin' her gracious Majesty's uniform. But good luck to 'ee! I must be off, for I'm bound for Aigypt mesilf."

"I am glad that I shall have the chance of seeing your wife, for I've been much interested in her since your friend Sergeant Gilroy told me about her," said Miles, as they resumed their walk. "Surely it is hard of them to refuse to let her go with the regiment."

"Well, it is hard," returned the young soldier; "but after all I cannot find fault with the powers that be, for I married with my eyes open. I knew the rule that those who marry without leave must leave their wives at home, for only a certain number of families can go abroad with a regiment -- and that only in peace-time."

"It might have been well," continued Armstrong, slowly, while a sad expression clouded his face for a few moments, "if I had waited, and many a time has my conscience smitten me for my haste. But what could I do? Emmy most unaccountably fell in love wi' me -- thank God! for I do think that the greatest earthly blessing that can be given to mortal man is the love of a gentle, true-hearted girl. The wealth of the Indies cannot purchase that, and nothing else in life can supply the want of it. Can you wonder that I grasped the treasure when within my reach?"

"I certainly cannot; and as certainly I do not blame you," returned the sympathetic Miles.

"Of course I fell in love with Emmy," continued the soldier, with a slightly confused look. "I could no more help that than I could help growing up. Could I?"

"Certainly not," said Miles.

"Well, you see," continued his friend, "as the affair was arranged in heaven, according to general belief, what was I that I should resist? You see, Emmy's father, who's a well-to-do farmer, was willing, and we never gave a thought to Egypt or the war at the time. She will be well looked after while I'm away, and I'll send her every penny of my pay that I can spare, but -- "

He stopped abruptly, and Miles, respecting his feelings, remarked, by way of changing the subject, that, the pay of a private soldier being so small, very little could be saved out of that.

"Not much," assented his comrade; "but, little as it is, we can increase it in various ways. For one thing, I have given up smoking. That will save a little; though, to say truth, I have never expended much on baccy. Then I have joined Miss Robinson's Temperance Band -- "

"Strange how often that lady's name has been in my ears since I came to Portsmouth!" said Miles.

"Not so strange after all," returned Armstrong, "when one reflects that she has been the means of almost changing the character of the town within the last few years -- as far at least as concerns the condition of soldiers, as well as many of the poorer classes among its inhabitants --  so Sergeant Gilroy tells me."

As some of the information given by Sergeant Gilroy to the young soldier may be interesting to many readers, we quote a few of his own words.

"Why, some years ago," he said, "the soldiers' wives, mothers, and sisters who came down here to see the poor fellows set sail for foreign parts, found it almost impossible to obtain lodgings, except in drinking-houses which no respectable woman could enter. Some poor women even preferred to spend a winter night under railway arches, or some such shelter, rather than enter these places. And soldiers out of barracks had nowhere else to go to for amusement, while sailors on leave had to spend their nights in them or walk the streets. Now all that is changed. The Soldiers' Institute supplies 140 beds, and furnishes board and lodging to our sisters and wives at the lowest possible rates, besides reception-rooms where we can meet our friends; a splendid reading-room, where we find newspapers and magazines, and can write our letters, if we like, in peace and quiet; a bar where tea and coffee, bread and butter, buns, etcetera, can be had at all reasonable hours for a mere trifle; a coffee and smoking room, opening out of which are two billiard-rooms, and beyond these a garden, where we can get on the flat roof of a house and watch the arrival and departure of shipping. There is a small charge to billiard-players, which pays all expenses of the tables, so that not a penny of the Institute funds is spent on the games. Of course no gambling is allowed in any of Miss Robinson's Institutes. Then there are Bible-class rooms, and women's work-rooms, and a lending library, and bathrooms, and a great hall, big enough to hold a thousand people, where there are held temperance meetings, lectures with dissolving views, entertainments, and 'tea-fights,' and Sunday services. No wonder that, with such an agency at work for the glory of God and the good of men, Portsmouth is almost a new place. Indeed, although Miss Robinson met with powerful opposition at first from the powers that be, her Institute is now heartily recognised and encouraged in every way at the Horse Guards. Indeed, it has recently been visited by the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Cambridge, and highly approved of by these and other grandees."

While the two soldiers were chatting about the past and present of the Institute they arrived at its door.

"Here we are. Come into the reception-room, Miles, while I make inquiry about my letters."

They entered the house as he spoke. The reception-room is on the right of the passage. Armstrong opened the door and looked in, but, instead of advancing, he stood transfixed, gazing before him open-mouthed as though he had seen a spectre, for there, in front of the fire, sat a beautiful, refined-looking girl, with golden hair and blue eyes, gazing pensively at the flickering flames.

Miles was not kept long in suspense as to who she was.

"Emmy!"

"Oh, Willie!"

These were exclamations which would have revealed all in a moment, even though Emmy had not sprung up and rushed into Willie's open arms. How she ever emerged from the embrace of those arms with unbroken bones is a mystery which cannot be solved, but she did emerge in safety, and with some confusion on observing that Miles had witnessed the incident with admiring gaze!

"Never mind him, Emmy," said the young soldier, laughing; "he's a good friend, a comrade. Shake hands with him."

The action, and the ease of manner with which Emmy obeyed, proved that grace and small hands are not altogether dependent on rank or station.

"Excuse me," said Miles, after a few words of salutation; "I'll go and have a look at the library."

So saying he quitted the room, leaving the young couple alone; for there chanced to be no other visitors to the reception-room at the time. In the lobby he found several soldiers and a couple of sailors enjoying coffee at the bar, and was about to join them when a man came forward whose dress was that of a civilian, though his bearing proclaimed him a soldier.

"Hallo, Brown," exclaimed one of the soldiers, "d'ye know that a troop-ship has just come in!"

"Know it? of course I do; you may trust the people of this house to be first in hearing such news."

"Mr Tufnell told me of it. I'm just going down to the jetty to boil the kettle for them."

As he spoke, two ladies of the Institute descended the broad staircase, each with a basket on her arm.

They entered into conversation for a few minutes with the soldiers at the bar, and it was abundantly evident to Miles, from the kindly tone of the former and the respectful air of the latter, that they were familiar acquaintances, and on the best of terms.

"Are you all ready, Brown?" asked one of the ladies of the soldier-like civilian, whom we have already mentioned.

"All ready, Miss; a man has already gone to order the bread and butter and light the fire. I hear the vessel is crowded, so we may expect a full house to-night."

Miles pricked up his ears on hearing this, and when Brown went out, leaving the two ladies to finish their conversation with the soldiers, he followed him.

"Pardon me," he said, on overtaking the man. "Did I understand correctly that a troop-ship has just arrived?"

"Right," said Brown. "I am just going down to the embarkation jetty to get coffee ready for the men. You seem to have joined but a short time, apparently, for though I am familiar with your uniform I have not seen yourself before."

"True, it is not long since I joined, and this is my first visit to the Institute."

"I hope it won't be the last, friend," returned Brown heartily. "Every soldier is welcome there, and, for the matter of that, so is every sailor and marine."

"I have heard as much. May I accompany you to this jetty to see the troops arrive, and this coffee business that you speak of?"

"You may, and welcome," said Brown, leading his companion through the town in the direction of the docks, and chatting, as they walked along, about the army and navy; about his own experiences in the former; and about the condition of soldiers at the present time as contrasted with that of the days gone by.



Chapter Four.

The Embarkation Jetty -- And Nipped In The Bud.

Bronzed faces under white helmets crowded the ports and bulwarks of the great white leviathan of the deep -- the troop-ship Orontes -- as she steamed slowly and cautiously up to the embarkation jetty in Portsmouth harbour.

On the jetty itself a few anxious wives, mothers, and sisters stood eagerly scanning the sea of faces, in the almost hopeless endeavour to distinguish those for which they sought. Yet ever and anon an exclamation on the jetty, and an answering wave of an arm on the troop-ship, told that some at least of the anxious ones had been successful in the search.

"Don't they look weather-beaten?" remarked Miles to his companion.

"Sure it's more like sun-dried they are," answered a voice at his side. Brown had gone to the shed to prepare his coffee and bread against the landing of the troops, and a stout Irishwoman had taken his place. Close to her stood the two ladies from the Institute with baskets on their arms.

"You are right," returned Miles, with a smile; "they look like men who have seen service. Is your husband among them?"

"Faix, I'd be sorprised if he was," returned the woman; "for I left him in owld Ireland, in the only landed property he iver held in this world -- six futt by two, an' five deep. He's been in possession six years now, an' it wouldn't be aisy to drive him out o' that, anyhow. No, it's my son Terence I've come to look afther. Och! there he is! Look, look, that's him close by the funnel! Don't ye see 'im? Blissins on his good-lookin' face! Hooroo! Terence -- Terence Flynn, don't ye recognise yer owld mother? Sure an' he does, though we haven't met for tin year. My! hasn't he got the hair on his lips too -- an' his cheeks are like shoe-leather -- my darlint!"

As the enthusiastic mother spoke in the tones of a public orator, there was a general laugh among those who were nearest to her; but she was forgotten immediately, for all were too deeply intent on their own interests to pay much regard to each other just then.

The great vessel was slow in getting alongside and making fast to the jetty -- slow at least in the estimation of the impatient -- for although she might leap and career grandly in wanton playfulness while on her native billows, in port a careless touch from her ponderous sides would have crushed part of the jetty into fragments. Miles therefore had ample time to look about him at the various groups around.

One young woman specially attracted his attention, for she stood apart from every one, and seemed scarcely able to stand because of weakness. She was young and good-looking. Her face, which was deadly pale, contrasted strongly with her glossy raven-black hair, and the character of her dress denoted extreme poverty.

The ladies from the Institute had also observed this poor girl, and one of them, going to her side, quietly addressed her. Miles, from the position in which he stood, could not avoid overhearing what was said.

"Yes, Miss, I expect my husband," said the woman in answer to a question. "He's coming home on sick-leave. I had a letter from him a good while ago saying he was coming home in the Orontes."

"I hope you will find that the sea air has done him good," said the lady, in that tone of unobtrusive sympathy which is so powerfully attractive, -- especially to those who are in trouble. "A sea voyage frequently has a wonderful effect in restoring invalids. What is his name?"

"Martin -- Fred Martin. He's a corporal now."

"You have not recognised him yet, I suppose?"

"Not yet, Miss," answered Mrs Martin, with an anxious look, and shivering slightly as she drew a thin worn shawl of many patches closer round her shoulders. "But he wouldn't expect me to meet him, you see, knowing that I'm so poor, and live far from Portsmouth. But I was so anxious, you see, Miss, that our kind Vicar gave me enough money to come down."

"Where did you spend the night?" asked the lady, quickly.

The poor woman hesitated, and at last said she had spent the night walking about the streets.

"You see, Miss," she explained apologetically, "I didn't know a soul in the town, and I couldn't a-bear to go into any o' the public-houses; besides, I had no money, for the journey down took nearly all of it."

"Oh, I am so sorry that you didn't know of our Institute," said the lady, with much sympathy in voice and look; "for we provide accommodation for soldiers' wives who come, like you, to meet their husbands returning from abroad, and we charge little, or even nothing, if they are too poor to pay."

"Indeed, Miss! I wish I had known of it. But in the morning I had the luck to meet a policeman who directed me to a coffee-tavern in a place called Nobbs Lane -- you'll not know it, Miss, for it's in a very poor part o' the town -- where I got a breakfast of as much hot pea-soup and bread as I could eat for three-ha'pence, an' had a good rest beside the fire too. They told me it was kept by a Miss Robinson. God bless her whoever she is! for I do believe I should have been dead by now if I hadn't got the rest and the breakfast."

The woman shivered again as she spoke, and drew the thin shawl still closer, for a sharp east wind was blowing over the jetty at the time.

"Come with me; you are cold. I know Nobbs Lane well. We have a shed and fire here on the jetty to shelter people while waiting. There, you need not fear to miss your husband, for the men won't land for a long time yet."

"May I follow you, madam?" said Miles, stepping forward and touching his cap in what he supposed to be the deferential manner of a private soldier. "I am interested in your work, and would like to see the shed you speak of."

The lady looked up quickly at the tall young soldier who thus addressed her.

"I saw you in the lobby of the Institute this morning, did I not?"

"You did, madam. I was waiting for a friend who is a frequenter of the Institute. One of your own people brought me down here to see the arrival of the Orontes, and the coffee-shed; but I have lost him in the crowd, and know not where the shed is."

"Here it is," returned the lady, pointing to an iron structure just behind them. "You will find Mr Brown there busy with the coffee, and that small shed beside it is the shelter-room. You are welcome to inspect all our buildings at any time."

So saying, the lady led Mrs Martin into the shed last referred to, and Miles followed her.

There was a small stove, in the solitary iron room of which the shed consisted, which diffused a genial warmth around. Several soldiers' wives and female relatives were seated beside it, engaged in quieting refractory infants, or fitting a few woollen garments on children of various ages. These garments had been brought from the Institute, chiefly for the purpose of supplying the wives and children returning from warmer climes to England; and one of them, a thick knitted shawl, was immediately presented to Mrs Martin as a gift, and placed round her shoulders by the lady's own hands.

"You are very kind, Miss," she said, an unbidden tear rolling down her cheek as she surveyed the garment and folded it over her breast.

"Have you any children?" asked the lady.

"None. We had one -- a dear baby boy," answered the young wife sadly, "born after his father left England. God took him home when he was two years old. His father never saw him; but we shall all meet again," she added, brightly, "in the better land."

"Ah! it makes me glad to hear you say that God took him home. Only the spirit of Jesus could make you regard heaven as the home where you are all to meet again. Now I would advise you to sit here and keep warm till I go and make inquiry about your husband. It is quite possible, you know, that he may be in the sick bay, and they won't let any one on board till the vessel is made fast. You are quite sure, I suppose, that it was the Orontes in which your husband said he was coming?"

"Yes, quite sure."

The lady had asked the question because a vague fear possessed her regarding the cause of the soldier's not having been seen looking eagerly over the side like the other men.

Hurrying from the shed, with her basket on her arm, she made for the gangway, which had just been placed in position. She was accompanied by her companion, also carrying her basket. Miles took the liberty of following them closely, but not obviously, for he formed only one of a stream of men and women who pushed on board the instant that permission was given.

While one of the ladies went in search of one of the chief officers, the other quietly and unobtrusively advanced among the returning warriors, and, opening her basket, drew therefrom and offered to each soldier an envelope containing one or two booklets and texts, and a hearty invitation to make free use of the Soldiers' Institute during their stay in Portsmouth.

A most bewildering scene was presented on the deck of that great white vessel. There were hundreds of soldiers in her, returning home after longer or shorter absences in China, India, the Cape, and other far-away parts of the earth. Some were stalwart and bronzed by the southern sun; others were gaunt, weak, and cadaverous, from the effect of sickness, exposure, or wounds; but all were more or less excited at having once again set eyes on Old England, and at the near prospect of once more embracing wives, mothers, and sweethearts, and meeting with old friends. The continual noise of manly voices hailing, exclaiming, chaffing, or conversing, and the general babel of sounds is indescribable. To Miles Milton, who had never before even imagined anything of the sort, it seemed more like a vivid dream than a reality. He became so bewildered with trying to attend to everything at once that he lost sight of the shorter of the ladies, whom he was following, but, pushing ahead, soon found her again in the midst of a group of old friends -- though still young soldiers -- who had known the Institute before leaving for foreign service, and were eagerly inquiring after the health of Miss Robinson, and Tufnell the manager, and others.

During his progress through this bustling scene, Miles observed that the soldiers invariably received the gifts from the lady with respect, and, many of them, with hearty expressions of thanks, while a few stopped her to speak about the contents of the envelopes. So numerous were the men that the work had to be done with business-like celerity, but the visitor was experienced. While wasting no time in useless delay, she never hurried her movements, or refused to stop and speak, or forced her way through the moving throng. Almost unobserved, save by the men who chanced to be next to her, she glided in and out amongst them like a spirit of light -- which, in the highest sense, she was -- intent on her beneficent mission. Her sole aim was to save the men from the tremendous dangers that awaited them on landing in Portsmouth, and bring them under Christian influence.

Those dangers may be imagined when it is told that soldiers returning from abroad are often in possession of large sums of money, and that harpies of all kinds are eagerly waiting to plunder them on their arrival. On one occasion a regiment came home, and in a few days squandered three thousand pounds in Portsmouth. Much more might be said on this point, but enough has been indicated to move thoughtful minds --  and our story waits.

Suddenly the attention of Miles, and every one near him, was attracted by the loud Hibernian yell of a female voice exclaiming -- 

"Oh, Terence, me darlin' son, here ye are; an' is it yersilf lookin' purtier a long way than the day ye left me; an' niver so much as a scratch on yer face for all the wars ye've bin in -- bad luck to thim!"

Need we say that this was Mrs Flynn? In her anxiety to meet her son she had run against innumerable men and women, who remonstrated with her variously, according to temperament, without, however, the slightest effect. Her wild career was not checked until she had flung herself into the arms of a tall, stalwart trooper with drooping moustache, who would have done credit to any nationality under the sun, and whose enthusiasm at the happy meeting with his mother was almost as demonstrative as her own, but more dignified.

Others there were, however, whose case was very different. One who came there to meet the strong healthy man, to whom she had said good-bye at the same spot several years before, received him back a worn and wasted invalid, upright still with the martial air of discipline, but feeble, and with something like the stamp of death upon his brow. Another woman found her son, strong indeed and healthy, as of yore, but with an empty sleeve where his right arm should have been -- his days of warfare over before his earthly sun had reached the zenith!

Whilst Miles was taking note of these things, and moralising in spite of his distaste just then to that phase of mental occupation, the other lady of the Institute appeared and spoke hurriedly to her companion.

"Go," she said, "tell Mrs Martin that her husband is not on board the Orontes. Let Tufnell, if he is at the shed, or our missionary, take her up to the Institute without delay. Let them take this note to Miss Robinson at the same time."

The younger lady looked inquiringly at her companion, but the latter pushed on hurriedly and was soon lost in the crowd, so she went at once on shore to obey her instructions.

Being thus left to look after himself, Miles went about gazing at the varied, interesting, and curious scenes that the vessel presented. No one took any notice of him, for he was only one soldier among hundreds, and so many people from the shore had been admitted by that time that strange faces attracted no attention.

We have referred chiefly to soldiers' friends, but these, after all, formed a small minority of the visitors, many of whom were tradesmen of the town -- tailors, shoemakers, and vendors of fancy articles -- who had come down with their wares to tempt the returning voyagers to part with their superfluous cash. Even in the midst of all the pushing and confusion, one man was seen trying on a pair of boots; near to him was a sailor, carefully inspecting a tailor's book of patterns with a view to shore-going clothes; while another, more prompt in action, was already being measured for a suit of the same.

Descending to the 'tween-decks, our hero found that the confusion and noise there were naturally greater, the space being more limited and the noise confined. There was the addition of bad air and disagreeable smells here; and Miles could not help reflecting on the prospect before him of long voyages under cramped circumstances, in the midst of similar surroundings. But, being young and enthusiastic, he whispered to himself that he was not particular, and was ready to "rough it" in his country's cause!

In a remarkably dark region to which he penetrated, he found himself in the women's quarters, the disagreeables of which were increased by the cries of discontented children, and the yells of inconsolable infants --  some of whom had first seen the light of this world in the sad twilight of 'tween-decks! Shrinking from that locality, Miles pursued his investigations, and gradually became aware that sundry parrots and other pets which the soldiers and sailors had brought home were adding their notes of discord to the chorus of sounds.

While he was looking at, and attempting to pat, a small monkey, which received his advances with looks of astonished indignation, he became conscious of the fact that a number of eyes were looking down on him through a crevice at the top of a partition close to his side.

"Who are these?" he asked of a sailor, who stood near him.

"Why, them are the long-term men."

"I suppose you mean prisoners?"

"Yes; that's about it," replied the tar. "Soldiers as has committed murder -- or suthin' o' that sort -- an' got twenty year or more for all I knows. The other fellers further on there, in chains, is short-term men. Bin an' done suthin' or other not quite so bad, I suppose."

Miles advanced "further on," and found eight men seated on the deck and leaning against the bulkhead. If his attention had not been drawn to them, he might have supposed they were merely resting, but a closer glance showed that they were all chained to an iron bar. They did not seem very different from the other men around them, save that they were, most of them, stern and silent.

A powerful feeling of compassion rose in our hero's breast as he looked at these moral wrecks of humanity; for their characters and prospects were ruined, though their physique was not much impaired. It seemed to him such an awful home-coming, after, perhaps, long years of absence, thus, in the midst of all the bustle and joy of meetings and of pleasant anticipations, to be waiting there for the arrival of the prison-van, and looking forward to years of imprisonment instead of reunion with friends and kindred.

At sight of them a thought sprang irresistibly into our hero's mind, "This is the result of wrong-doing!"

His conscience was uncomfortably active and faithful that morning. Somehow it pointed out to him that wrong-doing was a long ladder; that the chained criminals before him had reached the foot; and that he stood on the topmost rung. That was all the difference between them and himself -- a difference of degree, not of principle.

Pushing his way a little closer to these men, he found that his was not the only heart that pitied them. His friend, the younger lady, was there speaking to them. He could not hear what she said, for the noise drowned her voice; but her earnest, eager look and her gesticulations told well enough that she was pointing them to the Saviour of sinners --  with what effect, of course, he could not tell, but it was evident that the prisoners at least gave her their attention.

Leaving her thus engaged, Miles continued for a considerable time his progress through the ship. Afterwards he observed, by a movement among the men, that a detachment was about to land. Indeed he found that some of the soldiers had already landed, and were making their way to the coffee-shed.

Following these quickly to the same place, he found that innumerable cups of hot coffee and solid slices of bread and butter were being served out as fast as they could be filled and cut. A large hole or window opened in the side of the shed, the shutter of which was hinged at the bottom, and when let down formed a convenient counter.

Behind this counter stood the two ubiquitous ladies of the Institute acting the part of barmaids, as if to the manner born, and with the same business-like, active, yet modest, ready-for-anything air which marked all their proceedings.

And truly their post was no sinecure. To supply the demands of hundreds of hungry and thirsty warriors was not child's-play. Inside the shed, Miles found his friend Brown busy with a mighty caldron of hot water, numerous packets of coffee, and immense quantities of sugar and preserved milk. Brown was the fountain-head. The ladies were the distributing pipes -- if we may say so; and although the fountain produced can after can of the coveted liquid with amazing rapidity, and with a prodigality of material that would have made the hair of a private housewife stand on end, it was barely possible to keep pace with the demand.

At a large table one of the missionaries of the Institute cut up and buttered loaves at a rate which gave the impression that he was a conjurer engaged in a species of sleight-of-hand. The butter, however, troubled him, for, the weather being cold, it was hard, and would not spread easily. To overcome this he put a pound or so of it on a plate beside the boiler-fire to soften. Unfortunately, he temporarily forgot it, and on afterwards going for it, found that it had been reduced to a yellow liquid. However, hungry soldiers, rejoicing in the fact of having at last reached home, are not particular. Some of them, unaccustomed, no doubt, to be served by ladies, asked for their supply deferentially, accepted it politely, and drank it with additional appreciation.

"We want more, Brown," said one of the ladies, glancing back over her shoulder as she poured out the last drop from her large jug; "and more buns and bread, please."

"Here you are, Miss," cried Brown, who was warm by that time in spite of the weather, as he bore his brimming and steaming pitcher to the window -- or hole in the wall -- and replenished the jugs. "The buns are all done, an' the bread won't hold out long, but I've sent for more; it won't be long. I see we shall need several more brews," he added, as he turned again towards the inexhaustible boiler.

"Shall I assist you?" said Miles, stepping into the shed and seizing a loaf and a knife.

"Thank you. Go ahead," said Brown.

"Put another lump of butter near the fire," said the missionary to our hero; "not too close. I melted the last lump altogether."

"A cup o' coffee for my Terence, an' wan for mesilf, my dear," exclaimed a loud voice outside.

There was no mistaking the speaker. Some of the men who crowded round the counter laughed, others partially choked, when the strapping Terence said in a hoarse whisper, "Whist, mother, be civil; don't ye see that it's ladies, no less, is sarvin' of us?"

"Please, ma'am, can I 'ave some coffee?" asked a modest soldier's wife, who looked pale and weary after the long voyage, with three children to look after.

A cup was promptly supplied, and three of the newly-arrived buns stopped the mouths of her clamorous offspring.

"Can ye give me a cup o' tea?" demanded another soldier's wife, who was neither so polite nor so young as the previous applicant.

It is probable that the ladies did not observe the nature of her demand, else they would doubtless have explained that they had no tea, but a cup of coffee was silently handed to her.

"Ah! this is real home-tea, this is," she said, smacking her lips after the first sip. "A mighty difference 'tween this an' what we've bin used to in the ship."

"Yes, indeed," assented her companion. Whether it was tea she had been accustomed to drink on board the troop-ship we cannot tell, but probably she was correct as to the "mighty difference." It may be that the beverages supplied in foreign lands had somewhat damaged the power of discrimination as to matters of taste in these soldiers' wives. At all events an incident which occurred about the same time justifies this belief.

"Mr Miles," said the missionary, pausing a moment to wipe his brow in the midst of his labours, "will you fetch the butter now?"

Miles turned to obey with alacrity -- with too much alacrity, indeed, for in his haste he knocked the plate over, and sent the lump of butter into the last prepared "brew" of coffee!

"Hallo! I say!" exclaimed Brown, in consternation. "More coffee, Brown," demanded the ladies simultaneously, at that inauspicious moment.

"Yes, Miss, I -- I'm coming -- directly," cried Brown.

"Do be quick, please!"

"What's to be done?" said Brown, making futile endeavours to fish out the slippery mass with the stirring-stick.

"Shove it down and stir it well about," suggested Miles.

Whether conscience was inoperative at that moment we know not, but Brown acted on the suggestion, and briskly amalgamated the butter with the coffee, while the crowd at the port-hole politely but continuously demanded more.

"Don't be in a 'urry, Tom," cried a corporal, removing his pith helmet in order to run his fingers through his hair; "it's a 'eavenly state o' things now to what it was a few years ago, w'en we an' our poor wives 'ad to sit 'ere for hours in the heat or cold, wet or dry, without shelter, or a morsel to eat, or a drop to drink, till we got away up town to the grog-shops."

"Well, this is civilisation at last!" remarked a handsome and hearty young fellow, who had apparently been ignorant of the treat in store for him, and who sauntered up to the shed just as the butter-brew was beginning to be served out.

"Why, I declare, it's chocolate!" exclaimed one of the women, who had been already served with a cup, and had resolved to "go in," as she said, for another pennyworth.

"So it is. My! ain't it nice?" said her companion, smacking her lips.

Whether the soldiers fell into the same mistake, or were too polite to take notice of it, we cannot tell, for they drank it without comment, and with evident satisfaction, like men of simple tastes and uncritical minds.

We turn now to a very different scene.

In one of the private sitting-rooms of the Institute sat poor young Mrs Martin, the very embodiment of blank despair. The terrible truth that her husband had died, and been buried at sea, had been gently and tenderly broken to her by Miss Robinson.

At first the poor girl could not -- would not -- believe it. Then, as the truth gradually forced itself into her brain, she subsided into a tearless, expressionless, state of quiescence that seemed to indicate a mind unhinged. In this state she remained for some time, apparently unconscious of the kind words of Christian love that were addressed to her.

At last she seemed to rouse herself and gazed wildly round the room.

"Let me go," she said. "I will find him somewhere. Don't hinder me, please."

"But you cannot go anywhere till you have had food and rest, dear child," said her sympathetic comforter, laying her hand gently on the girl's arm. "Come with me."

She sought to lead her away, but the girl shook her off.

"No," she exclaimed, starting up hastily, so that the mass of her dark hair fell loose upon her shoulders, contrasting forcibly with the dead whiteness of her face and lips. "No. I cannot go with you. Fred will be getting impatient. D'you think I'll ever believe it? Dead and buried in the sea? Never!"

Even while she spoke, the gasp in her voice, and the pressure of both hands on her poor heart, told very plainly that the young widow did indeed believe it.

"Oh! may God Himself comfort you, dear child," said the lady, taking her softly by the hand. "Come -- come with me."

Mrs Martin no longer refused. Her spirit, which had flashed up for a moment, seemed to collapse, and without another word of remonstrance she meekly suffered herself to be guided to a private room, where she was put to bed.

She never rose from that bed. Friendless, and without means, she would probably have perished in the streets, or in one of the dens of Portsmouth, had she not been led to this refuge. As it was, they nursed her there, and did all that human skill and Christian love could devise; but her heart was broken. Towards the end she told them, in a faint voice, that her Fred had been stationed at Alexandria, and that while there he had been led to put his trust in the Saviour. She knew nothing of the details. All these, and much more, she had expected to hear from his own lips.

"But he will tell me all about it soon, thank God!" were the last words she uttered as she turned her eyes gratefully on the loving strangers who had found and cared for her in the dark day of her calamity.



Chapter Five.

Difficulties Met And Overcome.

Miles and his friend Brown, after their work at the jetty, had chanced to return to the Institute at the moment referred to in the last chapter, when the poor young widow, having become resigned, had been led through the passage to her bedroom. Our hero happened to catch sight of her face, and it made a very powerful impression on him -- an impression which was greatly deepened afterwards on hearing of her death.

In the reception-room he found Armstrong still in earnest conversation with his wife.

"Hallo, Armstrong! still here? Have you been sitting there since I left you?" he asked, with a smile and look of surprise.

"Oh no!" answered his friend; "not all the time. We have been out walking about town, and we have had dinner here -- an excellent feed, let me tell you, and cheap too. But where did you run off to?"

"Sit down and I'll tell you," said Miles.

Thereupon he related all about his day's experiences. When he had finished, Armstrong told him that his own prospect of testing the merits of a troop-ship were pretty fair, as he was ordered for inspection on the following day.

"So you see," continued the young soldier, "if you are accepted -- as you are sure to be -- you and I will go out together in the same vessel."

"I'm glad to hear that, anyhow," returned Miles.

"And I am very glad too," said little Emily, with a beaming smile, "for Willie has told me about you, Mr Miles; and how you first met and took a fancy to each other; and it will be so nice to think that there's somebody to care about my Willie when he is far away from me."

The little woman blushed and half-laughed, and nearly cried as she said this, for she felt that it was rather a bold thing to say to a stranger, and yet she had such a strong desire to mitigate her husband's desolation when absent from her that she forcibly overcame her modesty. "And I want you to do me a favour, Mr Miles," she added.

"I'll do it with pleasure," returned our gallant hero.

"I want you to call him Willie," said the little woman, blushing and looking down.

"Certainly I will -- if your husband permits me."

"You see," she continued, "I want him to keep familiar with the name I've been used to call him -- for comrades will call him Armstrong, I suppose, and -- "

"Oh! Emmy," interrupted the soldier reproachfully, "do you think I require to be kept in remembrance of that name? Won't your voice, repeating it, haunt me day and night till the happy day when I meet you again on the Portsmouth jetty, or may-hap in this very room?"

Miles thought, when he heard this speech, of the hoped-for meeting between poor Mrs Martin and her Fred; and a feeling of profound sadness crept over him as he reflected how many chances there were against their ever again meeting in this world. Naturally these thoughts turned his mind to his own case. His sinful haste in quitting home, and the agony of his mother on finding that he was really gone, were more than ever impressed on him, but again the fatal idea that what was done could not be undone, coupled with pride and false shame, kept him firm to his purpose.

That evening, in barracks, Miles was told by his company sergeant to hold himself in readiness to appear before the doctor next morning for inspection as to his physical fitness for active service in Egypt.

Our hero was by this time beginning to find out that the life of a private soldier, into which he had rushed, was a very different thing indeed from that of an officer -- to which he had aspired. Here again pride came to his aid -- in a certain sense, -- for if it could not reconcile him to his position, it at all events closed his mouth, and made him resolve to bear the consequences of his act like a man.

In the morning he had to turn out before daylight, and with a small band of men similarly situated, to muster in the drill-shed a little after eight. Thence they marched to the doctor's quarters.

It was an anxious ordeal for all of them; for, like most young soldiers, they were enthusiastically anxious to go on active service, and there was, of course, some uncertainty as to their passing the examination.

The first man called came out of the inspection room with a beaming countenance, saying that he was "all right," which raised the hopes and spirits of the rest; but the second appeared after inspection with a woe-begone countenance which required no interpretation. No reason was given for his rejection; he was simply told that it would be better for him not to go.

Miles was the third called.

As he presented himself, the doctor yawned vociferously, as if he felt that the hour for such work was unreasonably early. Then he looked at his subject with the critical air of a farmer inspecting a prize ox.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Nineteen, sir."

"Are you married?"

Miles smiled.

"Did you hear me?" asked the doctor sharply. "You don't need to smile. Many a boy as long-legged and as young as you is fool enough to marry. Are you married?"

Miles flushed, looked suddenly stern, squared his shoulders, drew himself up with an air that implied, "You won't catch me tripping again;" and said firmly, yet quite respectfully -- 

"No, sir."

The doctor here took another good look at his subject, with a meaning twinkle in his eye, as if he felt that he had touched a tender point. Then he felt his victim's pulse, sounded his chest, and ordered him to strip. Being apparently satisfied with the result of his examination, he asked him if he "felt all right."

Reflecting that his mother had often told him he was made up of body, soul, and spirit, and that in regard to the latter two he was rather hazy, Miles felt strongly inclined for a moment to say, "Certainly not," but, thinking better of it, he answered, "Yes, sir," with decision.

"Have you anything to complain of?" asked the doctor.

The mind of our hero was what we may style rapidly reflective. In regard to the decrees of Fate, things in general, and his father's conduct in particular, he had a decided wish to complain, but again he laid restraint on himself and said, "No, sir."

"And do you wish to go to Egypt?"

"Yes, sir!" was answered with prompt decision.

"Then you may go," said the doctor, turning away with an air of a man who dismisses a subject from his mind.

When all the men had thus passed the medical examination, those of them who were accepted mustered their bags and kits before Captain Lacey, commander of the company to which they were attached, and those who wanted anything were allowed to draw it from the stores.

Captain Lacey was a fine specimen of a British soldier -- grave, but kind in expression and in heart; tall, handsome, powerful, about thirty years of age, with that urbanity of manner which wins affection at first sight, and that cool, quiet decision of character which inspires unlimited confidence.

As the troop-ship which was to convey them to Egypt was to start sooner than had been intended, there was little time for thought during the few hours in England that remained to the regiment. The men had to draw their pith helmets, and fit the ornaments thereon; then go the quartermaster's stores to be fitted with white clothing, after which they had to parade before the Colonel, fully arrayed in the martial habiliments which were needful in tropical climes. Besides these matters there were friends to be seen, in some cases relatives to be parted from, and letters innumerable to be written. Miles Milton was among those who, on the last day in Portsmouth, attempted to write home. He had been taken by Sergeant Gilroy the previous night to one of the Institute entertainments in the great hall. The Sergeant had tried to induce him to go to the Bible-class with him, but Miles was in no mood for that at the time, and he was greatly relieved to find that neither the Sergeant nor any of the people of the Institute annoyed him by thrusting religious matters on his attention. Food, lodging, games, library, baths, Bible-classes, prayer-meetings, entertainments were all there to be used or let alone as he chose; perfect freedom of action being one of the methods by which it was sought to render the place attractive to the soldiers.

But although Miles at once refused to go to the class, he had no objection to go to the entertainment.

It was a curious mixture of song, recitation, addresses, and readings, in which many noble sentiments were uttered, and not a few humorous anecdotes and incidents related. It was presided over by Tufnell, the manager, a soldierly-looking man, who had himself originally been in the army, and who had, for many years, been Miss Robinson's right-hand man. There could not have been fewer than a thousand people in the hall, a large proportion of whom were red-coats and blue-jackets, the rest being civilians; and the way in which these applauded the sentiments, laughed at the humour, and rejoiced in the music, showed that the provision for their amusement was thoroughly appreciated.

Whether it was the feeling of good-fellowship and sympathy that pervaded the meeting, or some word that was dropped at a venture and found root in his heart, Miles could not tell, but certain it is that at that entertainment he formed the resolution to write home before leaving. Not that he had yet repented of the step he had taken, but he was sorry for the manner in which he had done so, and for allowing so much time to elapse that now the opportunity of seeing his parents before starting was lost.

As it was impossible for him to write his letter in the noise of the barrack-room, he went off next day to the reading-room of the Institute, and there, with no other sounds to disturb him than the deep breathing of some studious red-coats, and the chirping pen of a comrade engaged like himself, he began to write.

But his thoughts somehow would not work. His pen would not write. He even fancied that it had a sort of objection to spell. So it had, when not properly guided by his hesitating hand. The first part went swimmingly enough: -- 

"Dearest mother, I'm so sorry -- "

But here he stopped, for the memory of his father's severity re-aroused his indignation, and he felt some doubt as to whether he really was sorry. Then, under the impulse of this doubt, he wrote a long letter, in imagination, in which he defended his conduct pretty warmly, on the ground that he had been driven to it.

"Driven to what?" asked Something within him. "To the course which I have taken and am now defending," replied Something-else within him hotly.

"Then the course was a wrong one, else you wouldn't have to defend it!" rejoined the first Something.

"Well -- yes -- n-no, it wasn't," returned the second Something doggedly.

Before this internal dispute could be carried further, Miles was aroused by a sudden burst of noisy voices, as if a lunatic asylum had been let loose into the hall below. Rising quickly, he hurried down with his studious comrades to see what it could be all about.

"It's only another troop-ship come in, and they've all come up here without giving us warning to get ready," said Tufnell, as he bustled about, endeavouring to introduce order into what appeared to Miles to be the reproduction of Babel, minus the bricks.

The fact was that a troop-ship having arrived rather suddenly, a sergeant had driven up in hot haste from the docks to make arrangements for the reception of the soldiers' wives and children!

"Look sharp!" he cried, on entering the hall abruptly; "sixteen families are on their way to you."

"All right; we can take 'em in," was the prompt reply; and orders were given to set the food-producing machinery of the establishment instantly in motion. But almost before the preparation had fairly begun, the advance-guard of the army, largely composed of infantry, burst upon them like a thunder-clap, and continued to pour in like a torrent. There were men shouting, women chattering, tired children whining, and excited children laughing; babies yelling or crowing miscellaneously; parrots screaming; people running up and down stairs in search of dormitories; plates and cups clattering at the bar, as the overwhelmed barmaids did their best to appease the impatient and supply the hungry; while the rumbling of control-wagons bringing up the baggage formed a sort of bass accompaniment to the concert.

"You see, it varies with us a good deal," remarked Brown to Miles, during a lucid interval, "Sometimes we are almost empty, a few hours later we are overflowing. It comes hard on the housekeeper, of course. But we lay our account wi' that, and, do you know, it is wonderful what can be done in trying circumstances, when we lay our account wi' them! --  Yes, Miss, it's all ready!" shouted the speaker, in reply to a soft female voice that came down the wide staircase, as it were, over the heads of the turbulent crowd.

In a moment he disappeared, and Tufnell stood, as if by magic, in his place.

"Yes," said the manager, taking up his discourse where the other had left off; "and in a few minutes you'll see that most of these wives and children of the soldiers will be distributed through the house in their bed-rooms, when our ladies will set to work to make acquaintance with them; and then we'll open our stores of warm clothing, of which the poor things, coming as they do from warm climates, are often nearly or quite destitute."

"But where do you get these supplies from?" asked Miles.

"From kind-hearted Christians throughout the country, who send us gifts of old and new garments, boots and shoes, shawls and socks, etcetera, which we have always in readiness to meet sudden demands; and I may add that the demands are pretty constant. Brown told you just now that we have varied experience. I remember once we got a message from the Assistant Quartermaster-General's office to ask how many women and children we could accommodate, as a shipful was expected. We replied that we could take 140, and set to work with preparations. After all, only one woman came! To-day we expected nobody, and -- you see what we have got!"

The genial countenance of the manager beamed with satisfaction. It was evident that "what he had got" did not at all discompose him, as he hurried away to look after his flock, while the originator -- the heart and soul of all this -- although confined to her room at that time with spine complaint, and unable to take part in the active work, as she had been wont to do in years gone by, heard in her chamber the softened sound of the human storm, and was able to thank God that her Soldiers' Institute was fulfilling its destiny.

"Hallo! Miles!" exclaimed Armstrong, over the heads of the crowd; "I've been looking for you everywhere. D'you know we run a chance of being late? Come along, quick!"

Our hero, who, in his interest in the scene, had forgotten the flight of time, hurried out after his comrade as the band struck up "Home, sweet Home," and returned to barracks, utterly oblivious of the fact that he had left the unfinished letter to his mother on the table in the reading-room.



Chapter Six.

The Unfinished Letter -- Too Late!

Next morning young Milton -- or, as he was called by his comrades, John Miles -- rose with the depressing thought that it was to be his last day in England. As he was dressing, it flashed across him that he had left his unfinished letter on the reading-room table, and, concluding that it would be swept away in the rush of people there -- at all events that, not having been folded or addressed, it could not be posted -- his depression was deepened.

The first thing that roused him to a better frame of mind was the smell of tea!

Most people are more or less familiar with teapots; with the few teaspoonfuls of the precious leaf which thrifty housekeepers put into these pots, and the fragrant liquid that results. But who among civilians, (save the informed), can imagine a barrack-room teapot?

Open your ears, O ye thrifty ones! while we state a few facts, and there will be no need to tell you to open your eyes.

Into the teapot which supplied Miles with his morning cup there was put, for one making, eight pounds of tea! -- not ounces, observe, but pounds, -- twenty-nine pounds of sugar, and six gallons -- an absolute cowful -- of milk! The pot itself consisted of eight enormous coppers, which were filled with boiling water to the brim.

"Yes, sir," remarked the military cook, who concocted the beverage, to a speechless visitor one day; "it is a pretty extensive brew; but then, you see, we have a large family!"

A considerable portion of this large family was soon actively engaged in preparation for immediate embarkation for Egypt. Then the General made the men a farewell speech. It was a peculiar speech -- not altogether suited to cheer timid hearts, had any such been there, but admirably adapted to British soldiers.

"Men," said he, "I am very glad to see you parade looking so well and clean and comfortable and ready for active service. You will be dirty enough, sometimes, where you are going, for the country is hot and unhealthy, and not over clean. You will have hardships, hard times, and plenty of hard work, as well as hard beds now and then, and very likely the most of you will never come back again; but you would be unworthy of the name of British soldiers if you allowed such thoughts to trouble your minds. I sincerely express the hope, however, that you will all come home again safe and sound. I have not the slightest doubt that every man of you will do his duty in the field faithfully and well; but I'm not so sure of your wisdom in camp and barracks, so I will give you a word of advice. There is far more danger in getting drunk in hot countries than in England. Let me advise you, then, not to get drunk; and I would warn you particularly against the vile stuff they will offer for sale in Egypt. It is rank poison. If you had stomachs lined with brass you might perhaps stand it -- not otherwise. Then I would warn you against the sun. In Egypt the sun is sometimes like a fiery furnace. Never expose yourself when you can avoid doing so, and, above all, never go outside your tents without your helmets on. If you do, you'll repent it, and repentance will probably come too late. I wish you all a prosperous voyage, and may God keep you all!"

Delivered in a sharp, stern, unsentimental tone, this brief speech had probably a much more powerful effect on the men than a more elaborate exhortation would have had. The impression was deepened by the remarks of an old officer, who made a very brief, soldierly speech after the General, winding up with the information that he had himself been in Egypt, and assuring them that if they did not take care of themselves there was little chance of a man of them returning alive!

"May you have a pleasant passage out," he said, in conclusion; "and, in the name of the Portsmouth Division, I wish you victory in all your battles, and a hearty good-bye."

The men who were not going away were then called on to give their departing friends three cheers, which they did with right good-will. Captain Lacey, who was in charge of the detachment, stepped to the front, drew his sword, gave the order to shoulder arms, form fours, right turn, quick march, and away they went with the united bands of two regiments playing "The girl I left behind me!"

The girls they were about to leave behind them were awaiting them at the barrack-gates, with a considerable sprinkling of somewhat older girls to keep them company. Many of the poor creatures were in tears for the men whom they might never see again, and lumps in several manly throats rather interfered with the parting cheer delivered by the detachment at the gate. Most of them accompanied the soldiers as far as the Dockyard gates. Emily Armstrong was not among them. She had parted the previous night from her husband at his earnest request, and returned by rail to her father's house, there to await, as patiently as she might, the return of her "Willie."

"Noble defenders of our country!" observed an enthusiastic citizen, as they passed through the gates.

"Food for powder," remarked a sarcastic publican, as he turned away to resume his special work of robbing powder of its food and his country of its defenders.

Proceeding to the Embarkation Jetty, the detachment was marched on board the troop-ship, where the men were at once told off to their respective messes, and proceeded without delay to make themselves at home by taking possession of their allotted portion of the huge white-painted fabric that was to bear them over the waves to distant lands.

Taking off their belts and stowing them overhead, they got hold of their bags, exchanged their smart uniforms for old suits of clothes, and otherwise prepared themselves for the endurance of life on board a transport.

To his great satisfaction, Miles found that several of the comrades for whom he had by that time acquired a special liking, were appointed to the same mess with himself. Among these were his friend Willie Armstrong, Sergeants Gilroy and Hardy, Corporal Flynn, a private named Gaspard Redgrave, who was a capital musician, and had a magnificent tenor voice, Robert Macleod, a big-boned Scotsman, and Moses Pyne, a long-legged, cadaverous nondescript, who was generally credited with being half-mad, though with a good deal of method in his madness, and who was possessed of gentleness of spirit, and a cheerful readiness to oblige, which seemed a flat contradiction of his personal appearance, and rendered him a general favourite.

While these were busy arranging their quarters a soldier passed with several books in his hand, which he had just received from one of the ladies from the Institute.

"Hallo, Jack!" cried Moses Pyne; "have the ladies been aboard?"

"Of course they have. They've been all over the ship already distributin' books an' good-byes. If you want to see 'em you'll have to look sharp, Moses, for they're just goin' on shore."

"See 'em!" echoed Moses; "of course I wants to see 'em. But for them, I'd be -- "

The rest of the sentence was lost in the clatter of Moses' feet as he stumbled up the ladder-way. Remembering his letter at that moment, Miles followed him, and reached the gangway just as the visitors were leaving.

"Excuse me," he said to one of them, stopping her.

"Oh! I'm so glad to have found you," she said.

"I have been looking for you everywhere. Miss Robinson sent you this little parcel of books, with her best wishes, and hopes that you will read them."

"Thanks, very much. I will, with pleasure. And will you do me a favour? I left a letter on the reading-room table -- "

A sudden and peremptory order of some sort caused a rush which separated Miles from the visitor and cut short the sentence, and the necessity for the immediate departure of all visitors rendered its being finished impossible.

But Miss Robinson's representative did not require to be told that a forgotten letter could only want posting. On returning, therefore, to the Institute, she went at once to the reading-room, where she found no letter! Making inquiry, she learned from one of the maids that a sheet of paper had been found with nothing on it but the words, "Dearest mother, I'm so sorry"; and that the same had been duly conveyed to Miss Robinson's room. Hasting to the apartment of her friend, she knocked, and was bidden enter.

"You have got an unfinished letter, it seems?" she began.

"Yes; here it is," interrupted Miss Robinson, handing the sheet to her assistant. "What a pity that it gives no clew to the writer -- no address!"

"I am pretty sure as to the writer," returned the other. "It must have been that fine-looking young soldier, John Miles, of whom we have seen a little and heard so much from Sergeant Gilroy."

Hereupon an account was given of the hurried and interrupted meeting on board the troop-ship; and the two ladies came to the conclusion that as nothing was known about the parents or former residence of John Miles no steps of any kind were possible. The letter was therefore carefully put by.

That same evening there alighted at the railway station in Portsmouth an elderly lady with an expression of great anxiety on her countenance, and much perturbation in her manner.

"Any luggage, ma'am?" asked a sympathetic porter -- for railway porters are sometimes more sympathetic than might be expected of men so much accustomed to witness abrupt and tender partings.

"No; no luggage. Yes -- a small valise -- in the carriage. That's it."

"Four-wheeler, ma'am?"

"Eh! no -- yes -- yes."

"Where to, ma'am?" asked the sympathetic porter, after the lady was seated in the cab.

"Where to?" echoed Mrs Milton, (for it was she), in great distress. "Oh! where -- where shall I drive to?"

"Really, ma'am, I couldn't say," answered the porter, with a modest look.

"I've -- I -- my son! My dear boy! Where shall I go to inquire? Oh! what shall I do?"

These would have been perplexing utterances even to an unsympathetic man.

Turning away from the window, and looking up at the driver, the porter said solemnly -- 

"To the best 'otel you know of, cabby, that's not too dear. An' if you've bin gifted with compassion, cabby, don't overcharge your fare."

Accepting the direction, and exercising his discretion as well as his compassion, that intelligent cabby drove, strange to say, straight to an hotel styled the "Officers' House," which is an offshoot of Miss Robinson's Institute, and stands close beside it!

"A hofficer's lady," said the inventive cabby to the boy who opened the door. "Wants to putt up in this 'ere 'ouse."

When poor Mrs Milton had calmed her feelings sufficiently to admit of her talking with some degree of coherence, she rang the bell and sent for the landlord.

Mr Tufnell, who was landlord of the Officers' House, as well as manager of the Institute, soon presented himself, and to him the poor lady confided her sorrows.

"You see, landlord," she said, whimpering, "I don't know a soul in Portsmouth; and -- and -- in fact I don't even know how I came to your hotel, for I never heard of it before; but I think I must have been sent here, for I see from your looks that you will help me."

"You may depend on my helping you to the best of my power, madam. May I ask what you would have me do?"

With much earnestness, and not a few tears, poor Mrs Milton related as much of her son's story as she thought necessary.

"Well, you could not have come to a better place," said Tufnell, "for Miss Robinson and all her helpers sympathise deeply with soldiers. If any one can find out about your son, they can. How were you led to suspect that he had come to Portsmouth?"

"A friend suggested that he might possibly have done so. Indeed, it seems natural, considering my dear boy's desire to enter the army, and the number of soldiers, who are always passing through this town."

"Well, I will go at once and make inquiry. The name Milton is not familiar to me, but so many come and go that we sometimes forget names."

When poor Mrs Milton was afterwards introduced to Miss Robinson, she found her both sympathetic and anxious to do her utmost to gain information about her missing son, but the mother's graphic descriptions of him did not avail much. The fact that he was young, tall, handsome, curly-haired, etcetera, applied to so many of the defenders of the country as to be scarcely distinctive enough; but when she spoke of "My dear Miles," a new light was thrown on the matter. She was told that a young soldier answering to the description of her son had been there recently, but that his surname -- not his Christian name -- was Miles. Would she recognise his handwriting?

"Recognise it?" exclaimed Mrs Milton, in a blaze of sudden hope. "Ay, that I would; didn't I teach him every letter myself? Didn't he insist on making his down-strokes crooked? and wasn't my heart almost broken over his square O's?"

While the poor mother was speaking, the unfinished letter was laid before her, and the handwriting at once recognised.

"That's his! Bless him! And he's sorry. Didn't I say he would be sorry? Didn't I tell his father so? Darling Miles, I -- "

Here the poor creature broke down, and wept at the thought of her repentant son. It was well, perhaps, that the blow was thus softened, for she almost fell on the floor when her new friend told her, in the gentlest possible manner, that Miles had that very day set sail for Egypt.

They kept her at the Institute that night, however, and consoled her much, as well as aroused her gratitude, by telling of the good men who formed part of her son's regiment; and of the books and kind words that had been bestowed on him at parting; and by making the most they could of the good hope that the fighting in Egypt would soon be over, and that her son would ere long return to her, God willing, sound and well.



Chapter Seven.

Miles Begins To Discover Himself -- Has A Few Rough Experiences -- And Falls Into Pea-Soup, Salt-Water, And Love.

While his mother was hunting for him in Portsmouth, Miles Milton was cleaving his way through the watery highway of the world, at the rate of fifteen knots.

He was at the time in that lowest condition of misery, mental and physical, which is not unfrequently the result of "a chopping sea in the Channel." It seemed to him, just then, an unbelievable mystery how he could, at any time, have experienced pleasure at the contemplation of food! The heaving of the great white ship was nothing to the heaving --  well, it may perhaps be wiser to refrain from particulars; but he felt that the beating of the two thousand horse-power engines -- more or less --  was child's-play to the throbbing of his brain!

"And this," he thought, in the bitterness of his soul, "this is what I have sacrificed home, friends, position, prospects in life for! This is -- soldiering!"

The merest shadow of the power to reason -- if such a shadow had been left -- might have convinced him that that was not soldiering; that, as far as it went, it was not even sailoring!

"You're very bad, I fear," remarked a gentle voice at the side of his hammock.

Miles looked round. It was good-natured, lanky, cadaverous Moses Pyne.

"Who told you I was bad?" asked Miles savagely, putting a wrong -- but too true -- interpretation on the word.

"The colour of your cheeks tells me, poor fellow!"

"Bah!" exclaimed Miles. He was too sick to say more. He might have said less with advantage.

"Shall I fetch you some soup?" asked Moses, in the kindness of his heart. Moses, you see, was one of those lucky individuals who are born with an incapacity to be sick at sea, and was utterly ignorant of the cruelty he perpetrated. "Or some lobscouse?" he added.

"Go away!" gasped Miles.

"A basin of -- "

Miles exploded, literally as well as metaphorically, and Moses retired.

"Strange," thought that healthy soldier, as he stalked away on further errands of mercy, stooping as he went to avoid beams -- "strange that Miles is so changeable in character. I had come to think him a steady, reliable sort of chap."

Puzzling over this difficulty, he advanced to the side of another hammock, from which heavy groans were issuing.

"Are you very bad, corporal?" he asked in his usual tone of sympathy.

"Bad is it?" said Flynn. "Och! it's worse nor bad I am! Couldn't ye ax the captin to heave-to for a -- "

The suggestive influence of heaving-to was too much for Flynn. He pulled up dead. After a few moments he groaned -- 

"Arrah! be off, Moses, av ye don't want my fist on yer nose."

"Extraordinary!" murmured the kindly man, as he removed to another hammock, the occupant of which was differently constituted.

"Moses," he said, as the visitant approached.

"Yes, Gaspard," was the eager reply, "can I do anything for you?"

"Yes; if you'd go on deck, refresh yourself with a walk, and leave us all alone, you'll con -- fer -- on -- "

Gaspard ceased to speak; he had already spoken too much; and Moses Pyne, still wondering, quietly took his advice.

But if the Channel was bad, the Bay of Biscay was, according to Flynn, "far badder."

Before reaching that celebrated bay, however, most of the men had recovered, and, with more or less lugubrious aspects and yellow-green complexions, were staggering about, attending to their various duties. No doubt their movements about the vessel were for some time characterised by that disagreement between action and will which is sometimes observed in feeble chickens during a high wind, but, on the whole, activity and cheerfulness soon began to re-animate the frames and spirits of Britain's warriors.

And now Miles Milton began to find out, as well as to fix, in some degree, his natural character. Up to this period in his life, a mild existence in a quiet home, under a fairly good though irascible father and a loving Christian mother, had not afforded him much opportunity of discovering what he was made of. Recent events had taught him pretty sharply that there was much room for improvement. He also discovered that he possessed a very determined will in the carrying out of his intentions, especially when those intentions were based upon his desires. Whether he would be equally resolute in carrying out intentions that did not harmonise with his desires remained to be seen.

His mother, among her other teachings, had often tried to impress on his young mind the difference between obstinacy and firmness.

"My boy," she was wont to say, while smoothing his curly head, "don't mistake obstinacy for firmness. A man who says 'I will do this or that in spite of all the world,' against advice, and simply because he wants to do it, is obstinate. A man who says, 'I will do this or that in spite of all the world,' against advice, against his own desires, and simply because it is the right thing to do, is firm."

Remembering this, and repenting bitterly his having so cruelly forsaken his mother, our hero cast about in his mind how best he could put some of her precepts into practice, as being the only consolation that was now possible to him. You see, the good seed sown in those early days was beginning to spring up in unlikely circumstances. Of course the habit of prayer, and reading a few verses from the Bible night and morning, recurred to him. This had been given up since he left home. He now resumed it, though, for convenience, he prayed while stretched in his hammock!

But this did not satisfy him. He must needs undertake some disagreeable work, and carry it out with that degree of obstinacy which would amount to firmness. After mature consideration, he sought and obtained permission to become one of the two cooks to his mess. Moses Pyne was the other.

Nothing, he felt, could be more alien to his nature, more disgusting in every way to his feelings -- and he was right. His dislike to the duties seemed rather to increase than to diminish day by day. Bitterly did he repent of having undertaken the duty, and earnestly did he consider whether there might not be some possible and honourable way of drawing back, but he discovered none; and soon he proved -- to himself as well as to others -- that he did indeed possess, at least in some degree, firmness of character.

The duties that devolved on him were trying. He had to scrub and keep the mess clean and tidy; to draw all the provisions and prepare them for cooking; then, to take them to the galley, and fetch them when cooked. That this last was no simple matter, such as any shore-going tail-coated waiter might undertake, was brought forcibly out one day during what seamen style dirty weather.

It was raining at the time. The sea was grey, the sky was greyer, and as the steamer itself was whitey-grey, it was a grave business altogether.

"Is the soup ready, Moses?" asked Miles, as he ascended towards the deck and met his confrere coming down.

"I don't know. Shall I go an' see?"

"No; you can go and look after the table. I will fetch the soup."

"A nasty sea on," remarked a voice, which sounded familiar in Miles's ears as he stepped on deck.

"Hallo! Jack Molloy!" he exclaimed, catching hold of a stanchion to steady himself, as a tremendous roll of the vessel caused a sea to flash over the side and send a shower-bath in his face. "What part of the sky did you drop from? I thought I had left you snug in the Sailors' Welcome."

"Werry likely you did, John Miles," answered the tar, balancing himself with perfect ease, and caring no more for spray than if he had been a dolphin; "but I'm here for all that -- one o' the crew o' this here transport, though I means to wolunteer for active sarvice when I gets out. An' no wonder we didn't come across each other sooner! In sitch a enormous tubful o' lobsters, etceterer, it's a wonder we've met at all. An' p'r'aps you've bin a good deal under hatches since you come a-boord?"

Molloy said this with a knowing look and a grin. Miles met the remark in a similar spirit.

"Yes, Jack, I've been paying tribute to Neptune lately."

"You looks like it, Miles, judgin' by the colour o' your jib. Where away now?"

"Going for our soup."

"What! made you cook o' the mess?"

"Ay; don't you wish you were me?"

Another roll and flash of spray ended the conversation and separated the friends.

The pea-soup was ready when our hero reached the galley. Having filled the mess-tureen with the appetising mixture, he commenced the return journey with great care, for he was now dependent entirely on his legs, both hands being engaged. Miles was handy, if we may say so, with his legs. Once or twice he had to rush and thrust a shoulder against the bulwarks, and a dash of spray served for salt to the soup; but he was progressing favourably and had traversed full three-quarters of the distance to the hatch when a loud "Hooroo!" caused him to look round smartly.

He had just time to see Corporal Flynn, who had slipped and fallen, come rolling towards him like a sack of flour. Next moment he was swept off his legs, and went into the lee scuppers with his comrade in a bath of pea-soup and salt-water!

Fortunately, the obliging wave which came in-board at the same moment mingled with the soup, and saved both men from a scalding.

Such mishaps, however, were rare, and they served rather to enliven the voyage than otherwise.

Besides the duties already mentioned, our hero had to wash up all the dishes and other things at meal-hours; to polish up the mess-kettles and tin dishes; and, generally, to put things away in their places, and keep things in apple-pie order. Recollecting another of his mother's teachings -- "Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well" -- he tried his best, and was so ably seconded by the amiable Moses, that the Miles-Moses mess came to be at last regarded as the best-kept one on board.

One morning, after clearing up the dishes and putting things in order, Miles went on deck for a little fresh air. On the way up he met an elderly gentleman whose dress proclaimed him a clergyman.

He looked earnestly at our hero, and, nodding kindly, spoke a few words to him in passing. Miles had been aware that there was a clergyman on board going out to Egypt with his family -- whether in connection with the troops or for health he did not know. He was much impressed with the looks and expression of this man. It seemed to him as if there were some sort of attractive power about him which was unaccountably strong, and he felt quite interested in the prospect of hearing him preach on the following Sunday.

While on deck the previous day, he had seen the figures of two ladies, whom he rightly judged to be the family above referred to, but as there was nearly the whole distance of the ship's length between them, he could not distinguish their faces.

On taking his place when Sunday came, he observed that the family were present, seated, however, in such a position that he could only see their backs. Speculating in a listless way as to what sort of faces they had, he whiled away the few minutes before the service began.

He was recalled from this condition by the tones of the clergyman's voice, which seemed to have the same effect on him as his look and manner had the day they first met. During the sermon Miles's attention was riveted, insomuch that he almost forgot where he was. The text was a familiar one -- "God is Love," -- but the treatment of it seemed entirely new: the boundless nature of that love; its incomprehensible and almighty force; its enduring certainty and its overwhelming immensity, embracing, as it did, the whole universe in Christ, were themes on which the preacher expatiated in a way that Miles had never before dreamed of.

"All subordinate love," said the preacher, in concluding, "has its source in this. No wonder, then, that it is spoken of in Scripture as a love 'which passeth knowledge.'"

When the men rose to leave, it could be easily seen that they were deeply impressed. As they went out slowly, Miles passed close to the place where the ladies sat. The slighter of the two was talking in a low tone to her companion, and the young soldier was struck with the wonderful resemblance in her tone to that of the preacher. He wondered if her face also resembled his in any degree, and glanced back, but the head was turned away.

"I like that parson. He has got brains," remarked Sergeant Hardy, as he walked along the deck with Sergeant Gilroy and Corporal Flynn.

"Sur' an' I like him too," said the corporal, "for he's got heart!"

"Heart and brains," returned Gilroy: "a grand combination! What more could we want?"

"Don't you think that tongue is also essential?" asked Miles. "But for the preacher's eloquence his heart and brain would have worked in vain."

"Come now, John Miles, don't you be risin' up into poethry. It's not yer natur -- though ye think it is. Besides, av a man's heart an' brains is all right, he can make good use of 'em widout much tongue. Me own notion is that it's thim as hasn't got much to spake of, aither of heart or brain, as is over-fond o' waggin' the tongue."

"That's so, Flynn. You're a living example of the truth of your own opinion," retorted Miles.

"Och! is it angered ye are at gittin' the worst o' the argiment?" rejoined the corporal. "Niver mind, boy, you'll do better by and by -- "

As Flynn descended the ladder while he spoke, the sense of what he said was lost, but the truth of his opinion still continued to receive illustration from the rumbling of his voice, until it was swallowed up in the depths of the vessel.

Next day our hero received a shock from which he never finally recovered!

Be not alarmed, reader; it was not paralytic in its nature. It happened on this wise:

Miles had occasion to go to the fore part of the ship on some culinary business, without his coat, and with his sleeves rolled up above his elbows. Arrived there, he found that the captain was taking the ladies round the ship to point out some of its interesting details. As Miles came up, the younger lady turned round so as to present her full face to him. It was then that poor Miles received the shock above referred to. At that moment a little boy with wings and a bow stepped right in front of the young lady and shot straight at Miles Milton! The arrow entered his heart, and he -- no, he did not fall; true men in such circumstances never fall! They stand transfixed, sometimes, or stupefied. Thus stood Miles and stared. Yes, though naturally modest and polite, he stood and stared!

And small blame to him, as Flynn might have said, for before him stood his ideal of a fairy, an angel, a sylph -- or anything beautiful that best suits your fancy, reader! Sunny hair, sunny eyes -- earnest and inquiring eyes -- sunny smiles, and eyebrows to match. Yes, she had eyebrows distinctly darker than her hair, and well-defined over a pair of large brown eyes.

Poor Miles was stricken, as we have said; but -- would you believe it? --  there were men there looking at that girl at that time who, to use their own phraseology, would not have accepted a dozen of her for the girls they had left behind them! One young fellow in particular murmured to himself as follows -- "Yes, very well in her way, no doubt, but she couldn't hold a candle to my Emmy!" Perhaps the most cutting remark of all -- made mentally, of course -- was that of Sergeant Grady, who, for reasons best known to himself, had left a wife, describable as a stout well-favoured girl of forty, behind him.

"In twenty years or so," he thought, "she may perhaps be near as good-lookin' as my Susy, but she'll never come quite up to her -- never!"

"Come this way, Mrs Drew," said the captain. "I will show you the men's quarters. Out of the way, my man!"

Flushing to the roots of his hair, Miles stepped hastily aside.

As he did so there was heard an awful rend of a sort that tests the temper of women! It was followed by a musical scream. The girl's dress had caught on a block tackle.

Miles leaped forward and unhooked it. He was rewarded with a smiling "Thank you," which was followed by a blush of confusion as Miss Drew's mother exclaimed, "Oh! Marion -- how could you?" by way of making things easier for her, no doubt!

"You did that, young man, about as smart as I could a' done it myself," growled a voice behind him.

The speaker was Jack Molloy, and a general titter followed Miles as he hurried away.

As we have said, the weather became much worse when the troop-ship drew near to the Bay of Biscay; and it soon became evident that they were not to cross that famous portion of the Atlantic, without experiencing some of the violent action for which it is famed. But by that time most of the soldiers, according to Molloy, had got their sea-legs on, and rather enjoyed the tossing than otherwise.

"I do like this sort o' thing," said a beardless young fellow, as a number of the men sat on camp-stools, or stood on the weather-side of the deck, chatting together about past times and future prospects.

"Ha!" exclaimed a seaman, who stood near them coiling up a rope; "hold on till you've got a taste o' the Bay. This is a mill-pond to that. And you'll have the chance to-night. If you don't, I'm a Dutchman."

"If I do, you'll have a taste of it too, old salt-water, for we're in the same boat," retorted the young red-coat.

"True, but we ain't in the same body;" returned the sailor. "I should just like to see your four-futt legs wobblin' about in a nor'-west gale. You'd sing another song."

"Come, Macleod," cried Moses Pyne, "tip us a Gaelic song."

"Hoots, man, wull ye be wantin' to be made sea-seek? -- for that's what'll do it," said the big Scotsman. "Na, na, let Gaspard sing us 'The Bay o' Biscay O!' That'll be mair appropriate."

There was a general chorus of assent to this; and as Gaspard Redgrave was an obliging man, untroubled by false modesty, he cleared his throat and began. His voice, being a really splendid one, attracted all the men who chanced to be within range of it: among others, Miles, who was passing at the moment with a bag of biscuits in one hand and a meat-can in the other. He leaned up against one of those funnels which send fresh air down to the stokers of steam-ships. He had listened only a few moments when Marion Drew glided amongst the men, and seemed to stand as if entranced with delight in front of him, steadying herself by a rope, for the vessel was pitching a good deal as well as rolling considerably.

At the first chorus the crowd burst forth with wild enthusiasm -- 

"As we lay, on that day, In the Bay of Biscay O!"

Dwelling with unnecessary length and emphasis on the "O!"

At the close of the second verse the men were preparing to burst forth again when Miles observed an approaching billow which caused him to start in alarm. Although unused to the aspect of waves, he had an instinctive feeling that there was danger approaching. Voices of warning were promptly raised from different parts of the vessel, but already the loud chorus had begun and drowned every other sound. Miles dropped his biscuits and sprang towards Marion, who, with flashing eyes and parted lips, was gazing at Gaspard. He just reached her when the wave burst over the side, and, catching most of the men quite unprepared, swept them with terrible violence towards the lee-side of the deck.

Marion was standing directly in the line of this human cataract, but Miles swung her deftly round into the lee of the funnel, a handle of which she happily caught, and clung to it like a limpet.

Her preserver was not so fortunate. The edge of the cataract struck him, swept him off his legs, and hurled him with many comrades against the lee bulwarks, where he lay stunned and helpless in the swishing water.

Of course soldiers and sailors ran from all parts of the vessel to the rescue, and soon the injured men were carried below and attended to by the doctors; and, considering the nature of the accident, it was matter for surprise that the result was no worse than some pretty severe contusions and a few broken ribs.

When Miles recovered consciousness, he found himself in his hammock, with considerable pain in various parts of his body, and the Reverend James Drew bending over him.

"You're all right now, my fine fellow," he said, in a low comforting voice. "No bones broken, so the doctors say. Only a little bruised."

"Tell me, sir," said Miles, rousing himself, "is -- is your daughter safe?"

"Yes, thanks be to God, and to your prompt assistance, she is none the worse -- save the fright and a wetting."

Miles sank back on his pillows with a feeling of profound satisfaction.

"Now, you must try to sleep if you can," said the clergyman; "it will do you good."

But Miles did not want anything to do him good. He was quite content to lie still and enjoy the simple fact that he had rescued Marion, perhaps from death -- at all events from serious injury! As for pain -- what was that to him? was he not a soldier -- one whose profession requires him to suffer anything cheerfully in the discharge of duty! And was not love the highest duty?

On the strength of some such thoughts he forgot his pain and calmly went to sleep.



Chapter Eight.

Has Reference To Many Things Connected With Mind, Matter, And Affections.

The wave which had burst with such disastrous effect on the deck of the troop-ship was but the herald of one of those short, wild storms which occasionally sweep with desolating violence over the Atlantic Ocean, and too frequently strew with wreck the western shores of Europe.

In the Bay of Biscay, as usual, the power of the gale was felt more severely than elsewhere.

"There's some sort o' mystery about the matter," said Jack Molloy to William Armstrong, as they cowered together under the shelter of the bridge. "Why the Atlantic should tumble into this 'ere bay with greater wiolence than elsewhere is beyond my comprehension. But any man wi' half an eye can see that it do do it! Jist look at that!"

There was something indeed to look at, for, even while he spoke, a mighty wave tumbled on board of the vessel, rushed over the fore deck like Niagara rapids in miniature, and slushed wildly about for a considerable time before it found its way through the scuppers, into the grey wilderness of heaving billows from which it sprang.

The great ship quivered, and seemed for a moment to stagger under the blow, while the wind shrieked through the rigging as if laughing at the success of its efforts, but the whitey-grey hull rose heavily, yet steadily, out of the churning foam, rode triumphant over the broad-backed billow that had struck her, and dived ponderously into the valley of waters beyond.

"Don't you think," said the young soldier, whose general knowledge was a little more extensive than that of the seaman, "that the Gulf Stream may have something to do with it?"

Molloy looked at the deck with philosophically solemn countenance. Deriving no apparent inspiration from that quarter, he gazed on the tumultuous chaos of salt-water with a perplexed expression. Finally and gravely he shook his weather-beaten head -- 

"Can't see that nohow," he said. "In course I knows that the Gulf Stream comes out the Gulf o' Mexico, cuts across the Atlantic in a nor'-easterly direction, goes slap agin the west of England, Ireland, and Scotland, and then scurries away up the coast o' Norway -- though why it should do so is best known to itself; p'r'aps it's arter the fashion of an angry woman, accordin' to its own sweet will; but what has that got for to do wi' the Bay of Biscay O? That's wot I wants to know."

"More to do with it than you think, Jack," answered the soldier. "In the first place, you're not quite, though partly, correct about the Gulf Stream -- "

"Well, I ain't zactly a scienkrific stoodent, you know. Don't purfess to be."

"Just so, Jack. Neither am I, but I have inquired into this matter in a general way, an' here's my notions about it."

"Draw it fine, Willum; don't be flowery," said the sailor, renewing his quid. "Moreover, if you'll take the advice of an old salt you'll keep a tighter grip o' that belayin'-pin you've got hold of, unless you wants to be washed overboard. Now then, fire away! I'm all attention, as the cat said at the mouth o' the mouse-hole."

"Well, then," began Armstrong, with the slightly conscious air of superior knowledge, "the Gulf Stream does not rise in the Gulf of Mexico -- "

"Did I say that it did, Willum?"

"Well, you said that it came out of the Gulf of Mexico -- and, no doubt, so far you are right, but what I mean is that it does not originate there."

"W'y don't you say what you mean, then, Willum, instead o' pitchin' into a poor chap as makes no pretence to be a purfessor? Heave ahead!"

"Well, Jack," continued the soldier, with more care as to his statements, "I believe, on the best authority, that the Gulf Stream is only part of a great ocean current which originates at the equator, and a small bit of which flows north into the Atlantic, where it drives into the Gulf of Mexico. Finding no outlet there it rushes violently round the gulf -- "

"Gits angry, no doubt, an' that's what makes it hot?" suggested the sailor.

"Perhaps! Anyhow, it then flows, as you say, in a nor'-easterly direction to the coasts of Great Britain and Ireland. But it does more than that. It spreads as it goes, and also rushes straight at the coasts of France and Spain. Here, however, it meets a strong counter current running south along these same coasts of France an' Spain. That is difficulty number one. It has to do battle wi' that current, and you know, Jack, wherever there's a battle there's apt to be convulsions of some sort. Well, then, a nor'-westerly gale comes on and rolls the whole o' the North Atlantic Ocean against these coasts. So here you have this part of the Gulf Stream caught in another direction -- on the port quarter, as you sailors might call it -- "

"Never mind wot us sailors might call it, Willum. Wotever you say on that pint you're sure to be wrong. Heave ahead!"

"Well, then," continued Armstrong, with a laugh, "that's trouble number two; and these troubles, you'll observe, apply to the whole west coast of both countries; but in the Bay of Biscay there is still another difficulty, for when these rushing and tormented waters try to escape, they are met fair in the face by the whole north coast of Spain, and thus -- "

"I sees it!" exclaimed Molloy, with a sudden beam of intelligence, "you've hit the nail on the head, Willum. Gulf Stream flies at France in a hot rage, finds a cool current, or customer, flowin' down south that shouts 'Belay there!' At it they go, tooth an' nail, when down comes a nor'-wester like a wolf on the fold, takes the Stream on the port quarter, as you say, an' drives both it an' the cool customer into the bay, where the north o' Spain cries 'Avast heavin', both o' you!' an' drives 'em back to where the nor'-wester's drivin' 'em on! No wonder there's a mortal hullaballoo in the Bay o' Biscay! Why, mate, where got ye all that larnin'?"

Before his friend could reply, a terrific plunge of the vessel, a vicious shriek of the wind, and the entrance of another tremendous sea, suggested that the elements were roused to unusual fury at having the secrets of their operations thus ruthlessly revealed, and also suggested the propriety of the two friends seeking better shelter down below.

While this storm was raging, Miles lay in his hammock, subjected to storms of the bosom with occasional calms between. He was enjoying one of the calms when Armstrong passed his hammock and asked how he was getting on.

"Very well, Willie. Soon be all right, I think," he replied, with a contented smile.

For at that moment he had been dwelling on the agreeable fact that he had really rescued Marion Drew from probable death, and that her parents gratefully recognised the service -- as he learned from the clergyman himself, who expressed his gratitude in the form of frequent visits to and pleasant chats with the invalid.

The interest and sympathy which Miles had felt on first seeing this man naturally increased, and at last he ventured to confide to him the story of his departure from home, but said nothing about the changed name. It is needless to relate all that was said on the occasion. One can easily imagine the bearing of a good deal of it. The result on Miles was not very obvious at the time, but it bore fruit after many days.

The calm in our hero's breast was not, however, of long duration. The thought that, as a private in a marching regiment, he had not the means to maintain Marion, in the social position to which she had been accustomed, was a very bitter thought, and ruffled the sea of his feelings with a stiff breeze. This freshened to something like a gale of rebellion when he reflected that his case was all but hopeless; for, whatever might have been the truth of the statement regarding the French army under Napoleon, that "every soldier carried a marshal's baton in his knapsack," it did not follow that soldiers in the British army of the present day carried commissions in their knapsacks. Indeed, he knew it was by no means a common thing for men to rise from the ranks, and he was well aware that those who did so were elevated in virtue of qualities which he did not possess.

He was in the midst of one of his bosom storms when Sergeant Hardy came to inquire how he did.

Somehow the quiet, grave, manly nature of that sergeant had a powerful effect, not only on Miles but on every one with whom he came in contact. It was not so much his words as his manner that commended him. He was curiously contradictory, so to speak, in character and appearance. The stern gravity of his countenance suggested a hard nature, but lines of good-humour lurking about the eyes and mouth put to flight the suggestion, and acts of womanly tenderness on many occasions turned the scale the other way. A strong, tall, stiffly upright and slow-moving frame, led one to look only for elephantine force, but when circumstances required prompt action our sergeant displayed powers of cat-like activity, which were all the more tremendous that they seemed incongruous and were unexpected. From his lips you looked for a voice of thunder -- and at drill you were not disappointed -- but on ordinary occasions his speech was soft and low; bass indeed as to its quality, but never harsh or loud.

"A gale is brewing up from the nor'-west, so Jack Molloy says," remarked Hardy, as he was about to pass on.

"Why, I thought it was blowing a gale now!" returned Miles. "At least it seems so, if we may judge from the pitching and plunging."

"Ah, lad, you are judging from the landlubber's view-point," returned the sergeant. "Wait a bit, and you will understand better what Molloy means when he calls this only a 'capful of wind.'"

Miles had not to wait long. The gale when fully "brewed up" proved to be no mean descendant of the family of storms which have tormented the celebrated bay since the present economy of nature began; and many of those who were on board of the troop-ship at that time had their eyes opened and their minds enlarged as to the nature of a thorough gale; when hatches have to be battened down, and the dead-lights closed; when steersmen have to be fastened in their places, and the maddened sea seems to roar defiance to the howling blast, and all things movable on deck are swept away as if they were straws, and many things not meant to be movable are wrenched from their fastenings with a violence that nothing formed by man can resist, and timbers creak and groan, and loose furniture gyrates about until smashed to pieces, and well-guarded glass and crockery leap out of bounds to irrecoverable ruin, and even the seamen plunge about and stagger, and landsmen hold on to ring-bolts and belaying-pins, or cling to bulkheads for dear life, while mighty billows, thundering in-board, hiss along the decks, and everything, above, below, and around, seems being swept into eternity by the besom of destruction!

But the troop-ship weathered the storm nobly; and the good Lord sent fine weather and moderate winds thereafter; and ere long the soldiers were enjoying the sunshine, the sparkling waters, and the sight of the lovely shores of the blue Mediterranean.

Soon after that broken bones began to mend, and bruises to disappear; and our hero, thoroughly recovered from his accident, as well as greatly improved in general health, returned to his duties.

But Miles was not a happy man, for day by day he felt more and more severely that he had put himself in a false position. Besides the ever-increasing regret for having hastily forsaken home, he had now the bitter reflection that he had voluntarily thrown away the right to address Marion Drew as an equal.

During the whole voyage he had scarcely an opportunity of speaking a word to her. Of course the warm-hearted girl did not forget the important service that had been rendered to her by the young soldier, and she took more than one occasion to visit the fore part of the vessel for the purpose of expressing her gratitude and asking about his health, after he was able to come on deck; but as her father accompanied her on these occasions, the conversation was conducted chiefly between him and the reverend gentleman. Still, it was some comfort to hear her voice and see her eyes beaming kindly on him.

Once the youth inadvertently expressed his feelings in his look, so that Marion's eye-lids dropped, and a blush suffused her face, to hide which she instantly became unreasonably interested in the steam-winch beside which they were standing, and wanted to understand principles of engineering which had never troubled her before!

"What is the use of that curious machine?" she asked, turning towards it quickly.

"W'y, Miss," answered Jack Molloy, who chanced to be sitting on a spare yard close at hand working a Turk's head on a manrope, "that's the steam-winch, that is the thing wot we uses w'en we wants to hoist things out o' the hold, or lower 'em into it."

"Come, Marion, we must not keep our friend from his duties," said Mr Drew, nodding pleasantly to Miles as he turned away.

The remark was called forth by the fact that Miles had been arrested while on his way to the galley with a dish of salt pork, and with his shirt-sleeves, as usual, tucked up!

Only once during the voyage did our hero get the chance of talking with Marion alone. The opportunity, like most pieces of good fortune, came unexpectedly. It was on a magnificent night, just after the troop-ship had left Malta. The sea was perfectly calm, yet affected by that oily motion which has the effect of breaking a reflected moon into a million fragments. All nature appeared to be hushed, and the stars were resplendent. It was enough, as Jack Molloy said, to make even a bad man feel good!

"Do 'ee speak from personal experience, Jack?" asked a comrade on that occasion.

"I might, Jim, if you wasn't here," retorted Molloy; "but it's not easy to feel bad alongside o' you."

"That's like a double-edged sword, Jack -- cuts two ways. W'ich way d'ee mean it?"

"'W'ichever way you please,' as the man said w'en the alligator axed 'im w'ether he'd prefer to be chawed up or bolted whole."

Concluding that, on the whole, the conversation of his friends did not tend to edification, Miles left them and went to one of the starboard gangways, from which he could take a contemplative view of Nature in her beautiful robe of night. Curiously enough, Marion chanced to saunter towards the same gangway, and unexpectedly found him there.

"A lovely night, Mr Miles," she remarked.

Miles started, and turned with slight confusion in his face, which, happily, the imperfect light concealed.

"Beautiful indeed!" he exclaimed, thinking of the face before him -- not of the night!

"A cool, beautiful night like this," continued the girl -- who was of the romantic age of sixteen -- "will remain long, I should think, in your memory, and perhaps mitigate, in some degree, the hardships that are before you on the burning sand of Egypt."

"The memory of this night," returned Miles, with fervour, "will remain with me for ever! It will not only mitigate what you are pleased to call hardships, but will cause me to forget them altogether -- forget everything!"

"Nay, that were impossible," rejoined Marion, with a slight laugh; "for a true soldier cannot forget Duty!"

"True, true," said Miles dubiously; "at least it ought to be true; and I have no doubt is so in many cases, but -- "

What more he might have said cannot now be told, for they were interrupted at the moment by Captain Lacey, who, happening to walk in that direction, stopped and directed Miss Drew's attention to a picturesque craft, with high lateen sails, which had just entered into the silver pathway of the moon on the water.

Miles felt that it would be inappropriate in him to remain or to join in the conversation. With a heart full of disappointment and indignation he retired, and sought refuge in the darkest recesses of the pantry, to which he was welcome at all times, being a great favourite with the steward.

Whether it was the smell of the cheese or the ketchup we know not, but here better thoughts came over our hero. Insignificant causes often produce tremendous effects. The touching of a trigger is but a small matter; the effects of such a touch are sometimes deadly as well as touching. Possibly the sugar, if not the cinnamon, may have been an element in his change of mind. At all events it is safe to say that the general smell of groceries was associated with it.

Under the benign influence of this change he betook himself to the berth of the chief ship's-carpenter, with whom also he was a favourite. Finding the berth empty, and a light burning in it, he sat down to wait for his friend. The place was comparatively quiet and retired. Bethinking himself of the little packet which he had received at Portsmouth, and which still lay unopened in the breast-pocket of his shell-jacket, he pulled it out. Besides a Testament, it contained sundry prettily covered booklets written by Miss Robinson and others to interest the public in our soldiers, as well as to amuse the soldiers themselves. In glancing through "Our Soldiers and Sailors," "Institute Memories," "Our Warfare," "The Victory," "Heaven's Light our Guide," "Good-bye," and similar works, two facts were suddenly impressed upon his mind, and strongly illuminated -- namely, that there is such a thing as living for the good of others, and that up to that time he had lived simply and solely for himself!

The last sentence that had fallen from the lips of Marion that night was also strongly impressed upon him: -- "a true soldier cannot forget Duty!" and he resolved that "Duty" should be his life's watchword thenceforward. Such is the influence that a noble-minded woman may unconsciously have over even an unsteady man!

Soon after this the troop-ship reached the end of her voyage, and cast anchor off the coast of Egypt, near the far-famed city of Alexandria.



Chapter Nine.

Our Hero Meets A Friend Unexpectedly In Peculiar Circumstances, And Has A Very Strange Encounter.

Miles Milton's first experience in Alexandria was rather curious, and, like most surprising things, quite unlooked for.

The troops were not permitted to land immediately on arrival, but of course no such prohibition lay on the passengers, who went off immediately. In the hurry of doing so, the clergyman and his family missed saying good-bye to Miles, who happened to be on duty in some remote part of the vessel at the time, and the shore-boat could not be delayed. This caused Mr and Mrs Drew much regret, but we cannot add that it caused the same to Miss Drew, because that young lady possessed considerable command of feature, and revealed no feeling at all on the occasion.

Miles was greatly disappointed when he found that they had gone, but consoled himself with the hope that he could make use of his first day's leave to find them out in the town and say good-bye.

"But why encourage hope?" thought Miles to himself, with bitterness in his heart; "I'm only a private. Marion will never condescend to think of me. What have I to offer her except my worthless self?" (you see Miles was beginning to see through himself faintly.) "Even if my father were a rich man, able to buy me out of the army and leave me a fortune --  which he is not -- what right have I to expect that a girl like Marion would risk her happiness with a fellow who has no profession, no means of subsistence, and who has left home without money and without leave? Bah! Miles, you are about the greatest goose that ever put on a red coat!"

He was getting on, you see! If he had put "sinner" for "goose," his shot would have been nearer the mark; as it was, all things considered, it was not a miss. He smarted considerably under the self-condemnation. If a comrade had said as much he would have resented it hotly, but a man is wonderfully lenient to himself!

Under the impulse of these feelings he sought and obtained leave to go into the town. He wished to see how the new Soldiers' Institute being set up there was getting along. He had promised Miss Robinson to pay it a visit. That was his plea. He did not feel called upon to inform his officer of his intention to visit the Drews! That was quite a private matter -- yet it was the main matter; for, on landing, instead of inquiring for the spot where the new Institute was being erected, he began a search among the various hotels where English visitors were wont to put up. The search was successful. He found the hotel, but the family had gone out, he was told, and were not expected back till evening.

Disappointment, of course, was the result; but he would wait. It is amazing what an amount of patience even impatient men will exercise when under the influence of hope! There was plenty of time to run down and see the Institute, but he might miss his friends if they should chance to come in and go out again during his absence. What should he do?

"Bother the Institute!" he muttered to himself. "It's only bricks an' mortar after all, and I don't know a soul there."

He was wrong on both of these points, as we shall see.

"What's the use of my going?" he murmured, after a reflective pause.

"You promised the ladies of the Portsmouth Institute that you'd go to see it, and report progress," said that extraordinary Something inside of him, which had a most uncomfortable way of starting up and whispering when least expected to do so.

"And," added Something, "every gentleman should keep his word."

"True," replied Miles, almost angrily, though inaudibly; "but I'm not a gentleman, I'm only a private!"

"Goose!" retorted that pertinacious Something; "is not every private a gentleman who acts like one? And is not every gentleman a blackguard who behaves as such?"

Miles was silenced. He gave in, and went off at once to visit the Institute.

As he walked down the long straight street leading to the Grand Square, which had been almost destroyed by the bombardment, he passed numerous dirty drinking-shops, and wondered that English soldiers would condescend to enter such disgusting places. He was but a young soldier, and had yet to learn that, to men who have been fairly overcome by the power of the fiend Strong Drink, no place is too disgusting, and no action too mean, so that it but leads to the gratification of their intolerable craving. It is said that in two streets only there were 500 of these disreputable drinking-shops.

All sorts and conditions of men passed him as he went along: Turks, Greeks, Arabs, Negroes, Frenchmen, Italians, and Englishmen, the gay colours of whose picturesque costumes lent additional brilliancy to the sunny scene. The sight of the dark-skinned men and veiled women of the Arab quarter did more, however, than anything else to convince our hero that he had at last really reached the "East" -- the land of the ancient Pharaohs, the Pyramids, the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, and of modern contention!

Presently he came upon the piece of waste ground which had been chosen as the site of the new Institute. It was covered with the ruins --  shattered cement, glass, tiles, and general wreckage -- of the buildings that had stood there before the bombardment, and on three sides it was surrounded by heaps of stones, shattered walls, and rubbish, some acres in extent. But the place had the great advantage of being close to the old harbour, not far from the spot where ancient Alexandria stood, and was open to the fresh, cooling breezes that came in from the sea.

Arab workmen were busily employed at the time on the foundations of the building, under the superintendence of an unmistakable and soldierly-looking Englishman, whose broad back was presented to Miles as he approached. Turning suddenly round, Mr Tufnell, the manager of the Portsmouth Institute, confronted the visitor with a stern but perspiring visage, which instantly became illuminated with a beaming smile.

"What! Tufnell!" exclaimed our hero, in amazement.

"Ay, Miles; as large as life."

"Larger than life, if anything," said Miles, grasping the proffered hand, and shaking it warmly. "Why, man, the air of Egypt seems to magnify you."

"More likely that the heat of Egypt is making me grow. What are you rubbing your eyes for?"

"To make sure that they do not deceive," answered Miles. "Did I not leave you behind me at Portsmouth?"

"So you did, friend; but the voyage in a troop-ship is not the fastest method of reaching Egypt. As you see, I've overshot you in the race. I have come to put up the new building. But come to my palace here and have a talk and a cup of coffee. Glad to see that the voyage has agreed with you."

They reached the palace to which the manager referred, and found it to be a cottage of corrugated iron amidst the rubbish.

"Here," said Tufnell, offering his friend a chair, "I spend all my time and reign supreme -- monarch of all I survey. These are my subjects," he added, pointing to the Arab workmen; "that wilderness of rubbish is my kingdom; and yon heap of iron and stone, is the material out of which we mean to construct our Alexandria Institute. To save time, (the most valuable article in the world, if you'll believe me), Miss Robinson, as, perhaps, you may have heard, bought an old iron edifice in London, known as the Brompton Oratory, and sent it out here -- like a convict -- at Government expense. You see, not only the public, but Government, have now come to recognise the value of her work for soldiers."

"And your subjects, the Arabs -- are they obedient and loyal?" asked Miles.

"Pretty well; but they give me some trouble now and then. The other day, for instance, we had a sad accident, which at one time I feared would land us in serious difficulties. It is necessary, you must know, in laying foundations here, to dig through the sand some twelve to fifteen feet till water is reached, and then we lay a solid stone foundation about nine feet wide. Well, while digging this foundation, the sand fell in on one of the workmen. I off coat at once and set to work with a shovel, shouting to the fellows to help me. Instead of helping, they rushed at me in a body to prevent my interfering in the matter. Then they quarrelled among themselves as to the best way of getting the man out, and the result was that the poor fellow was suffocated, though he might easily have been rescued by prompt action. But that was not the end of it! The relations and friends of the man came down, made Eastern howling and lamentation over him, and laid his corpse at the door of my cottage, holding me responsible for his life, and demanding compensation! And it was not till I had paid a few francs to every brother and cousin and relative belonging to him that their grief was appeased and the dead body carried away.

"Still the matter did not end here, for next day the workmen said the accident was owing to the omission of a sacrifice at the commencement of the work, and they must have a lamb to kill on the ground, or more lives would certainly be lost. So I bought them a lamb, which they duly killed, cooked, and ate, after sprinkling its blood on the four corners of the foundation and on the walls. I had the skin of this lamb dressed and sent home as a curiosity." See note 1.

"You appear to have pretty rough times of it then, on the whole," said Miles.

"I never counted on smooth times," returned Tufnell; "besides, being used to roughing it, I am always glad to do so in a good cause. My palace, as you see, is not a bad one, though small. It is pretty hot too, as you seem to feel; and they tell me there will be some interesting variety in my experiences when the rainy season sets in! I wouldn't mind it so much if I could only be left to sleep in peace at nights. I stay here, you see, night and day, and what wi' the Arabs prowling around, whispering and trying to get in, and the wild dogs makin' the neighbourhood a place o' public meeting -- barking, howling, and quarrelling over their sorrows like human bein's, they don't give me much rest."

"I have read of these dogs before," said Miles. "Are they really as wild and dangerous as they get credit for?"

"If you'd seen the fight I had wi' them the other night you'd have no doubt on that point. Why, a gang of 'em made a regular attack on me, and if it hadn't been that I was pretty active with my sword-stick, they'd have torn me in bits. Let me advise you never to go out after nightfall without one. Is that one in your hand?"

"No, it is merely a cane."

"Well, exchange with me. There's no saying when you may want it."

Tufnell took a light sword-stick which lay on the table and handed it to Miles, who accepted it laughingly, and without the slightest belief that he should ever have occasion to use it.

In chatting about the plans of the building and the prospects of success, our hero became at last so deeply interested -- partly, no doubt, because of his friend's enthusiasm -- that he forgot the flight of time, and the evening was advancing before he rose to leave.

"Now, Tufnell," he said suddenly, "I must be off, I have another call of importance to make."

"What! won't you stop and have a cup of coffee with me?"

"Impossible. My business is urgent. I want to see friends whom I may not have the chance of seeing again. Good-night."

"Good-night, then, and have a care of the dogs, specially after nightfall."

On returning to the hotel shortly after sunset, Miles came to the conclusion that his love must certainly be "true," for its course was not running "smooth." His friends had not yet returned. Mrs Drew had indeed come back, alone in a cab, but she had "von headik an' vas go to the bed."

Waiting about in front of the hotel for an hoar or two proved to be too much for our hero's nerves; he therefore made up his mind to exhaust his nervous system by means of a smart walk. Soon he found himself in a lonely place, half-way between the Grand Square and the Ramleh Gate, with a deliciously cool breeze playing on his brow, and a full moon sailing overhead.

No one was moving about on the road along which he walked. He had it all to himself at first, and the evening would have been quiet as well as beautiful but for the yelping dogs which had, by that time, come out of their day-dens to search and fight for food and hold their nightly revels.

All round him were the heaps of rubbish caused by bombardment, and the ruined houses which war had rendered tenantless, though here and there the uprising of new buildings proved that the indomitable energy of man was not to be quelled by war or anything else. A flickering oil-lamp placed here and there at intervals threw a sickly yellow light into dark recesses which the moonbeams failed to reach. Intermingled with these were a few date-palms and bananas. After a time he observed a couple of figures in advance of him -- a man and woman -- walking slowly in the same direction.

Not wishing to have his thoughts disturbed, he pushed on, intending to pass the wayfarers. He had got to within a hundred paces of them when he became aware of a violent pattering sound behind him. Stopping and looking back he saw a pack of eight or nine of the wild, half-famished dogs of the place coming along the road at full gallop. He was quite aware that they were the savage, masterless creatures which keep close in hiding during the day, and come out at night to search for something to devour, but he could not bring himself to believe that any sort of dog was a dangerous animal. He therefore merely looked at them with interest as being natives of the place!

They passed without taking notice of him -- as ugly and wolfish a pack as one could wish to see -- led by a big fellow like a ragged disreputable collie. They also passed, with apparent indifference, the wayfarers in advance, who had stopped to look at them.

Suddenly, and without a note of warning, the whole pack turned and rushed back, yelling fiercely, towards the man and woman. The latter clung to the left arm of the former, who raised his stick, and brought it down with such good-will on the skull of the foremost dog that it reeled back with an angry howl. It was not cowed, however, for it came on again, but the man, instead of striking it, thrust the end of his stick down its throat and checked it a second time. Still unsubdued, the fierce animal flew at him once more, and would certainly have overcome him if Miles had not run to the rescue at the first sign of attack. Coming up quickly, he brought his cane down on the dog's head with all his might, having quite forgotten the sword in the excitement of the moment! The blow did nothing to the dog, but it shattered the cane, leaving the sword exposed! This was fortunate. A quick thrust sent the dog flying away with yells of pain and fear, followed by all his companions, who seemed to take their cue entirely from their leader.

Turning to congratulate the wayfarers on their escape, Miles confronted Mr Drew and his daughter Marion!

If he had encountered the glare of the great sea-serpent he could scarcely have been taken more completely aback.

"My dear young friend," said the clergyman, recovering himself and grasping the passive hand of the young soldier with enthusiasm, though he could not help smiling at his obvious embarrassment, "you seem to have been raised up to be our rescuer!"

"I hope I have been raised up for something even more satisfactory than that," thought Miles, but he did not say so! What he did say -- in a stammering fashion -- was to the effect that he hoped he might be called on to -- to -- render many more such trifling services -- no -- he did not quite mean that, but if they should ever again be in danger, he hoped they would call on him to -- to -- that is -- 

"But I hope sincerely," he added, changing the subject abruptly, "that you are not hurt, Miss Drew?"

"Oh dear no; only a little frightened. But, father, are you sure that you are not hurt?"

"Quite sure; only a little sprain, I think, or twist in my right ankle. The attack was so sudden, you see, that in the hurry to meet it my foot turned over. Give me your arm, my young friend. There; it will be all right in a few minutes. How you tremble, Marion! Your nerves have received a greater shock than you imagine, and a lame man is but a poor support. Give her your other arm, Mr Miles. You are stout enough to support us both."

Stout enough to support them both! Ay, at that moment Miles felt stout enough to support the entire world, like Atlas, on his own broad shoulders! With a blush, that the moon generously refused to reveal, Marion laid her hand lightly on the soldier's arm. It was much too light a touch, and did not distribute with fairness the weight of his burden, for the old gentleman hung heavily on the other arm. Mr Drew walked very slowly, and with evident pain, for the twist of the ankle had been much more severe than he at first imagined.

"You will come in and sup with us," said Mr Drew, on at last reaching the hotel door.

"Impossible. I am exceedingly sorry, but my time has almost expired. Indeed, I fear it has expired already, and duty comes before everything else. Your daughter taught me that lesson, sir, on board ship!"

"Oh you hypocrite!" remarked his familiar and plain-spoken internal friend; "where was this grand sense of duty when you left home in a rage without 'by your leave' to father or mother?" Miles could make no reply. He had a tendency to silence when this friend spoke, and returned to barracks in a pensive mood, just in time, as Armstrong said, to save his bacon.

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

Note 1. This fleece is now, among other curiosities, at the Portsmouth Institute.



Chapter Ten.

Off To The Wars.

The troops sent out to Egypt at that time were much wanted to reinforce the southern frontier and defend it from the attacks of Osman Digna, who, with a large host of the dusky warriors of the Soudan, was giving the defenders much trouble, and keeping them incessantly on the qui vive.

Miles Milton had no time while in Alexandria for anything but duty. He saw Marion only once again before leaving, but did not find an opportunity to converse with her alone. To do him justice, he had not the most distant intention of declaring the state of his feelings, even if the opportunity had been given. He merely desired to be in her company for a little on any terms whatever!

On that occasion, however, he contrived to scorch his heart with a double dose of jealousy, for he found two young men visiting the clergyman, each of whom seemed to be a friend of the family. One was a spendthrift named Rentworth -- a young traveller of that loose, easy-going type which is occasionally met with in foreign parts, squandering the money of a rich father. He was a decidedly handsome young fellow, but with the stamp of dissipation already on his countenance. The other was a telegraph engineer, with honesty and good-nature in every line of his plain countenance.

Both of these youths paid marked attention to Marion -- at least Miles thought so -- and he hated them both accordingly; all the more that he felt their eyes to be fixed upon him while he was bidding her "farewell." He did not say "Good-bye." That was too commonplace -- in the circumstances almost childish.

There was one gleam of comfort in the fact, however, that Marion echoed the word, and that he thought -- indeed he was sure -- her hand trembled slightly as she returned, or rather received, his squeeze. Miles was very stern of countenance and remarkably upright in figure while these adieux were being said -- for the glare of his rivals, he thought, was upon him.

How the poor fellow got through the preparations and packing and parades that were necessary when the order came abruptly for the regiment to start for Suez we cannot tell. He went about everything mechanically, or like a man in a dream. And it was not till they had fairly started in the railway train that he became alive to the serious fact that he was actually off to the wars!

The accommodation for passengers in that train was not good. Distinctly bad, indeed, would be the proper term to apply to the kind of cattle-truck, in which Miles found himself with a detachment of the gallant 310th Infantry; and soon the blinding dust of Egypt reminded our young soldier that the real battle of life had fairly begun.

"You'll get over it in time, my poor fellow," said his friend Armstrong, who sat beside him.

"You need the same consolation yourself, friend Willie," retorted Miles, wiping the dust out of the corners of his eyes.

"I didn't mean that," returned his friend. "You know what I mean! But cheer up; absence makes the heart grow fonder -- at the same time it makes a fellow fit for duty. I have gone through it myself, and know all about it."

Miles flushed and felt inclined at first to resent this allusion to the state of his affections, but he was fortunately saved from taking any notice of it by a sudden burst of laughter among the men at a remark from Corporal Flynn, who, although this was his first visit to Egypt, had undertaken to point out to his comrades the various localities which he chose to assume were more or less connected with Scripture history!

The first part of the journey was not particularly interesting, and what with the fine sand and the great heat, the men began to experience the discomforts of an Eastern climate, and to make frequent application to their water-bottles. It would have been well if they had contented themselves with water, and with the cold tea which some of them had been provident enough to save up at breakfast; but when they reached the first station where there was a five minutes' halt, some of them managed to smuggle strong drink into the train. One immediate result was that the men became more noisy.

"Come, give us a song, Gaspard," cried several voices, apparently inspired at the same moment with the same idea and desire.

"Wan wid a rousin' chorus, boy," cried Flynn.

Gaspard complied, being ever ready to oblige, but whether it was the heat, or the dust, or the "rousin'" chorus, or the drink, the song was a partial failure. Perhaps it was the excess of tremulo induced by the motion of the train! At all events it fell flat, and, when finished, a hilarious loud-voiced man named Simkin, or Rattling Bill, struck up "Rule Britannia," which more than made amends for the other, and was sung with intense vigour till the next station was reached.

Here more drink was smuggled on board the train, and, as a natural consequence, men became troublesome. A morose man named Sutherland, who was apt to grow argumentative and quarrelsome in his cups, made an assertion in reference to something terrestrial, which had no particular interest for any mortal man. Simkin contradicted it. Sutherland repeated it. Simkin knocked Sutherland's helmet overboard. Sutherland returned the compliment in kind, and their comrades had to quell an intestine war, while the lost head-pieces were left on the arid plain, where they were last seen surrounded by wonder-stricken and long-legged natives of the Flamingo tribe.

This loss was a serious one, for exposure of the head to the sun in such a climate is exceedingly dangerous, and the old hands had great difficulty in impressing the fact on Rattling Bill and Sutherland, who, with the obstinacy of "greenhorns," made light of the danger, and expressed disbelief in sunstroke.

Of course considerable interest was manifested when the station of Tel-el-Kebir was reached.

"It's two mile from this, I've bin towld," said Flynn, "where the great battle was fowt."

"How d'ee know that, Flynn?" asked one.

"How do I know anything I'm towld but by belaivin' it?" returned the corporal.

"It's my opeenion," said the big Scotsman Macleod, "that if there had been ony better troops than Egeeptians to fecht wi', oor men an' my Lord Wolseley wadna hae fund it sic an easy job."

"But it is said that the Egyptians were brave enough, and fought and died like men till they were fairly overpowered," said Moses Pyne, who, being young and ardent, besides just, felt bound to stand up for dead foes.

"I'm no objeckin' to their bravery," returned the Scot. "They did the best they could; but what was to be expeckit o' a wheen men that was dragged to the field against their wull, an' made to fecht afore they weel kent hoo to use their airms?"

"Anyhow they gave us a chance to show what British soldiers can do," said Rattling Bill.

"An' sure there's plenty more where they came from to give us another chance," said Flynn.

"That's true, boys. Three cheers for the heroes of Tel-el-Kebir, dead and livin'!" cried Armstrong, setting the example.

The response was prompt and hearty, and for a few moments a forest of white helmets waved in the air.

The enthusiasm was not allowed to cool, for the next station was Kassassin, where the Life Guards and our cavalry made their midnight charges; and where there occurred, perhaps, one of the longest day's fighting in the war of 1882. Here, also, they saw the graves of the poor fellows who fell at that time, but the sight did not depress the men much. The somewhat lugubrious Sutherland alone seemed to take a serious view of such matters.

"It's a' vera weel for licht-hearted lads like you to laugh an' cheer," he said, "but there's naething mair certain than that some o' you that's laughin' an' cheerin' yenoo, an' boastin' o' lickin' the Soudan neegers, 'll fill sandy graves afore lang."

"You don't know that, Scotty. Pr'a'ps we'll all escape and return to old England together," said one of his comrades.

"Arrah! if I did git into wan o' the sandy graves ye spake of," remarked Flynn, "I do belaive I'd rise out of it just for the pleasure o' contradictin' you, Sutherland."

"H'm! nae doot. Contradictiousness whiles maks fowk lively that wad be dull an' deed eneuch withoot it. But did onybody iver hear o' a reg'ment gaun' oot to the wars an' comin' back jist as it went? That's the question -- "

"As Hamlet's ghost said when he was takin' a night-walk to cool his-self," interposed Simkin.

"It wasna his ghost; it was his faither's ghost," cried Sutherland; "an' I'm no' sure that -- "

"Howld yer tongues, both o' ye!" cried Flynn; "sure the loss o' yer helmets is beginning to tell on yer heads already. What can the line be I see in the distance over there? I do belaive it's another o' thim broad rivers that seem to cut up this land all into stripes."

"Why, it's the canal, man," cried Moses Pyne, who was more or less enthusiastic about all the sights and scenes they were passing. "Don't ye see the ships?"

"Sure enough, you're right, Moses, as ye ginerally are whin you're not wrong. There's some ships comin' wan way, an' some goin' the other. Och! but he is a great jainius that Frenchman as tied the two says togither -- Lips -- Lisps -- what is it they calls him? I've clane forgot."

"Lesseps," said Miles, as he gazed with unusual interest on this wonderful highway of nations.

The troops reached Suez after a ten hours' journey, the distance being about 230 miles. Our hero made the acquaintance here of a private of marines named Stevenson, with whom he afterwards served in the Soudan, and with whom he became very friendly, not only because their spirits were sympathetic, but because, having been brought up in the same part of England, they had similar memories and associations in regard to "home." Only those who have wandered long and far from their native land can understand the attractive influence that arises between men who meet abroad, and find that they can chat about the same places and persons in the "old country."

It was Saturday when the troops arrived at Suez, and the heavy dew that fell rendered the night bitterly cold, and felt to be so all the more because of the intense heat of the day. Sunday began with "rousing out" at six, breakfast at seven, parade at eight, and "divine service" thereafter. As there was no clergyman at the place at the time, the duty was performed by one of the officers. Doubtless among the officers there are men who not only can "read prayers" well, but who have the spirit of prayer in them. That such, however, is not always the case may be gathered from the remark of one of the men upon this occasion.

"W'y, you know, Tom," said this rather severe critic to his comrade confidentially, "there's one advantage in fast readin', that it gets the business soon over, which is some sort o' comfort to fellows that has got to attend whether they like it or not, hot or cold, fresh or tired, unless dooty prevents. But the hofficer that did dooty to-day seemed to me to 'ave made a wager to read the prayers against time, an' that can do no good at all to any one, you know. Far better, in my opinion, to 'ave no service at all. No wonder men won't listen. Why, it's a mockery -- that's what it is."

A walk round Suez with Armstrong and Stevenson till tattoo at 9:30 finished the day, and convinced Miles and his friends that the sooner they bade adieu to that place the better for all of them.

Their wishes were gratified almost sooner than they wished!



Chapter Eleven.

New And Sad Mingled With Curious Experiences.

At Suez Miles Milton first made acquaintance with the shady side of war.

Before the commanding officer, after parade next morning, they received marching orders, and kit-muster followed. In the afternoon the Loch-Ard steamer came in from Suakim, with sick, wounded, and invalids, and a large party was told off to assist in landing them and their baggage. Miles was one of the party. The dock where the vessel lay was three miles off, and the greater part of this distance the invalids were brought by train; but the latter part of the journey had to be done on foot by those who could walk, and on stretchers by those who could not.

Oh! it was pitiful to see those battered, sunburnt, bloodless young men, with deep lines of suffering on their faces, aged before their time, and the mere wrecks of what they once were. Men who had gone to that region strong, active, ruddy, enthusiastic, and who, after a few months, returned thus feeble and shattered -- some irreparably so; others with perhaps years of joyless life before them; a few with the unmistakable stamp of death already on their brows.

There were about forty altogether. Some, as we have said, were carried from the vessel, and not one of the forlorn band could get on without the assistance of their fresh comrades from England.

One tall, deep-chested young soldier, who must have been a splendid specimen of manhood when he landed in Egypt, was supported on one side by Miles, and on the other by Stevenson.

"Halt a moment," said the invalid, in a weak voice and with an apologetic smile. "I -- I can't get along quite as fast as I used to."

His trembling legs and bowed back did not require the tongue or the large sunken eyes to confirm that obvious truth.

"Poor fellow!" said Miles -- with difficulty, owing to the lump in his throat -- "you ought to have had a stretcher. Here, sit down a bit on this stone. Have you been wounded?"

"Ay," returned the man with a look of quiet resignation that seemed to have become habitual to him, "I have been wounded, but not by spear or bullet. It's the climate that has done for me. I used to think that nothing under the sun could quell me, but the Lord has seen fit to bring down my pride in that matter. At the same time, it's only fair to say that He has also raised me up, and given me greater blessings than He has taken away. They told me in Portsmouth that He would, and it has come true."

"At the Institute?" asked Stevenson, eagerly.

"Ay -- the Soldiers' Institute," answered the invalid.

"God bless you!" returned the marine, grasping his hand. "It was there I was brought to God myself. Cheer up, brother! You'll soon be in hospital, where good food an' physic an' nursing will bring you round, may-hap, an' make you as ship-shape as ever."

"It may be so, if He wills it so," returned the trooper softly; "but I have a little book called 'Our Warfare,' and a letter from the 'Soldier's Friend' in my pocket, which has done me more good than all the hospitals and physic in Egypt can do. Come, let us go on. I'm better now."

Rising and putting a long arm round the shoulders of each of his new friends, the trooper slowly brought up the rear of the touching procession which had already passed them on its way to Suez.

In the vessel which had brought those unfortunate men from Suakim, Miles and his comrades soon found themselves advancing down that region of sweltering heat called the Red Sea. The sight of the disabled men had naturally, at first, a depressing effect on the men; but the influence of robust health, youth, strong hope, and that light-hearted courage which makes the British soldier so formidable to his foes, soon restored to most of them their wonted free-and-easy enjoyment of the present and disregard for the future. Even the serving out of cholera-belts and pocket-filters failed to allay their exuberant spirits.

The Loch-Ard, although doubtless a good ship for carrying coals, was very ill-suited to convey troops. But in times of war, and in distant lands, soldiers lay their account with roughing it.

They soon found that a little of the physic which is supposed to be "rough on rats" would have been of advantage; for the very first night many of the men were awakened by those creatures nibbling at their toes! Everything on board was dirty: the tin pannikins were rusty, the biscuit was mouldy and full of creatures that the captain called weevils and Macleod styled wee-deevils. Some of the biscuit was so bad that it had to be thrown away, and the remainder eaten, as Moses said, with closed eyes!

"It's an ill wind that blaws naebody guid," said Macleod to Moses Pyne, as he came on deck to enjoy a pipe after their first dinner on board. "What d'ee think that queer cratur Flynn is doin' doon below?"

"Nothing very useful, I daresay," said Moses.

"Ye're wrang for ance. He's lyin' in ambush there, makin' war on the rats -- ay, an' he's killed twa or three a'ready!"

"You don't say so! I'll go and see the fun."

So saying Moses went below, but had just reached the foot of the ladder when a boot caught him violently on the shins.

"Hi! hallo! ho!" shouted Moses.

"Och! git out o' the line o' fire wid ye! There's another!" growled Flynn, as he fired a second boot, which whizzed past the intruder, and a sharp squeak told that it had not been fired in vain!

Moses beat a hasty retreat, and the Irishman continued the fight with that indomitable perseverance for which his countrymen are famous. There is no saying how long the action would have lasted, but in his energy he knocked away the support of a shelf behind him and a small cask of large nails, taking him in rear, sent him sprawling on the deck and routed him.

This misadventure did not, however, terminate the war. On the contrary, rat-hunting became a favourite pastime during the voyage down the Red Sea. Our hero, of course, took his turn at the fighting, but we believe that he never received a medal for his share in that war.

They spent one Sunday on the deep, but the only record made of it, in the journal of the soldier from which most of our facts are gathered, is that they "had prayers in racing style -- against time!"

As if to cleanse themselves from the impropriety of this act the soldiers had a grand washing of clothes on the following day, and the day after that they arrived at Suakim.

"It is what I call a dreary, dismal-looking town," said Miles to Armstrong, as they approached.

"Might be worse," replied his friend.

"Ye aye tak a cheery view o' things, Airmstrong."

"An' what for no?" asked Sutherland.

"You may well ask why not," said Sergeant Hardy. "I think it wisest to look always on the bright side of things."

"Whether it's dreary or pleasant we'll have to make the best we can of it, boys," said Stevenson; "for this is to be our home for some time to come."

"Horrible!" growled Simkin, whose spirit was essentially rebellious.

"Ochone!" sighed Flynn, who, we need scarcely say, was essentially jolly.

Further remark was cut short by the voice of Captain Lacey ordering the men to fall in, as the colonel in command was coming on board to inspect them.

The night of the arrival of the 310th was dreadfully hot, insomuch that many of the men found it impossible to sleep. But in the silence of that night food for reflection was supplied to the wakeful, in the form of sounds that were new to many, but soon became familiar to all --  namely, the boom of big guns and the rattle of musketry. Osman Digna was making one of his customary attacks on the town, and the defenders were repelling him. Of course the sanguine among the new arrivals were much excited, and eager to join in the fray; but their services were not required that night. Osman and his dusky hordes were being repulsed as usual, and the reinforcements were obliged to content themselves with merely listening to the sounds of war.



Chapter Twelve.

In Action At Last.

No time was lost in sending the newly-arrived troops to their sphere of duty.

There was something appropriate in their landing on that day of gunpowdery memories, the 5th of November. It was four o'clock when they disembarked. By four-thirty they were drawn up and inspected by the General, and immediately thereafter marched off in detachments to their respective stations -- to Sphinx Redoubt, Fort Commodore, Bulimba, and other points of defence.

The detachment in which Miles Milton found himself was led by Captain Lacey to Sphinx Redoubt, where he was greatly pleased to find that his new friend, private Stevenson of the marines, was also stationed with some of his comrades.

There are probably times in the experiences of most of us when we seem to awake out of a long dream and begin to appreciate fully that the circumstances in which we are placed are stern realities after all. Such a time of awakening came to our hero when he and his comrades each received fifty rounds of ball-cartridge, and stood ready to repel assault on the defences of Suakim.

Hitherto drill and reviews had seemed to him a good deal like playing at soldiers. Even when the distant sound of the big guns and the rattle of small arms touched his ear, the slumber of unbelief was only broken -- not quite dispelled. But now, weighted with the deadly missiles, with rifle in hand, with ears alert to every sound, and eyes open to every object that might present itself on the sandy waste beyond the redoubt, and a general feeling of expectancy pervading his thoughts and feelings, he became clearly convinced that the recent past was no flight of the imagination -- that he was in very truth a soldier, and that his fighting career had in reality begun!

Now, it may not be out of place here to state that our hero was not by nature a combative man. We think it necessary to point this out, because the somewhat pugnacious introduction of Miles into our story may have misled the reader on this point. His desire for a soldier's life was founded on a notion that it would prove to be a roving, jovial, hilarious sort of life, with plenty of sport and adventure in foreign lands. Of course he knew that it implied fighting also, and he was quite ready for that when it should be required of him; but it did not occur to him to reflect very profoundly that soldiering also meant, in some instances, exposure to withering heat during the day and stifling heat during the night; to thirst that seems unquenchable, and fatigue from prolonged duty that seems irreparable; to fits of sickness that appear to eliminate from stalwart frames all the strength they had ever possessed; and fits of the "blues" that render the termination of life a subject of rather pleasant contemplation than otherwise. But all these things he found out at Suakim!

Moreover, it had not occurred to him to think deeply on the fact that fighting meant rushing at a fellow-man whose acquaintance he had not made before; against whom he had not the slightest feeling of ill-will, and skewering him with a bayonet, or sending a bullet into him which would terminate his career in mid-life, and leave a wife and children --  perhaps a mother also -- disconsolate. But he also found that out at Suakim!

We repeat that Miles had no desire to fight, though, of course, he had no objection. When the officer in command sent him and his comrades to their station -- after the ball-cartridge supply just referred to -- and told them to keep a sharp look-out, for Osman Digna was giving them a great deal of trouble at the time, and pointed out where they were to go if attacked, and warned them to be ready to turn out on the instant that the bugle should sound the alarm, Miles was as full of energy and determination to fight and die for his country as the best of his comrades, though he did not express so strong a wish for a "brush with the enemy," as some of them did, or sympathise much with Corporal Flynn when he said -- 

"It's wishin' I am that Osman an' his dirty naygurs would come down on us this night, for we're fresh an' hearty, just off the say, burnin' for fame an' glory, ivery mother's son of us, an' fit to cut the black bastes up into mince-meat. Och! but it's thirsty I am!"

"If ye spoke less an' thocht mair ye wadna be sae dry, maybe," remarked Saunders, in a cynical tone.

"Hoots, man, let the cratur alane," said Macleod, as he busied himself polishing up some dim parts of his rifle. "It's no muckle pleesure we're like to hae in this het place. Let the puir thing enjoy his boastin' while he may."

"Sure an' we're not widout consolation anyhow," retorted the corporal; "for as long as we've got you, Mac, and your countryman, to cheer us wid your wise an' lively talk we'll niver die o' the blues."

As he spoke a tremendous explosion not far off caused the redoubt to tremble to its foundations. At the same moment the alarm sounded, the men sprang up, seized their arms, and stood ready for an attack; but to their surprise no attack was made.

"Surely it must have been one of the mines you were telling me about," said Miles, in a low voice to Sergeant Gilroy, who stood near to him.

"It was one of them unquestionably, for a corporal of the Berkshire regiment told me Lieutenant Young placed the mine there yesterday."

While Gilroy was speaking, Lieutenant Young himself came along, engaged in earnest conversation with Captain Lacey, and stood still close beside Miles.

"What puzzles me, is that they have not followed it up with a few volleys, according to their usual custom," said the former, in a low voice. "Luckily they seldom do any harm, for they are uncommonly bad shots, but they generally try their best to do us mischief, and always make a good deal of noise about it."

"Perhaps," suggested Captain Lacey, "your mine has done so much execution this time, and killed so many men, that they've got a fright and run away."

"It may be so, but I think not. The Soudanese are not easily frightened, as we have some cause to know."

"Have you many mines about?" asked the captain.

"Yes, we have a good many. And they form a most important part of our defence, for we are not very well supplied with men, and the Egyptian troops are not to be depended on unless backed up by ours. These mines require to be carefully handled, however, for our shepherds take the cattle out to graze every day, so that if I were to fail to disconnect any of them in the mornings, we should have some of our cattle blown up; and if I failed to connect them again at night, the enemy would attack us more vigorously. As it is, they are very nervous about the mines. They have pluck to face any foe that they can see, but the idea of an unseen foe, who lurks underground anywhere, and may suddenly send them into the sky like rockets, daunts them a bit."

"And little wonder!" returned the captain. "From what you say I judge that you have the management of most of the mines."

"Of all of them," answered the lieutenant, with a modest look.

There was more than modesty in this young officer of Engineers; there was heroism also. He might have added, (though he did not), that this duty of connecting and disconnecting the mines each night and morning was such a dangerous service that he declined to take men out with him, and invariably did the work personally and alone.

The mystery of the explosion on the night we write of was explained next morning when a party sallied forth to see what damage had been done. They found, instead of dismembered men, the remnants of a poor little hare which had strayed across the fatal line of danger and been blown to atoms. Thus do the lives of the innocent too often fall a sacrifice to the misdeeds of the guilty!

Next night, however, the defenders were roused by a real attack.

The day had been one of the most trying that the new arrivals had yet experienced. The seasoned men, who had been formed by Nature, apparently, of indestructible material, said it was awful. The thermometer stood at above 110 degrees in the shade; there was not a breath of air moving; the men were panting, almost choking. Even the negroes groaned, and, drawing brackish water from a well in the fort, poured it over their heads and bodies -- but with little benefit, for the water itself was between 95 and 100 degrees!

"It'll try some o' the new-comers to-night, if I'm not mistaken," remarked one of the indestructible men above referred to, as he rose from dinner and proceeded to fill his pipe.

"Why d'you think so?" asked Sergeant Hardy, whose name was appropriate, for he continued for a long time to be one of the indestructibles.

"'Cause it's always like this when we're goin' to have a horrible night."

"Do the nights vary much?" asked Armstrong, who was still busy with his knife and fork.

"Of course they do," returned the man. "Sometimes you have it quite chilly after a hot day. Other times you have it suffocatin' -- like the Black Hole of Calcutta -- as it'll be to-night."

"What sort o' hole was that?" asked Simkin, whose knowledge of history was not extensive.

"It was a small room or prison into which they stuffed a lot of our men once, in India, in awful hot weather, an' kep' them there waitin' till the Great Mogul, or some chap o' that sort, should say what was to be done wi' them. But his Majesty was asleep at the time, an' it was as much as their lives was worth to waken him. So they had to wait, an' afore he awakened out o' that sleep most o' the men was dead -- suffocated for want o' fresh air."

"I say, Mac, pass the water," said Moses Pyne. "It makes a feller feel quite gaspy to think of."

The weather-prophet proved to be right. That night no one could sleep a wink, except the big Scotsman Macleod. To make matters worse, the insects of the place were unusually active. One of them especially, not much bigger than a pin-point, was irritating out of all proportion to its size, and it kept up, during the night, the warfare which the innumerable flies had waged during the day.

"It's no use trying to sleep, Willie," said Miles to Armstrong, who was next to him, as they lay on the flat roof of the redoubt, with their rifles resting on the sandbags which formed a slight protection from the enemy's fire when one of the frequent attacks was made on the town.

"So I find," returned his friend. "I have tried everything. Counting up to hundreds of thousands has made me rather more wakeful. I find that thinking of Emmy does me most good, but even that won't produce sleep."

"Strange!" remarked Miles. "I have been trying the same sort of thing --  without success. And I've had an unusually hard day of it, so that I ought to be ready for sleep. You were in luck, being on police-duty."

"H'm! I don't think much of my luck. But let's hear what you have been up to all day."

"Well, first, I began by turning out at 5:30 a.m.," said Miles, rolling with a sigh on his other side, for a uniform, cross-belts, boots, ammunition, etcetera, don't, after all, form an easy night-dress. "After a cup of coffee I fell in with a lot of our fellows, and was told off for fatigue-duty. Worked away till 7:30. Then breakfast. After that I had to clear up the mess; then got ready for inspection parade at 9:30, after which I had to scrub belts, and clean up generally. Dinner over, I was warned to go on night-guard; but, for some reason which was not stated to me, that was changed, and I'm not sorry for it, because the heat has taken a good deal out of me, and I prefer lying here beside you, Willie, to standing sentry, blinking at the desert, and fancying every bush and stone to be a dusky skirmisher of Osman Digna. By the way, if that mountain range where the enemy lies is twelve or fourteen miles distant from the town, they have a long way to come when they take a fancy to attack us -- which is pretty often too. They say he has got two hundred thousand men with him. D'you think that can be true?"

A gentle trumpet-note from his friend's nose told Miles that he had brought about what thoughts of Emmy had failed to accomplish!

Thoughts of Marion had very nearly brought himself to a similar condition, when a trumpet-blast, the reverse of gentle, roused the whole line of defence, and, immediately after, sharp firing was heard in the direction of the right Water fort, which was manned by marines with two Krupp guns and a Gardner. A few rounds from the big guns drove the enemy back in that direction.

Miles and those around him, however, had not to turn out. Owing to their position on the roof of the Sphinx Redoubt, they had only to roll on their fronts, rest their rifles on the sandbags, and they were at once ready for action.

Round the various forts and redoubts deep and broad trenches had been dug, and they were rendered otherwise as strong as possible. The right and left Water forts formed the first line of defence. The latter fort, being manned by Egyptian troops, was more frequently favoured with the attentions of Osman than the others, for the marines were splendid men, and the native chief was well aware of that. All the places around, which offered the slightest shelter to the enemy, had been carefully measured as to distance, so that the exact range could be fixed at a moment's notice. Then the war-vessels and one of the forts were furnished with electric lights, so that, by bringing these to bear on the foe, as well as the big and little guns -- not to mention mines and rifles -- the attacking host had always a warm reception when they paid a visit to the town, and never stayed long!

The defenders required all these aids, however; for, besides a regiment of Egyptian infantry, a company of Royal Engineers, and about 500 marines, there was only one small battalion of British troops and a regiment of Egyptian cavalry. These last were extremely useful. Every day they went out scouting and clearing around Suakim, and had frequent skirmishes with the enemy, in all of which they were said to have behaved very well indeed.

Our party on the redoubt had not lain there long when a sheet of flame seemed to flash out of the darkness in front of them. It was followed by the rattle of small arms. Instantly the redoubt replied; bullets whizzed overhead, and our hero received what has of late been called a "baptism of fire."

But he was so busy plying his own weapon that he scarcely realised the fact that death was ever and anon within a few inches of him, until a bullet ripped the sandbag on which his rifle rested and drove the sand into his face. He became a wiser man from that hour, and soon acquired the art of performing his duty with the least possible exposure of his person, and that for the briefest possible space of time!

Like a first-rate detective, the electric light sought out and exposed their foes; then withering volleys sent them scurrying across the country back to their native hills.

"Sure it's wid wan eye open we've got to slape whin the murtherin' rascals come down on us like that," observed Corporal Flynn, when the firing had slackened to a few dropping shots on both sides.

"Av they'd only stand fornint us in the open, it's short work we'd make o' them. There's no more pluck in them than in my smallest finger."

It seemed as if righteous retribution were being meted out that night, for a spent ball entered the fort at that moment and, strange to say, hit the extreme tip of the corporal's little finger!

A howl, as much of surprise as pain, apprised his comrades of the fact, and a hearty laugh followed when the trifling extent of the injury was ascertained.

"Serves you right, Flynn, for boasting," said Armstrong, with a grim smile, as he stretched himself out and rested his head on a sandbag. "Moreover, you are unjust, for these black fellows are as brave a lot o' men as British troops have ever had to face. Good-night, boys, I'm off to the land of Nod!"



Chapter Thirteen.

Tells Of Some Of The Trials, Uncertainties, Dangers, And Disasters Of War.

Uncertain moonlight, with a multitude of cloudlets drifting slowly across the sky so as to reveal, veil, partially obscure, or sometimes totally blot out the orb of night, may be a somewhat romantic, but is not a desirable, state of things in an enemy's country, especially when that enemy is prowling among the bushes.

But such was the state of things one very sultry night when our hero found himself standing in the open alone, and with thoughts of a varied and not wholly agreeable nature for his companions.

He was on sentry duty.

It was intensely dark when the clouds partially veiled the moon, for she was juvenile at the time -- in her first quarter; and when the veil was partially removed, the desert, for it was little better, assumed an indistinct and ghostly-grey appearance.

Sombre thoughts naturally filled the mind of our young soldier as he stood there, alert, watchful, with weapons ready, ears open to the slightest sound, and eyes glancing sharply at the perplexing shadows that chased each other over the ground like wanton Soudanese at play. His faculties were intensely strung at what may well be styled "attention," and riveted on that desert land to which Fate -- as he called his own conduct -- had driven him. Yet, strange to say, his mysterious spirit found leisure to fly back to old England and revisit the scenes of childhood. But he had robbed himself of pleasure in that usually pleasant retrospect. He could see only the mild, sorrowful, slightly reproachful, yet always loving face of his mother when in imagination he returned home. It was more than he could bear. He turned to pleasanter memories. He was back again at Portsmouth, in the reading-room of the Soldiers' Institute, with red-coated comrades around him, busy with newspaper and illustrated magazine, while the sweet sound of familiar music came from the adjoining rooms, where a number of Blue Lights, or rather red-coats, who were not ashamed to own and serve their Maker, were engaged with songs of praise.

Suddenly he was back in Egypt with his heart thumping at his ribs. An object seemed to move on the plain in front of him. The ready bayonet was lowered, the trigger was touched. Only for a moment, however. The shadow of a cloud had passed from behind a bush -- that was all; yet it was strange how very like to a real object it seemed to his highly-strung vision. A bright moonbeam next moment showed him that nothing to cause alarm was visible.

Mind is not so easily controlled as matter. Like a statue he stood there in body, but in mind he had again deserted his post. Yet not to so great a distance as before. He only went the length of Alexandria, and thought of Marion! The thought produced a glow, not of physical heat -- that was impossible to one whose temperature had already risen to the utmost attainable height -- but a glow of soul. He became heroic! He remembered Marion's burning words, and resolved that Duty should henceforth be his guiding-star!

Duty! His heart sank as he thought of the word, for the Something within him became suddenly active, and whispered, "How about your duty to parents? You left them in a rage. You spent some time in Portsmouth, surrounded by good influences, and might have written home, but you didn't. You made some feeble attempts, indeed, but failed. You might have done it several times since you landed in this country, but you haven't. You know quite well that you have not fully repented even yet!"

While the whispering was going on, the active fancy of the youth saw the lovely face of Marion looking at him with mournful interest, as it had been the face of an angel, and then there came to his memory words which had been spoken to him that very day by his earnest friend Stevenson the marine: "No man can fully do his duty to his fellows until he has begun to do his duty to God."

The words had not been used in reference to himself but in connection with a discussion as to the motives generally which influence men. But the words were made use of by the Spirit as arrows to pierce the youth's heart.

"Guilty!" he exclaimed aloud, and almost involuntary followed, "God forgive me!"

Again the watchful ear distinguished unwonted sounds, and the sharp eye -- wonderfully sharpened by frequent danger -- perceived objects in motion on the plain. This time the objects were real. They approached. It was "the rounds" who visited the sentries six times during each night.

In another part of the ground, at a considerable distance from the spot where our hero mounted guard, stood a youthful soldier, also on guard, and thinking, no doubt, of home. He was much too young for service in such a climate -- almost a boy. He was a ruddy, healthy lad, with plenty of courage and high spirit, who was willing to encounter anything cheerfully, so long as, in so doing, he could serve his Queen and country. But he was careless of his own comfort and safety. Several times he had been found fault with for going out in the sun without his white helmet. Miles had taken a fancy to the lad, and had spoken seriously, but very kindly, to him that very day about the folly of exposing himself in a way that had already cost so many men their lives.

But young Lewis laughed good-naturedly, and said that he was too tough to be killed by the sun.

The suffocating heat of that night told upon him, however, severely --  tough though he was or supposed himself to be -- while he kept his lonely watch on the sandy plain.

Presently a dark figure was seen approaching. The sentinel at once challenged, and brought his rifle to the "ready." The man, who was a native, gave the password all right, and made some apparently commonplace remark as he passed, which, coupled with his easy manner and the correct countersign, threw the young soldier off his guard. Suddenly a long sharp knife gleamed in the faint light and was drawn across the body of Lewis before he could raise a hand to defend himself. He fell instantly, mortally wounded, with his entrails cut open. At the same moment the tramp of the rounds was heard, and the native glided back into the darkness from which he had so recently emerged.

When the soldiers came to the post they found the poor young soldier dying. He was able to tell what had occurred while they were making preparations to carry him away, but when they reached the fort they found that his brief career had ended.

A damp was cast on the spirits of the men of his company when they learned next day what had occurred, for the lad had been a great favourite; but soldiers in time of war are too much accustomed to look upon death in every form to be deeply or for long affected by incidents of the kind. Only the comrades who had become unusually attached to this poor youth mourned his death as if he had been a brother in the flesh as well as in the ranks.

"He was a good lad," said Sergeant Gilroy, as they kept watch on the roof of the fort that night. "Since we came here he has never missed writing to his mother a single mail. It is true, being an amiable lad, and easily led through his affections, he had given way to drink to some extent, but no later than yesterday I prevailed upon him to join our temperance band -- "

"What? become a Blue Light!" exclaimed Sutherland, with something of a sneer in his tone.

"Ah, comrade; and I hope to live to see you join our band also, and become one of the bluest lights among us," returned the sergeant good-humouredly.

"Never!" replied Sutherland, with emphasis; "you'll never live to see that."

"Perhaps not, but if I don't live to see it some one else will," rejoined the sergeant, laying his hand gently on the man's shoulder.

"Is that you again? It's wishin' I am that I had you in ould Ireland," growled Corporal Flynn, referring to Osman Digna, whose men had opened fire on the neighbouring fort, and again roused the whole garrison. "Slape is out o' the question wi' such a muskitos buzzin' about. Bad luck to 'ee!"

"What good would it do to send him to Ireland?" asked Simkin, as he yawned, rolled over, and, like the rest of his comrades, loaded his rifle.

"Why, man, don't ye see, av he was in ould Ireland he couldn't be disturbin' our night's rest here. Moreover, they'd make a dacent man of 'im there in no time. It's always the way; if an English blackguard goes over to Ireland he's almost sure to return home more or less of a gintleman. That's why I've always advised you to go over, boy. An' maybe if Osman wint he'd -- Hallo!"

A flash of light and whistling of bullets overhead effectually stopped the Irishman's discourse. Not that he was at all alarmed by the familiar incident, but being a change of subject it became more absorbingly interesting than the conversation, besides necessitating some active precautions.

The firing seemed to indicate an attack in several places along the line of defence. At one of the posts called the New House the attack was very sharp. The enemy could not have been much, if at all, over three hundred yards distant in the shelter of three large pits. Of course the fire was vigorously returned. A colonel and major were there on the redoubt, with powerful field-glasses, and directed the men where to fire until the General himself appeared on the scene and took command. On the left, from Quarantine Island, the Royal Engineers kept up a heavy cross-fire, and on the right they were helped by a fort which was manned by Egyptian troops. From these three points a heavy fire was kept up, and continued till six o'clock in the morning.

By that time, the enemy having been finally driven out of the pits, a party was sent across to see what execution had been done. It was wonderfully little, considering the amount of ammunition and energy expended. In the first pit one man was found dead; a bullet had entered his forehead and come out at the back of his head. Moving him a little on one side they found another man under him, shot in the same way. All round the pit inside were large pools of blood, but no bodies, for the natives invariably dragged or carried away their dead when that was possible. In the other two pits large pools of blood were also found, but no bodies. Beyond them, however, one man was discovered shot through the heart. He had evidently been dragged along the sand, but the tremendous fire of the defenders had compelled the enemy to drop him. Still further on they found twelve more corpses which had been dragged a short way and then left.

Close to these they observed that the sand had been disturbed, and on turning it up found that a dozen of bodies had been hastily buried there. Altogether they calculated that at least fifty of the enemy had been killed on that occasion -- a calculation which was curiously verified by the friendly tribes asking permission to bury the dead according to the Soudanese custom. This was granted, of course, and thus the exact number killed was ascertained, but how many had been wounded no one could tell.

"Fifty desolated homes!" remarked one of the men, when the number of killed was announced at mess that day. He was a cynical, sour-visaged man, who had just come out of hospital after a pretty severe illness. "Fifty widows, may-hap," he continued, "to say nothin' o' child'n -- that are just as fond o' husbands an' fathers as ours are!"

"Why, Jack Hall, if these are your sentiments you should never have enlisted," cried Simkin, with a laugh.

"I 'listed when I was drunk," returned Hall savagely.

"Och, then, it sarves ye right!" said Flynn. "Even a pig would be ashamed to do anythin' whin it was in liquor."

The corporal's remark prevented the conversation taking a lugubrious turn, to the satisfaction of a few of the men who could not endure to look at anything from a serious point of view.

"What's the use," one of them asked, "of pullin' a long face over what you can't change? Here we are, boys, to kill or be killed. My creed is, 'Take things as they come, and be jolly!' It won't mend matters to think about wives and child'n."

"Won't it?" cried Armstrong, looking up with a bright expression from a sheet of paper, on which he had just been writing. "Here am I writin' home to my wife -- in a hurry too, for I've only just heard that word has been passed, the mail for England goes to-day. I'm warned for guard to-night, too; an' if the night takes after the day we're in for a chance o' suffocation, to say nothing o' insects -- as you all know. Now, won't it mend matters that I've got a dear girl over the sea to think about, and to say 'God bless her, body and soul?'"

"No doubt," retorted the take-things-as-they-come-and-be-jolly man, "but -- but -- "

"But," cried Hall, coming promptly to his rescue, "have not the Soudanese got wives an' children as well as us?"

"I daresay they have -- some of 'em."

"Well, does the thought of your respective wives an' children prevent your shooting or sticking each other when you get the chance?"

"Of course it don't!" returned Armstrong, with a laugh as he resumed his pencil. "What would be the use o' comin' here if we didn't do that? But I haven't time to argue with you just now, Hall. All I know is that it's my duty to write to my wife, an' I won't let the chance slip when I've got it."

"Bah!" exclaimed the cynic, relighting his pipe, which in the heat of debate he had allowed to go out.

Several of the other men, having been reminded of the mail by the conversation, also betook themselves to pen and pencil, though their hands were more familiar with rifle and bayonet. Among these was Miles Milton. Mindful of his recent thoughts, and re-impressed with the word Duty, which his friend had just emphasised, he sat down and wrote a distinctly self-condemnatory letter home. There was not a word of excuse, explanation, or palliation in it from beginning to end. In short, it expressed one idea throughout, and that was -- Guilty! and of course this was followed by his asking forgiveness. He had forgiveness -- though he knew it not -- long before he asked it. His broken-hearted father and his ever-hopeful mother had forgiven him in their hearts long before -- even before they received that treasured fragment from Portsmouth, which began and ended with:

"Dearest Mother, I am sorry -- "

After finishing and despatching the letter, Miles went out with a feeling of lightness about his heart that he had not felt since that wretched day when he forsook his father's house.

As it was still early in the afternoon he resolved to take a ramble in the town, but, seeing Sergeant Gilroy and another man busy with the Gardner gun on the roof of the redoubt, he turned aside to ask the sergeant to accompany him; for Gilroy was a very genial Christian, and Miles had lately begun to relish his earnest, intelligent talk, dashed as it was with many a touch of humour.

The gun they were working with at the time had been used the day before in ascertaining the exact range of several objects on the ground in front.

"I'll be happy to go with you, Miles, after I've given this gun a clean-out," said Gilroy. "Turn the handle, Sutherland."

"I'll turn the handle if it's a' richt," said the cautious Scot, with some hesitation.

"It is all right," returned the sergeant. "We ran the feeder out last night, you know, and I want to have the barrels cleaned. Turn away."

Thus ordered a second time, Sutherland obeyed and turned the handle. The gun went off, and its contents passed through the sergeant's groin, making a hole through which a man could have passed his arm.

He dropped at once, and while some ran for the doctor, and some for water, others brought a stretcher to carry the poor fellow to hospital. Meanwhile Miles, going down on his knees beside him, raised his head and moistened his pale lips with water. He could hardly speak, but a smile passed over his face as he said faintly, "She'll get my presents by this mail. Write, Miles -- break it to her -- we'll meet again -- by the side of Jesus -- God be praised!"

He ceased, and never spoke again.

Gilroy was a married man, with five children. Just before the accident he had written to his wife enclosing gifts for his little ones, and telling, in a thankful spirit, of continued health and safety. Before the mail-steamer with his letter on board was out of sight he was dead!



Chapter Fourteen.

Describes Some Of Osman Digna's Eccentricities And Other Matters.

One day Miles and his friend Armstrong went to have a ramble in the town of Suakim, and were proceeding through the bazaar when they encountered Simkin hurrying towards them with a much too serious expression on his face!

"Have you heard the n-news?" he asked, on coming up.

"No; what's up?"

"The old shep-shepherd's bin killed; all the c-cattle c-captured, an' the Egyptian c-cavalry's bin sent out after them."

"Nonsense! You're dreaming, or you've bin drinking," said Miles.

"Neither dreamin' nor drinkin'," returned Simkin, with indignation, as he suddenly delivered a blow at our hero's face. Miles stopped it, however, gave him a playful punch in the chest, and passed on.

At first Simkin seemed inclined to resent this, but, while he swayed about in frowning indecision, his comrades left him; shaking his head, therefore, with intense gravity, he walked away muttering, "Not a bad fellow Miles, after all, if he w-wasn't so fond o' the b-bottle!"

Miles was at the same moment making the same remark to his friend in reference to Simkin, and with greater truth.

"But I don't wonder that the men who drink, go in for it harder than ever here," continued Miles. "There is such hard work, and constant exposure, and so little recreation of any sort. Yet it is a pity that men should give way to it, for too many of our comrades are on the sick-list because of it, and some under the sod."

"It is far more than a pity," returned Armstrong, with unwonted energy. "Drink with its attendant evils is one of the great curses of the army. I have been told, and I can well believe it, that drink causes more loss to an army than war, the dangers of foreign service, and unhealthy climates, all put together."

"That's a strong statement, Willie, and would need to be founded on good authority. Who told you?"

"Our new parson told me, and he is in my opinion a good authority, because he is a Christian, if ever a man was; and he is an elderly man, besides being uncommonly clever and well informed. He told us a great many strong facts at the temperance meeting we held last night. I wish you had been there, Miles. It would have warmed your heart, I think."

"Have you joined them, Willie?"

"Yes, I have; and, God helping me, I mean to stick by them!"

"I would have gone to the meeting myself," said Miles thoughtfully, "if I had been asked."

"Strange," returned Armstrong, "that Sergeant Hardy said to me he thought of asking you to accompany us, but had an idea that you wouldn't care to go. Now, just look at that lot there beside the grog-shop door. What a commentary on the evils of drink!"

The lot to which he referred consisted of a group of miserable loungers in filthy garments and fez-caps, who, in monkey-like excitement, or solemn stupidity, stood squabbling in front of one of the many Greek drinking-shops, with which the town was cursed.

Passing by at the moment, with the stately contempt engendered by a splendid physique and a red coat, strode a trooper -- one of the defenders of the town. His gait was steady enough, but there was that unmistakable something in the expression of his face which told that he was in the grip of the same fiend that had captured the men round the grog-shop door. He was well-known to both Armstrong and Miles.

"Hallo! Johnson," cried the latter. "Is there any truth in the -- "

He stopped, and looked steadily in the trooper's eyes without speaking.

"Oh yes, I know what you mean," said Johnson, with a reckless air. "I know that I'm drunk."

"I wouldn't say exactly that of you," returned Miles; "but -- "

"Well, well, I say it of myself," continued the trooper. "It's no use humbuggin' about it. I'm swimmin' wi' the current. Goin' to the dogs like a runaway locomotive. Of course I see well enough that men like Sergeant Hardy, an' Stevenson of the Marines, who have been temperance men all their lives, enjoy good health -- would to God I was like 'em! And I know that drinkers are dyin' off like sheep, but that makes it all the worse for me, for, to tell you the honest truth, boys -- an' I don't care who knows it -- I can't leave off drinkin'. It's killin' me by inches. I know, likewise, that all the old hard drinkers here are soon sent home ruined for life -- such of 'em at least as don't leave their miserable bones in the sand, and I know that I'm on the road to destruction, but I can't -- I won't give it up!"

"Ha! Johnson," said Armstrong, "these are the very words quoted by the new parson at the temperance meetin' last night -- an' he's a splendid fellow with his tongue. 'Hard drinker,' says he, 'you are humbuggin' yourself. You say you can't give up the drink. The real truth is, my man, that you won't give it up. If only I could persuade you, in God's strength, to say "I will," you'd soon come all right.' Now, Johnson, if you'll come with me to the next meetin' -- "

"What! me go to a temperance meetin'?" cried the trooper with something of scorn in his laugh. "You might as well ask the devil to go to church! No, no, Armstrong, I'm past prayin' for -- thank you all the same for invitin' me. But what was you askin' about news bein' true? What news?"

"Why, that the old shepherd has been killed, and all our cattle are captured, and the Egyptian cavalry sent after them."

"You don't say so!" cried the trooper, with the air of a man who suddenly shakes off a heavy burden. "If that's so, they'll be wantin' us also, no doubt."

Without another word he turned and strode away as fast as his long legs could carry him.

Although there might possibly be a call for infantry to follow, Miles and his friend did not see that it was needful to make for their fort at more than their ordinary pace.

It was a curious and crowded scene they had to traverse. Besides the grog-shops already mentioned there were numerous coffee-houses, where, from diminutive cups, natives of temperate habits slaked their thirst and discussed the news -- of which, by the way, there was no lack at the time; for, besides the activity of Osman Digna and his hordes, there were frequent arrivals of mails, and sometimes of reinforcements, from Lower Egypt. In the side-streets were many smithies, where lance-heads and knives were being forged by men who had not the most distant belief that such weapons would ever be turned into pruning-hooks. There were also workers in leather, who sewed up passages of the Koran in leathern cases and sold them as amulets to be worn on necks and arms. Elsewhere, hairdressers were busy greasing and powdering with the dust of red-wood the bushy locks of Hadendoa dandies. In short, all the activities of Eastern city life were being carried on as energetically as if the place were in perfect security, though the only bulwark that preserved it, hour by hour, from being swept by the innumerable hordes of Soudan savagery, consisted of a few hundreds of British and Egyptian soldiers!

Arrived at the Sphinx Fort, the friends found that the news was only too true.

The stolen cattle belonged to the people of Suakim. Every morning at six o'clock it was the custom of the shepherds to go out with their herds and flocks to graze, there being no forage in or near the town. All had to be back by sunset, when the gates were locked, and no one was allowed out or in till six the next morning. The women, who carried all the water used in the waterless town, had of course to conform to the same rule. Like most men who are constantly exposed to danger, the shepherds became careless or foolhardy, and wandered rather far with their herds. Osman was too astute to neglect his opportunities. On this occasion an old shepherd, who was well-known at Sphinx Redoubt, had strayed too far. The Soudanese swept down, cut off his retreat, killed him, and, as we have said, carried off his cattle.

It was to retrieve, if possible, or avenge this disaster that the Egyptian cavalry sallied forth. They were seen galloping after the foe when Miles reached the roof of the redoubt, where some of his comrades were on duty, while Captain Lacey and several officers were looking on with field-glasses.

"They are too late, I fear, to do much good," remarked one of the officers.

"Don't I wish I was goin' wid them!" whispered Corporal Flynn to a comrade.

"Ye wad be a queer objec' on the ootside o' a horse," remarked Macleod cynically.

"Why, Mac, ye wouldn't have me go inside of a horse, would ye?"

"It wad be much the same which way ye went," returned the Scot.

"Ah, thin, the horse wouldn't think so, unless he was a donkey!"

"Well done!" exclaimed Captain Lacey at that moment, as the cavalry cut off and succeeded in recapturing a few of the cattle, and gave the enemy several volleys, which caused them to beat a hasty retreat. This, however, turned out to be a ruse on the part of Osman, who had his men concealed in strong force there. He tried to draw the cavalry away from Suakim, and was very nearly successful. In the ardour of pursuit the Egyptians failed to observe that the Soudanese were creeping round their rear to cut off retreat. On discovering their mistake, and finding that their small force of two hundred men was being surrounded by thousands of Arab warriors, it was almost too late. Turning at once, they galloped back, and could be seen, through the field-glasses, turning now and then gallantly to engage the pursuing foe.

No help could be rendered them at first, as they were beyond the range of all the forts; nevertheless, they got in safely, with little injury to man or beast, and driving before them the animals that had been recovered.

Next day the body of the poor old shepherd was brought in and buried, without a coffin, by his relations.

Miles, being off duty at the time, went to see the funeral, and found that Eastern and Western ideas on this point, as on many others, are wide as the poles asunder. No doubt the grief of the near relations was as real as it was demonstrative, but it required more credulity than he possessed to enable him to believe that the howling, shouting, and singing of many mourners was indicative of genuine feeling. The creation of noise, indeed, seemed to be their chief method of paying respect to the dead.

As deaths in Suakim were very numerous at this time, owing to much sickness among natives as well as troops, the sounds of mourning, whether by volley or voice, became so frequent that orders were at last given to cease firing over the soldiers' graves when they were buried.

Just ahead of the shepherd's body came some poor women, who were weeping, falling down at intervals, and kissing the ground. On reaching the wall round the land side of the town these women stopped, formed a circle, and kneeled on the sand while the body was passing them, then they leaned forward and kissed the ground, continuing in that position till all the procession had passed. There the women remained, not being allowed to go to the grave, and the singing and shouting were continued by boys, who kept running round the bier as it was borne along. On reaching the grave the body was put in with the face toward the east, and covered up with stones and mortar. Then the grave was filled up with sand, a brief prayer was offered -- the mourners kneeling -- after which the people went home.

Sad thoughts filled the mind of our young soldier as he returned to the fort, but the sadness was soon turned to indignation when he got there.

For some time past a Soudanese youth of about seventeen or eighteen years of age had been coming about the Sphinx Redoubt and ingratiating himself with the men, who took a great fancy to him, because he was amiable in disposition, somewhat humorous as well as lively, and handsome, though black! They used to give him something to eat every time he came, and made quite a pet of him. One day while he was out in the open country, Osman's men captured this youth and took him at once before their leader, who, probably regarding him as a deserter, ordered both his hands to be cut off close to the wrists. The cruel deed was done, and the poor lad was sent back to Suakim. It was this that roused the wrath of Miles as well as that of his comrades. When they saw the raw stumps and the haggard look of the poor fellow, who had suffered much from loss of blood, they got into a state of mind that would have made them ready to sally forth, if so required, and assault the entire Soudan in arms!

"Och! av I only had 'im here," said Flynn, clenching his teeth and fists at the same time. "It's -- it's -- it's -- "

"Mince-meat you'd make of him," said Moses.

"No -- it's cat's mate -- the baste!"

The others were equally angry, though not quite so emphatic, but they did not waste their time in useless regrets. They hurried the young Soudanese to the doctor, who carefully dressed his wounds, and every care was thereafter taken of him by the men, until completely restored to health.

It may interest the reader to know that this poor fellow was afterwards well looked after. Some sort of employment in the garrison was obtained for him, and he was found to be a useful and willing servant, despite the absence of his hands.

That night a furious sand-storm burst upon the town, accompanied by oppressive heat.

"It always seems to me," said Miles to Gaspard Redgrave, who lay next him, "that mosquitoes and sand-flies, cats and dogs, and in fact the whole brute creation, becomes more lively when the weather is unusually hot. Just listen to these cats!"

"Like a colony of small children being murdered," said Gaspard.

"It's awfu'," observed Saunders, in a kind of solemn astonishment as a frightful caterwaul burst upon their ears. "I wadna like to hear teegers in the same state o' mind."

"Or elephants," murmured Moses Pyne, who was more than half asleep.

The cats were indeed a great nuisance, for, not satisfied with getting on the flat roofs of the houses at nights, and keeping up a species of war-dance there, they invaded the soldiers' quarters, upsetting things in the dark -- thus demonstrating the absurdity of the proverb that cats see best in the dark -- stealing whatever they could lay hold of, and inducing half-slumbering men to fling boots and shoes, or whatever came most handy, at them.

Rats also were innumerable, and, to the great surprise -- not to say indignation -- of the men, neither dogs nor cats paid the least attention to the rats!

After a time the storm, both of animate and inanimate nature, began to abate, and the weary overworked soldiers were dropping off to sleep when a tremendous explosion effectually roused them.

"There goes another mine!" cried Armstrong, starting up.

"It don't require a prophet to tell us that," growled Gaspard, as he yawned and slowly picked up his rifle.

Explosions were of quite common occurrence at that time, but had to be attended to nevertheless.

That Osman had taken advantage of the very dark night to make an earlier attack than usual was evident, for shots were fired immediately after the explosion occurred, as usual. These were replied to, but the effect of the explosion, it was supposed, must have been unusually severe, for the enemy withdrew after exchanging only a few shots.

This surmise was afterwards proved to be correct. On going to the spot the following morning, they found that at least a dozen of their foes must have been blown up, for legs and arms and other human remains were picked up in all directions. These the soldiers gathered, with the aid of the friendly natives, and burned.

No attack was made for four days after that, but then the untiring enemy became as troublesome as ever.

Spies afterwards said that when Osman heard of this incident, and of the number of men killed, he said, "it served them right. They had no business to go touching things that did not belong to them!"



Chapter Fifteen.

Athletics -- A New Acquaintance Turns Up -- An Expedition Undertaken, Followed By A Race For Life.

Energetic and exhilarating exercise has sometimes the effect of driving away sickness which doctors' stuff and treatment fail to cope with successfully. In saying this we intend no slight either to doctors' stuff or treatment!

After the troops had been some time at Suakim the effect of the climate began to tell on them so severely that a very large proportion of Europeans were in hospital, and many who strove hard to brave it out were scarcely fit for duty.

Great heat did not, however, interfere with Miles Milton's health. He was one of those fortunates who seem to have been made of tougher clay than the average of humanity. But his friend Armstrong was laid up for a considerable time. Even Robert Macleod was knocked over for a brief period, and the lively Corporal Flynn succumbed at last. Moses Pyne, however, stood the test of hard work and bad climate well, and so, for a time, did Sergeant Hardy. It was found generally that the abstainers from strong drink suffered less from bad health and unwholesome surroundings than their fellows, and as there were a good many in the regiment, who were constantly endeavouring to convince their comrades of the advantages of total-abstinence, things were not so bad as they might have been.

It was about this time that one of the generals who visited Suakim instituted athletic games, thereby vastly improving the health and spirits of the men. And now Miles Milton learned, for the first time, what an immense power there lies in "scientific training!"

One evening, when out walking with Stevenson, he took it into his head to race with him, and, having been a crack runner at school, he beat him easily.

"Why, Miles," said his friend, when the short race was over, "I had no idea you could run so well. If you choose I will put you in training for the coming sports. You must know that I have run and walked and competed in the track many a time at home, and have trained and brought out runners, who had no notion of what was in them, till I proved it to them by training. Will you go in for it, and promise to do as I bid you?"

"I have no objection," replied Miles, with a light laugh.

If he had known what his friend intended to do he might not have agreed so readily, for, from that hour till the day of the sports, Stevenson made him go through an amount of running -- even after being made stiff by previous runs -- that he would never have agreed to undertake unless forced to do so. We say forced, because our hero regarded a promise once given as sacred. His was a curiously compound nature, so that while in some points of conduct he was lax -- as we have seen -- in others he was very strict. He was peculiarly so in regard to promises. His comrades soon came to know this, and ultimately came to consider him a very reliable man.

Having, then, promised his friend to keep sternly to his work, he did so, with the result that his strength increased wonderfully. Another result was that he carried off the first prize in all the races.

In order to make the most of time and avoid the evils of noonday heat, it was arranged that the races, etcetera, for the Egyptian soldiers and natives in Government employ should come off in the morning, and that the British troops should run in the later and cooler parts of the day. With the temperature at 120 degrees in the shade it would have been dangerous for Europeans to compete. The sports, including our familiar cricket, were greatly enjoyed, and the result was a decided improvement in the health of the whole force.

Boat-races were also included in these sports. At the conclusion of one of these, Miles, to his great surprise, encountered his old acquaintance of the Sailors' Welcome, big Jack Molloy.

"Why, Jack!" exclaimed Miles, as the hearty tar wrung his hand, "who'd have expected to see you here?"

"Ah, who indeed? an' I may say ditto."

"I'm very glad to see you, Molloy, for, to say truth, I thought I had seen the last of you when we parted in the troop-ship. I've often thought of you since, and of our first evening together in the -- the --  what was its name?"

"The Sailors' Welcome -- man alive! I wonder you've forgot it. Blessin's on it! I ain't likely to forget it. Why, it was there, (did I ever tell you?) the wery night arter I met you, that a messmate took me to the big hall, back o' the readin'-room. It's no use me tryin' fur to tell you all I heard in that there big hall, but when I come out -- blow'd if I didn't sign the pledge right away, an' I ain't took a drop o' grog since!"

"Glad to hear it, Jack, for, to say truth, I never saw the evil of grog so clearly as I have since coming out here and seeing strong stout men cast down by it in dozens, -- many of them kind-hearted, right-thinking men, whom I would have thought safe from such a thing. Indeed I have more than half a mind to join the Good Templars myself."

"Young man," said Molloy, sternly, "if it takes the death of dozens o' stout kind-hearted men to force you to make up half your mind, how many d'ee want to die before you make up the whole of it?"

"But I said that my mind was more than half made up," returned Miles, with a smile.

"Now lookee here," rejoined the sailor earnestly, "it's all wery well for milksops an' nincompoops and landlubbers to go in for half-an'-half work like that, but you're not the man I takes you for if you ain't game for more than that, so I ax you to promise me that you'll sign the pledge right off, as I did, first time you gits the chance."

"But you forget I'm only a landlubber who, according to you, is fit for only half-an-half measures," said Miles, who, not being addicted to much wine, felt disinclined to bind himself.

"No matter," returned the sailor, with deepening earnestness, "if you go in fur it you'll never repent it! Take my word for that. Now, I ax ye to promise."

"Well, I do promise -- the very first time I get the chance; and that will be to-morrow night, for our new parson has started temperance meetings, and he is a great teetotaller."

"An' you promise to stick to it?" added Molloy.

"When I give a promise I always stick to it!" returned Miles gravely.

"Right you are, lad. Give us your flipper!"

The foregoing conversation took place at the harbour, a little apart from the noisy group of soldiers and sailors who were discussing the circumstances of the recent boat-race.

Immediately after it Molloy returned to his ship in the harbour, and our hero to his post in the line of defence.

One of those who had been conspicuous that day in arranging and starting the races, acting as umpire at the cricket, and, generally, putting heart and spirit into everything by his quiet good-nature and self-denying activity, was the young officer of Engineers, who has been already mentioned as the manager of the mines that were laid around Suakim. Poor fellow! little did he imagine that that was to be his last day on earth!

Every morning, as before mentioned, this young officer went out alone to perform the dangerous work of disconnecting the mines, so that the inhabitants of the town might go out and in and move about during the day-time in safety. Again, a little before sunset every evening, he went out and reconnected them, so that the enemy could not approach the place without the risk of being blown to pieces. At the same time the gates were closed, and no one was allowed to leave or enter the town.

On this particular evening the lieutenant went out as usual on his dangerous mission just after six o'clock. He had not been long gone when a loud explosion was heard, and a cloud of smoke was seen where one of the mines had been laid down. A party at once sallied out, and found, as they had feared, that the brave young fellow had perished. He had been literally blown to pieces, his head being found in one place, while other portions of his body were scattered around.

This melancholy incident cast a gloom over the whole place. The remains of the heroic young engineer were buried next day with military honours. The garrison was not, however, left long in peace to think over his sad fate, for the very next night a determined attack was made all along the line. The annoying persistency of these attacks seemed to have stirred the indignation of the general in command, for he ordered out a small force of cavalry to carry the war into the enemy's country.

Critics say that this act was ill advised, and that the cavalry should not have been despatched without the support of infantry. Critics are not always or necessarily right. Indeed, we may venture to say that they are often wrong! We do not pretend to judge, but, be this as it may, the cavalry was ordered to destroy the village of Handoub about fifteen miles inland on the caravan route to Berber, and to blow up the enemy's magazine there.

The force consisted of a troop of the 19th Hussars, and another of Egyptian cavalry -- about fifty men all told -- under command of Captain Apthorp. Our intemperate friend Johnson was one of the little band. He was sober then, however, as he sat bolt upright on his powerful steed, with a very stern and grave visage, for he had a strong impression that the duty before them was no child's-play.

A four hours' ride brought them to the village. The few Arabs who dwelt in it fled at once on their approach, and in a very short time the place was effectually destroyed, along with a large quantity of ammunition.

But no sooner had the soldiers finished the work, and begun to prepare for their return, than they discovered that a large force of the enemy was assembling to cut off their retreat.

No time for thought after that! At least six thousand of the foe, having heard of the expedition, had crept down through the thick bush from the direction of Hasheen, thirsting for vengeance. Two miles on the Suakim side of Handoub they formed a line and opened fire on the leading cavalry scouts.

Seeing that the Arabs were in such force, Captain Apthorp at once made for their flank, in the direction of the sea-coast. At full speed, with horses fatigued by a fifteen miles' journey, they had to ride for life. It was neck or nothing now! The Egyptian cavalry, under Captain Gregorie, and accompanied by Captain Stopford of the Grenadier Guards and other officers, followed closely.

As they went along at racing speed, with more than a dozen miles of wilderness to traverse, and death behind them, Private King of the Hussars fell from his horse wounded. Captain Gregorie came up with him, stopped, and took the wounded man up behind him. It was a generous but desperate act, for what could be expected of a double-weighted horse in such a region and with such a race before it?

For about half a mile he carried the wounded trooper, who then swooned and fell off, dragging the captain along with him, the freed horse rejoining its troop, while the Arabs came yelling on not a hundred and fifty yards behind.

There would have been but little chance for Captain Gregorie at that terrible crisis if self-denying courage equal to his own had not dwelt in the breast of Private Baker of the Hussars. Seeing what had occurred, this hero coolly rode back, took the captain up behind him, (see frontispiece,) and, regaining his troop, enabled the latter to capture and remount his own steed. Of course poor King -- whether dead or alive they could not tell -- had to be left to his fate.

Heroism would seem to feed upon itself and multiply, for this same Private Baker, soon afterwards, saw two more troopers, and shouted to a comrade to turn back with him to their rescue. The comrade, however, did not see his way to do so. Perchance he did not hear! Anyhow he galloped on, but Captain Gregorie hearing the summons, at once answered it, turned, and galloped back with Baker.

They were only just in time to take up and rescue the two men. At the same time Captain Stopford performed a similar gallant act in rescuing a dismounted trooper.

It is deeds of self-sacrifice and heroism such as these -- not the storming of a breach, or the fighting against overwhelming odds -- that bring out the noblest qualities of our soldiers, and arouse the admiration of mankind!

The race for life was so close run that when the force at last reached the sea-shore it was little more than sixty yards in advance of the foe, and so exhausted were the horses that eight of them fell, and their riders were captured -- four being Englishmen and four Egyptians. It is right to add that one of the Egyptians also displayed conspicuous courage in rescuing a comrade.

While these stirring incidents were taking place on the plain, Miles and some of his comrades were seated on the roof of the redoubt, looking out anxiously for the return of the cavalry. At last, in the afternoon, a cloud of dust was seen on the horizon, and the officers who had glasses could soon make out that the men appeared to be racing towards the town at full speed, while the enemy, on camels and horses, and on foot, were racing down to the sea to cut off their retreat. No sooner was this understood than our men rose with an uncontrollable burst, seized their rifles, flung on ammunition-belts, and rushed out to the rescue, regardless for the moment of the officers shouting to them to come back. The news spread like wildfire, and the men ran out just as they were --  some in white jackets, some in red, others in blue; many in their shirts, with their sleeves rolled up; cavalry, artillery, marines, infantry -- all going helter-skelter towards the enemy. Fortunately they saw from the ships what was going on, and quickly got their guns to bear, so that the moment our men had escaped clear of the enemy they opened fire. But for this more men would certainly have been lost, for the overtaxed horses were beginning to give in and lose ground. Had they been a few minutes later in reaching the sea, it is probable that not a man of that force would have returned to Suakim.

As it was, the men came in pale and terribly fatigued. The horses could scarcely walk, and two of them died on the following day.

Note. -- Since the foregoing was written, we have learned, with profound regret, that the gallant Captain Gregorie was killed by his horse falling with him in 1886.



Chapter Sixteen.

Letters From Home -- Flynn Is Exalted And Brought Low -- Rumours Of War In The Air.

Events in life sometimes ripple along like the waters of a little stream in summer. At other times they rush with the wild impetuosity of a hill-torrent in winter.

For some time after the incidents just narrated the life of our hero rippled -- but of course it must be clearly understood that a Suakim ripple bore some resemblance to a respectable freshet elsewhere! Osman Digna either waited for reinforcements before delivering a grand assault, or found sufficient entertainment to his mind, and satisfaction to his ambition, in acting the part of a mosquito, by almost nightly harassment of the garrison, which was thus kept continually on the alert.

But there came a time at length when a change occurred in the soldier-life at Suakim. Events began to evolve themselves in rapid succession, as well as in magnified intensity, until, on one particular day, there came -- metaphorically speaking -- what is known among the Scottish hills as a spate.

It began with the arrival of a mail from England. This was not indeed a matter of rare occurrence, but it was one of those incidents of the campaign which never lost its freshness, and always sent a thrill of pleasure to the hearts of the men -- powerfully in the case of those who received letters and packets; sympathetically in those who got none.

"At long last!" exclaimed Corporal Flynn, who was observed by his comrades, after the delivery of the mail, to be tenderly struggling with the complicated folds of a remarkable letter -- remarkable for its crookedness, size, dirt, and hieroglyphic superscription.

"What is it, Flynn?" asked Moses -- one of the unfortunates who had received no letter by that mail.

"A letter, sure. Haven't ye got eyes, Moses?"

"From your wife, corporal?"

"Wife!" exclaimed Flynn, with scorn; "no! It's mesilf wouldn't take the gift of a wife gratis. The letter is from me owld grandmother, an' she's better to me than a dozen wives rowled into wan. It's hard work the writin' of it cost her too -- poor owld sowl! But she'd tear her eyes out to plaze me, she would. 'Corporal, darlint,' -- that's always the way she begins her letters now; she's that proud o' me since I got the stripes. I thowt me mother or brother would have writ me too, but they're not half as proud of me as my -- "

"Shut up, Flynn!" cried one of the men, who was trying to decipher a letter, the penmanship of which was obviously the work of an unaccustomed hand.

"Howld it upside down; sometimes they're easier to read that way -- more sinsible-like," retorted the corporal.

"Blessin's on your sweet face!" exclaimed Armstrong, looking at a photograph which he had just extracted from his letter.

"Hallo, Bill! that your sweetheart?" asked Sergeant Hardy, who was busy untying a parcel.

"Ay, sweetheart an' wife too," answered the young soldier, with animation.

"Let me see it, Willie," said Miles, who was also one of the disconsolate non-receivers, disconsolate because he had fully expected a reply to the penitent letter which he had written to his mother.

"First-rate, that's Emmy to a tee. A splendid likeness!" exclaimed Miles, holding the photograph to the light.

"Arrah! then, it's dead he must be!"

The extreme perplexity displayed in Flynn's face as he said this and scratched his head produced a hearty laugh.

"It's no laughin' matter, boys," cried the corporal, looking up with an expression so solemn that his comrades almost believed it to be genuine. "There's my owld uncle Macgrath gone to his long home, an' he was the support o' me grandmother. Och! what'll she do now wid him gone an' me away at the wars?"

"Won't some other relation look after her, Flynn?" suggested Moses.

"Other relation!" exclaimed the corporal; "I've got no other relations, an' them that I have are as poor as rats. No, uncle Macgrath was the only wan wid a kind heart an' a big purse. You see, boys, he was rich --  for an Irishman. He had a grand farm, an' a beautiful bit o' bog. Och! it'll go hard wid -- "

"Read on, Flynn, and hold your tongue," cried one of his comrades; "p-r-aps he's left the old woman a legacy."

The corporal did read on, and during the perusal of the letter the change in his visage was marvellous, exhibiting as it did an almost magical transition from profound woe, through abrupt gradations of surprise, to intense joy.

"Hooray!" he shouted, leaping up and bestowing a vigorous slap on his thigh. "He's gone an' left the whole farm an' the beautiful bog to ME!"

"What hae ye got there, sergeant?" asked Saunders, refolding the letter he had been quietly perusing without paying any regard to the Irishman's good news.

"A parcel of booklets from the Institute," answered Hardy, turning over the leaves of one of the pamphlets. "Ain't it good of 'em?"

"Right you are, Hardy! The ladies there never forget us," said Moses Pyne. "Hand 'em round, sergeant. It does a fellow's heart good to get a bit o' readin' in an out-o'-the-way place like this."

"Comes like light in a dark place, don't it, comrade?" said Stevenson, the marine, who paid them a visit at that moment, bringing a letter which had been carried to the wrong quarter by mistake. It was for Miles Milton. "I know'd you expected it, an' would be awfully disappointed at finding nothing, so I brought it over at once."

"You come like a gleam of sunshine in a dark place. Thanks, Stevenson, many thanks," said Miles, springing up and opening the letter eagerly.

The first words sent a chill to his heart, for it told of his father having been very ill, but words of comfort immediately followed -- he was getting slowly but surely better, and his own letter had done the old man more good in a few days than all the doctor's physic had done in many weeks. Forgiveness was freely granted, and unalterable love breathed in every line. With a relieved and thankful heart he went on reading, when he was arrested by a sudden summons of his company to fall in. Grasping his rifle he ran out with the rest.

"What is it?" he whispered to a sergeant, as he took his place in the ranks. "Osman again?"

"No, he's too sly a fox to show face in the day-time. It's a steamer coming with troops aboard. We're goin' down to receive them, I believe."

Soon after, the overworked garrison had the immense satisfaction and excitement of bidding welcome to reinforcements with a stirring British cheer.

These formed only the advance-guard. For some time after that troops were landed at Suakim every day. Among them the 15th Sikhs, a splendid body of men, with grand physique and fierce aspect, like men who "meant business." Then came the Coldstream Guards, the Scots and the Grenadier Guards, closely followed by the Engineers and Hospital and Transport Corps, the Shropshire Regiment, and many others. The desire of these fresh troops to meet the enemy was naturally strong, and the earnest hope of every one was that they would soon sally forth and "have a go," as Corporal Flynn expressed it, "at Osman Digna on his own ground."

Poor Corporal Flynn! His days of soldiering were nearly over!

Whether it was the excess of strong feeling raised in the poor fellow's breast by the news of the grand and unexpected legacy, or the excitement caused by the arrival of so many splendid troops and the prospect of immediate action -- or all put together -- we cannot say, but certain it is that the corporal fell sick, and when the doctors examined the men with a view to decide who should march to the front, and who should remain to guard the town, he was pronounced unfit for active service. Worse than that, he was reported to have entered upon that journey from which no traveller returns.

But poor Flynn would not admit it, though he grew weaker from day to day. At last it was reported that he was dying, and Sergeant Hardy got leave to go off to the hospital ship to see him, and convey to him many a kind message from his sorrowful comrades, who felt that the regiment could ill spare his lively, humorous spirit.

The sergeant found him the picture of death, and almost too weak to speak.

"My dear fellow," said Hardy, sitting down by his cot and gently taking his hand, "I'm sorry to see you like this. I'm afraid you are goin' to leave us."

The corporal made a slight motion with his head, as if of dissent, and his lips moved.

Hardy bent his ear over them.

"Niver a bit, owld man," whispered Flynn.

"Shall I read the Bible to you, lad?" inquired the sergeant.

The corporal smiled faintly, and nodded.

After reading a few verses Hardy began to talk kindly and earnestly to the dying man, who lay with his eyes closed.

When he was about to leave, Flynn looked up, and, giving his comrade's hand a gentle squeeze, said, in a stronger whisper than before -- 

"Thankee, sergeant. It's kind o' ye to be so consarned about my sowl, and I agrees wid ivery word ye say; but I'm not goin' away yit, av ye plaze."

He ceased to speak, and again closed his eyes. The doctor and the chaplain chanced to enter the hospital together as Hardy retired. The result of their visit was that they said the corporal was dead, and orders were given to make his coffin. A firing party was also told off to bury him the next morning with military honours. Early next morning, accordingly, the firing party started for the hospital ship with the coffin, but, before getting half-way to it, they were signalled to go back, for the man was not yet dead!

In short, Corporal Flynn had begun to talk in a wild way about his estate in Ireland, and his owld grandmother; and either the influence of these thoughts, or Hardy's visit, had given him such a fillip that from that day he began to revive. Nevertheless he had received a very severe shake, and, not very long after, was invalided home. Meanwhile, as we have said, busy preparations were being made by General Graham -- who had arrived and taken command of the forces -- to offer battle to Osman's troops.

In the midst of all the excitement and turmoil, however, the new chaplain, who turned out to be "a trump," managed to hold a temperance meeting; and the men who desired to serve God as well as their Queen and country became more energetic than ever in trying to influence their fellows and save themselves from the curse of strong drink, which had already played such havoc among the troops at Suakim.

Miles attended the meeting, and, according to promise, signed the total-abstinence pledge. Owing to the postponement of meetings and the press of duty he had not been able to do it sooner.

Shortly after that he was passed by the doctors as fit for duty in the field. So were Armstrong, Moses Pyne, and most of those strong and healthy men whose fortunes we have followed thus far.

Then came the bustle and excitement of preparation to go out and attack the enemy, and in the midst of it all the air was full of conflicting rumours -- to the effect that Osman Digna was about to surrender unconditionally; that he would attack the town in force; that he was dead; or that he had been summoned to a conference by the Mahdi!

"You may rest assured," said Sergeant Hardy one day to his comrades, as they were smoking their pipes after dinner, "that nobody knows anything at all for certain about the rebel chief."

"I heard that a spy has just come in with the information that he has determined not to wait for our attack, if we go out, but to attack us in our zereba," said Miles. "He is evidently resolved not to commit the same mistake he made last year of letting us attack him."

"He has pluck for anything," remarked Moses.

Osman proved, that same evening, that he had at least pluck enough to send a pithy defiance to his foes, for an insulting letter was received by General Graham, in which Osman, recounting the victories he had gained over Hicks and Baker Pasha, boasted of his having destroyed their armies, and dared the general to come out and fight him. To this the British General replied, reminding Osman of our victories of El-Teb and Tamai, and advising him to surrender unless he wanted a worse beating than he had got before!

Mutual defiance having been thus comfortably hurled, the troops were at once detailed for service in the field, and the very next day set forth. As our hero did not, however, accompany that expedition, and as it returned to Suakim without doing anything remarkable -- except some energetic and even heroic fighting, which is by no means remarkable in British troops, -- we will pass on to the expedition which was sent out immediately after it, and in which Miles Milton not only took an active part, but distinguished himself. With several of his comrades he also entered on a new and somewhat unusual phase of a soldier's career.



Chapter Seventeen.

The Expedition -- Enemy Reported -- Miles In A Dilemma.

Every one has heard of the expedition, sent out under Sir John McNeill, in which that gallant general and his brave troops fought with indomitable heroism, not only against courageous foes, but against errors which, as a civilian, we will not presume to criticise, and against local difficulties which were said to be absolutely insurmountable.

Blame was due somewhere in connection with that expedition. Wherever it lay, we have a strong conviction -- founded on the opinion of one who was present -- that it did not rest with the commander of the force. It is not, however, our part to comment, but to describe those events which bore upon the fortunes of our hero and his immediate friends and comrades.

It was about four o'clock on an uncommonly hot morning that the bugle sounded in Suakim, and soon the place was alive with men of all arms, devouring a hasty breakfast and mustering eagerly, for they were elated at the near prospect of having "another slap at Osman!"

Strange, the unaccountably exultant joy which so many men experience at the prospect of killing each other! No doubt the Briton maintains that it is all in defence of Queen and country, hearth and home. An excellent reason, of course! But may not the Soudanese claim that the defence of chief and country, tent and home, is an equally good reason --  especially when he rises to defend himself from the exactions and cruelty of those superlative tyrants, the Turks, or rather, the Turkish Pashas? -- for we verily believe that the rank and file of all civilised nations would gladly live at peace if their rulers would deal in arbitration instead of war! We almost feel that an apology is due for introducing such a remark in a book about soldiers, for their duty is clear as well as hard, and bravely is it done too. Moreover, they are in no way responsible for the deeds of those:

"Fine old English gentlemen Who sit at home at ease, And send them forth to fight and die Beyond the stormy seas!"

The troops composing this expedition consisted of one squadron of the 5th Lancers, one battalion Berkshire Regiment, one battalion of Marines, one Field Company Royal Engineers, a detachment of the Royal Navy in charge of four Gardner guns, a regiment of Sikhs, Bengal Native Infantry, Bombay Native Infantry, and a body of Madras Sappers. Along with these was sent an immense convoy of 1500 camels, besides a large number of mules with carts bearing iron water-tanks.

The orders for the expedition were that they should proceed eight miles into the bush, and there make three zerebas, or defensive enclosures of bushes, capable of sheltering the entire force.

The march was begun by McNeill moving off with his European troops in square formation. The Indian contingent, under General Hudson, followed, also in square, and in charge of the transport.

"A goodly force!" remarked Armstrong, in a low tone to Miles, as they stepped off, shoulder to shoulder, for, being both about the same size, and unusually tall, they marched together on the right flank of their company.

"Don't speak in the ranks, Willie," returned Miles, with a slight smile, for he could not shut his eyes to the fact that this strict regard for orders was due more to Marion Drew's remarks about a soldier's duty than to principle.

"H'm!" grunted Robert Macleod, who marched next to them, and had no conscientious scruples about talking, "we may mairch oot smert eneugh, but some o' us'll no' come back sae hearty."

"Some of us will never come back at all," replied Armstrong, gravely.

By six o'clock the rear-guard had left Suakim, and the whole of the force moved across the plain, in parts of which the men and carts sank deep in the soft sand, while in other parts the formations were partly broken by thick bush, in which the force became somewhat entangled. The cavalry went in advance as scouts. The guns, water-carts, and ammunition-wagons were in the centre, and the Indian Brigade came last, surrounding the unwieldy mass of baggage-animals. Last of all came the telegraph detachment, unrolling as they went the wire that kept open communication with head-quarters.

That a mistake had been made somewhere was obvious; but as the soul of military discipline is obedience without question, the gallant leader pressed forward, silently and steadily, whatever he may have thought.

Soon the force became so hopelessly entangled in the difficulties of the way, that the rate of advance dwindled down to little more than one mile an hour.

Not long after starting a trooper was seen galloping back, and Miles, who marched at the right corner of his square, observed that it was his friend Johnson, looking very stern indeed. Their eyes met.

"Not half enough of cavalry," he growled, as he flew past to report, "The enemy in sight -- retiring in small parties in the direction of Tamai."

In returning, Johnson again rode close past the same corner of the square, and, bending low in his saddle for a moment, said to Miles, "I have signed the pledge, my boy."

A slight laugh from several of those who heard him greeted the information, but he probably did not hear it, for next moment his charger cleared a low bush in a magnificent stride, and in a few seconds man and horse were lost to sight in the bush.

"More need to sign his will," remarked Simkin, in a somewhat cynical tone.

"He has done that too," said Armstrong. "I heard him say so before we started."

The troops were halted to enable the two generals to consult at this point.

While the men stood at ease, enjoying the brief rest from severe toil under such a burning sun, our hero heard a low voice at his elbow say -- 

"Have you signed your will, John Miles?" It was a startling, as well as a sudden, question!

Miles turned quickly and found that it was Captain Lacey who had put it.

The feeling of dislike with which our young soldier had regarded the captain ever since his interruption of the conversation between himself and Marion, on board ship, had abated, but had not by any means disappeared. He had too much sense, however, to allow the state of his feelings to influence his looks or bearing.

"Yes, sir," he replied; "I made it out last night, as you advised me, in the service form. It was witnessed by our colonel and Captain Smart and the doctor. To say truth, I thought it absurd for a man who has nothing to leave to make his will, but as you said, sir, I should like my dear mother to get my kit and any arrears of pay that may be due to me after I'm gone."

"I did not mean you to take such a gloomy view of your prospects," said Captain Lacey, with a laugh. "But you know in our profession we always carry our lives in our hands, and it would be foolish not to take ordinary precautions -- "

The order to resume the march here cut short the conversation, and the force continued its slow and all but impossible advance. Indeed it was soon seen that to reach the distance of eight miles out, in the circumstances, was quite beyond the power of the troops, willing, anxious, and vigorous though they were, for the bush became closer and higher as they advanced, so that a mounted man could not see over it, and so dense that the squares, though only a short distance apart, could not see each other. This state of things rendered the management of the baggage-animals extremely difficult, for mules are proverbially intractable, and camels -- so meek in pictures! -- are perhaps the most snarling, biting, kicking, ill-tempered animals in the world.

The day was advancing and the heat increasing, while the dust raised by the passage of such a host caused so much distress to man and beast that the general began to fear that, if an attack should be made by the enemy at that time, the greater part of the transport would have to be sacrificed. The force was therefore halted a second time, and the generals again met to consult.

They were very unwilling to give in. Another effort to advance was made, but things grew worse and worse. The day, as Moses remarked, was boiling red-hot! The carts with the heavy water-tanks sank deep in the soft sand; many of the camels' loads fell off, and these had to be replaced. Replacing a camel's load implies prevailing on a hideously tall and horribly stubborn creature to kneel, and this in the centre of a square which was already blocked up with carts and animals, as well as shouting, angry, and exhausted drivers!

At last it became evident that further progress that day was out of the question. The rear face of Hudson's square was obliterated by the straggling and struggling multitude; camels and loads were down in all directions, and despair of maintaining their formation was settling down on all ranks.

In these circumstances it became absolutely necessary to halt and form their zerebas where they stood -- and that without delay. The best place they could find was selected. The European square formed a guard, while the rest threw off jackets, and, with axes and choppers, went to work with a will. Some cut down bushes, some filled sandbags to form a breastwork for guns and ammunition, and others erected the bushy walls of their woodland fortification. The Lancers covered about three miles of country as scouts. Hudson -- who had to return to Suakim that night before dark -- was ordered, with three regiments in line and advanced files, to cover McNeill and the working-party, while the commander himself went about encouraging the tired men, and urging them to increased exertion.

While the soldiers of all arms were thus busily engaged, a body of sailors was ordered to run one of their Gardner guns up to the corner of the square where Miles and Armstrong stood. They halted close to them, and then Miles became aware that one of the nautical gunners was no other than Jack Molloy.

"Hallo, Jack! Why, you've got a knack of turning up unexpectedly everywhere!" he exclaimed, when his friend was at leisure.

"That's wery much your own case," retorted the seaman heartily. "What brought you here?"

Miles slapped one of his legs by way of indicating the mode of conveyance.

"Ay, lad, and they'd need to be stout timbers too, to make headway through such a sea of sand," returned Molloy, feeling his own limbs with tenderness. "D'ee think we're in for a brush to-night, lad?"

Before the latter could reply, an aide-de-camp ran up and spoke a few hurried words to Captain Lacey, who turned to his company and called them to attention.

"Fours, right -- quick march!" he said, and away they went, past the flank of Hudson's men, to guard a hollow which left that part of the square somewhat exposed. When halted and drawn up in line several files were thrown out in advance. Miles and Sutherland formed the flanking file on the right, the latter being rear-rank man to the former.

"It's a grand hiding-hole," observed Sutherland, as he peered cautiously over the edge of a low bank into a hollow where rocks and undergrowth were thickly intermingled.

"Keep a sharp look-out on your left, Sutherland," said Miles, "I will guard the right -- "

He stopped abruptly and threw forward his rifle, for at that moment he observed a swarthy, black-bearded Arab, of large proportions and muscular frame, creeping forward a short distance below him. Evidently he had not heard or seen the approach of the two soldiers, for he was gazing in a different direction from them.

Miles raised his rifle and took aim at the man, but he felt an unconquerable repugnance to shoot. He had never yet met the enemy hand-to-hand. His experience heretofore had been confined to long-range firing at men who were firing at himself and his comrades, and in which, of course, he could not be sure that his bullets took effect. But now he was within fifty yards of a splendid-looking man who did not see him, who was, at the moment, innocent of any intention of injuring him, and whose expressive side-face he could clearly distinguish as he crept along with great caution towards a rock which hid the zereba of the Europeans from his view.

Miles was a good rifle-shot. A touch of the trigger he knew would be certain death to the Arab.

"I cannot do it!" he muttered, as he lowered his weapon and looked back over his shoulder at his comrade. The Scot, who was something of a naturalist, was engrossed at the moment in the contemplation of a little bird which was twittering on a twig in quite an opposite direction.

Miles glanced again at the Arab in a flutter of agitation as to what was his duty. The man might be one of the friendly natives! He could not tell.

At that moment another man appeared on the scene. He was a thin but powerful native, and armed with a short spear, such as is used when fighting at close quarters. He obviously was not troubled with scruples about committing murder, and Miles soon became aware that the thin man was "stalking" the big Arab -- with what intent, of course, our soldier could only guess, but the malignant expression of the savage's countenance left little doubt on that point.

Here was a complication! Our hero was on the point of calling Sutherland from the contemplation of his little bird when he saw the thin native pounce on the Arab, who was still creeping on hands and knees. He turned just in time to divert the first spear-thrust, but not in time to draw his own long knife from its sheath as he fell. The thin savage holding him down, and having him at terrible disadvantage on his back, raised his spear, and was about to repeat the deadly thrust when Miles fired and shot him in the head.

The Arab rose, shook himself clear of the dying man, and, with astounding coolness, walked calmly towards a large rock, though Miles was reloading in haste, and Sutherland was taking steady aim at him. He looked at the soldiers and held up his hand with something like a smile of remonstrance, as Sutherland pulled the trigger. At the same moment Miles struck up the muzzle, and the ball whizzed over the Arab's head as he passed behind the rock and disappeared.

"What for did ye that?" demanded the Scot fiercely.

"Would you kill a man that was smiling at you?" retorted Miles.

The two men ran back to report to their company what they had seen. At the same moment, the company, being recalled, doubled back to its position in the square.

Here they found the defence work so far advanced that the generals were beginning to feel some confidence in their being able to repel any attack. At the same time the men were working with tremendous energy, for news had just come in that the enemy was advancing in strong force.



Chapter Eighteen.

Wherein Are Described An Assault, A Furious Fight, And Some Strange Personal Encounters.

It was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon when Captain Lacey and his company resumed their place in the square.

About that time an officer of the Berkshire Regiment represented the condition of his men as requiring attention. They certainly did require it, for they had been without food since four o'clock that morning, and were consequently in urgent need of provender as well as rest and water -- the last having been all consumed.

As it was imperative that the work should go on, it was found necessary to serve out food by wings.

Accordingly, the men of one half-battalion received rations and water, and were then sent to their zereba with the Gardner guns, while the other half, still lying in reserve by their piled arms, received their rations.

The marines also sat down for brief rest and refreshment. Among them was our sedate friend Stevenson, who invariably carried his small Bible with him in all his campaigns. After quickly consuming his allowance, and while waiting for water, he sat down to read a few verses of the 23rd Psalm, -- for Stevenson was one of those quiet, fearless men who cannot be laughed out of doing right, and who have no fear of the face of man, whether scowling in anger or sneering in contempt.

"Hallo, Tom!" said a light-hearted comrade near him, "this is a queer time to be readin' your Bible. We'll be havin' you sayin' your prayers next!"

"I've said them already, Fred," replied the marine, replacing the book in his pouch. "As you say, it is a queer time to be readin' the Word, but not an unsuitable time, for this may be the last chance that you and I will ever have of readin' it. Our next orders may be to meet God face to face."

Stevenson was yet speaking when a Lancer was seen approaching at a wild gallop. He dashed up to the generals and informed them that the enemy was gathering in front.

The message was barely delivered when another Lancer rode up and reported the enemy close at hand.

The order, "Stand to your arms!" was promptly given and as promptly obeyed, without flurry or disorder.

Next minute a wild uproar was heard, and the Lancers were seen galloping towards the square with thousands of the swarthy warriors of the desert at their heels -- nay, even mixed up with them!

On they came, a dark, frantic, yelling host, with irresistible fury, and, perchance, patriotism! Shall we deny to those men what we claim for ourselves -- love of hearth and home, of country, of freedom? Can we not sympathise with men who groaned under an insolent and tyrannical yoke, and who, failing to understand or appreciate, the purity of the motives by which we British were actuated, could see nothing in us except the supporters of their enemies?

They hurled themselves on that part of the large zereba which was defended by the Bengal Native Infantry. These fired a volley, but failed to check the impetuous rush. Everything went down before the savages, and the Native Infantry broke and fled, throwing into dire confusion the transport animals which stood in their immediate rear.

General McNeill himself dashed in among the panic-stricken men and sought to arrest them. He succeeded for a time in rallying some of them in Number 1 zereba, but another rush of the Arabs sent them flying a second time, and some of the enemy got into the square, it is said, to the number of 112. The Berkshire men, however, stood fast, and not a soul who got into that square ever got out of it alive. In this wretched affair the 17th Bengal Native Infantry lost their brave commander. He was killed while trying to rally them.

The confusion was now increased by the enemy driving the baggage-animals hither and thither, especially on to another half-battalion square of the Berkshire Regiment. Here, however, they were effectually checked. As the Atlantic billows burst in impotent turmoil on the cliffs of Cornwall, so the enemy fell upon and were hurled back by the steadfast Berkshire Regiment, which scarcely lost a man, while over two hundred of their opponents lay dead around them.

The Bombay Regiment also stood fast, and redeemed, to some extent, the credit of their country; while the Sikhs, as might have been expected of them, never flinched for a moment, but strewed the plain around them with dead and dying men.

There was horrible carnage for some time -- unflinching valour being opposed to desperate courage; and while a burning sense of injury, with a resolve to conquer or die, was the motive power, no doubt, on one side, on the other there was the high sense of duty to Queen and country, and the pride of historical renown.

Owing to the suddenness of the attack, and the occupation of the troops at the moment, there was some mixing up of men of different regiments. One company of Sikhs, who were helping to unload the camels when the fight began, having been prevented from joining their own regiment, cast in their lot with the marines. The better to help their European comrades these vigorous fellows leaped outside the zereba and lay down in front of it, and the two bodies together gave the charging foe such a warm reception that they never got within twenty yards of them.

But there was a fearful scene of butchery among the baggage-animals, and many unequal hand-to-hand conflicts. There was terrible slaughter also among the working parties that had gone out to cut bushes with which to finish the zerebas, with coats off and away from their arms. Some individuals of the marines, who, as a body, suffered severely, were surrounded by a dozen Arabs, and their bodies were afterwards found covered with spear-wounds. This was the case with a sergeant named Mitchel, who had charge of a wood-cutting party and had been quietly chatting with our friend Stevenson just before the attack. Another case was that of Private Stanton, who had been through the Egyptian campaign of 1882, had fought at Kassassin, Tel-el-Kebir, El-Teb, and Tamai. When this expedition of which we write was arranged, he was one of the first to volunteer. He chanced to be outside the zereba when the attack was made, and failed to appear at muster. Next day he was found dead, with many spear-wounds, at some distance from the force. Poor fellow! he had not been killed outright, and had attempted to crawl towards the zerebas, but in his confusion had crept away in the wrong direction, and had slowly bled to death on the sands of the desert.

During the rapid progress of this terrible scene of bloodshed, Miles and his friend Armstrong stood and fought shoulder to shoulder in the front rank at their allotted corner of the square -- chiefly with bullet, but also, on several occasions, with bayonet, when the rush of the enemy threatened to break through all barriers, and drive in the line of defenders. They would certainly have succeeded, had these defenders been less powerful and resolute.

"Well done!" exclaimed a deep bass voice, in evident enthusiasm, close to Miles.

The latter glanced round. It was the voice of his friend Jack Molloy, who helped to work the Gardner gun, and who was at the moment admiring the daring act of an officer of Sikhs.

Two men of the Berkshire Regiment, who had been employed outside the zereba, were pursued by several Arabs, and it was evident that their death was almost certain, when the Sikh officer referred to rushed out to the rescue, sprang between the men and their pursuers, killed three of the latter in succession with three rapid sword-cuts, and enabled the soldiers to escape, besides which, he checked the rush at that part of the square, and returned to his post in safety.

The cheer of the Berkshire men and others who witnessed this feat was heard to rise above even the yells of combatants, the shrieks of the wounded, the rattle and crash of fire-arms, and the general turmoil and din of war.

In one of the working parties that were out when the assault began was our friend Moses Pyne and his comrade Rattling Bill Simkin. These had been separated from the rest of their party when the first wild rush was made by the foe. The formation of the ground favoured their dropping into a place of concealment, thus for the moment saving them from the fate of being surrounded and cut to pieces, like too many of their straggling comrades. For a few seconds they lay close while the enemy rushed past like a torrent, to the assault just described.

Then Moses uprose, with an expression of stern resolve on his usually meek countenance.

"Simkin," he said, as his comrade also got up, "I'm not goin' to lie hidin' here while our boys are engaged wi' the savages."

"No more am I, Moses," returned Rattling Bill, with something of the jovially reckless air still lingering on his solemnised visage. "But we've not much chance of getting back to the zerebas without arms."

"What d'ee call that?" asked Moses, holding out his chopper.

"A very good weapon to fight the bush with," answered Simkin, "but not worth much against Arab spears. However, comrade, choppers are all we have got, so we must make the most of 'em. They say a good workman can work with any tools. What d'ee propose to try? I'll put myself under your orders, Moses; for, although you are a meekish sort of a fellow, I really believe you have a better headpiece than most of us."

"I propose that we simply go at 'em," said Moses. "Take 'em in rear, cut our way through, and get into the zereba -- that's all. It don't take much of a headpiece to think that out."

"Go ahead, then! I'll back you," said Rattling Bill, without the least touch of bravado, as he bared his right arm to the shoulder. Both men were in shirts and trousers, with sleeves tucked up and their brawny arms exposed -- Arabesquely brown up to the elbow, and infantinely white above that!

The intended rush might have been successful, but for a change in the tactics of the enemy. Seeing that they were severely repulsed at the corner of the square, where Molloy and his tars worked the Gardner gun, while Miles and his comrades plied bullet and bayonet, the Arab chief sent a body of his followers to reinforce this point. It was just at the moment that Moses and Simkin made the dash from their place of concealment, so that they actually leaped, without having intended it, into the very midst of the reinforcements!

Two of the Arabs went down before the choppers instantly, and the others -- almost panic-stricken by the suddenness and severity of the assault -- turned to fly, supposing, no doubt, that an ambush had caught them. But seeing only two men they ran back, and would certainly have made short work of them if rescuers had not come up.

And at this point in the fight there was exhibited a curious instance of the power of friendship to render steady men reckless. The incident we have just described was witnessed by the troops, for, the moment the two soldiers left their place of concealment they were in full view of the large zereba.

"That's Moses!" exclaimed Armstrong excitedly.

Without a moment's hesitation he sprang over the defence-works and ran to the rescue, clubbing his rifle as he went and felling two Arabs therewith.

"You shan't die alone, Willie!" muttered our hero, as he also leaped the fence and followed his friend, just in time to save him from three Arabs who made at him simultaneously. Two of these Miles knocked down; his comrade felled the other. Then they turned back to back; Moses and Simkin did the same, and thus formed a little impromptu rallying square. This delayed the catastrophe, which seemed, however, inevitable. The brave little quartette, being surrounded by foes, could do nothing but parry with almost lightning speed the spear-thrusts that were made at them continually.

Seeing this, the heart of Jack Molloy bounded within him, and friendship for the moment overcame the sense of duty.

"You can only die once, Jack!" he exclaimed, drew his cutlass, leaped out of the zereba, and went at the foe with a thunderous roar, which, for a moment, actually made them quail.

Infected with a similar spirit, Stevenson, the marine, also lost his head, if we may say so. Resolving to run a-muck for friendship's sake, he followed the sailor, and increased the rallying square to five, while Molloy skirmished round it, parrying spear-thrusts, at once with left arm and cutlass, in quite a miraculous manner, roaring all the time like an infuriated lion, and causing the enemy to give back in horror wherever he made a rush.

A root, however, tripped him up at last, and he fell forward headlong to the ground. A dozen spears were pointed at his broad back, when a tall majestic Arab sprang forward and held up one hand, while with the other he waved a sword.

At that moment a strong force of the enemy came down with an impetuous rush on that corner of the zereba, and, coming between it and the little knot of combatants, hid them from view.

The attack at this point was very determined, and for a few moments the issue seemed doubtful, for although the enemy fell in heaps they came on in such numbers that the defenders were almost overwhelmed. Steadiness, however, combined with indomitable courage, prevailed. Everywhere they were repulsed with tremendous loss. Many instances of personal bravery occurred, of course, besides those we have described, but we may not pause to enumerate these. Tenacity of life, also, was curiously exhibited in the case of some of the desperately wounded.

One man in charge of two mules outside the zereba was trying to bring them in when he was attacked, and received three terrible spear-wounds in the back and one in the arm, which cut all the muscles and sinews. Yet this man ultimately recovered, though, of course, with the loss of his arm.

Another man lost a leg and an arm, and was badly wounded in the other leg and in the hand, and, lastly, he was shot in the jaw. After being operated on, and having his wounds dressed, the doctor asked him how he felt.

"All right, sir," he answered. "They've crippled me in arms and legs, and they've broke my jaw, but, thank God, they have not broke my heart yet!"

It was eight minutes to three when the Arabs made their first rush, and it was just ten minutes past three when the enemy was finally repelled and the bugle sounded "Cease firing." Yet into these pregnant eighteen minutes all that we have described, and a vast deal more, was crowded. Nearly four hundred of our men were killed and wounded, while the enemy, it is believed, lost over two thousand.

It is said by those who were present at the engagement that the officers of the 17th Bengal Infantry were heard to say that if their men had not given way, there would have been no "disaster" at all, and General McNeill instead of being accused of permitting himself to be surprised, would have got credit for a heroic defence against overwhelming odds. If he had carried out his instructions, and pressed on to the end of eight miles, instead of prudently halting when he did, there can be no doubt that the force would have been surprised and absolutely cut to pieces.



Chapter Nineteen.

Refers To Sergeant Hardy, Amytoor-Lawyer Sutherland, And Other Matters.

Among the wounded in the great fight which we have just described was Hardy the sergeant.

His position at the time the Arabs broke into the square was close to the right flank of the Indian Native Regiment, which gave way, so that it was he and a number of the flank men of his company who had to do most of the hand-to-hand fighting necessary to repair the disaster and drive back the enemy. Of course every soldier engaged in that part of the fight was, for a time, almost overwhelmed in the confusion, and many of them were surrounded and severely wounded.

When the Native Infantry broke, Hardy's captain sprang to the front, sword in hand, and cut down two of the foe. As he did so, he was, for a moment, separated from his company and surrounded. A powerful Arab was on the point of thrusting his spear into the captain's back when Hardy observed his danger, bayoneted the Arab, and saved the officer. But it was almost at the cost of his own life, for another Arab, with whom he had been fighting at the moment, took advantage of the opportunity to thrust his spear into the chest of the sergeant, who fell, as was thought, mortally wounded.

This, however, was not the case, for when the fight was over, his wound, although dangerous, was not supposed to be fatal, and he went into hospital on returning to Suakim. He was a Blue Light, and his temperance habits told in his favour. So did his religion, for the calm equanimity with which he submitted to the will of God, and bore his sufferings, went far to assist the doctor in grappling with his wound. But his religion did more than that, for when he thought of the heaven that awaited him, if he should die, and of being "for ever with the Lord," his heart was filled with joy; and joy not only "does not kill," -- it is absolutely a source of life. In the sergeant's case it formed an important factor in restoring him to partial health.

One evening, some time after the battle of McNeill's zereba, Sutherland and Gaspard Redgrave were seated beside the sergeant's bed -- cheering him up a bit, as they said -- and chatting about the details of the recent fight. Once or twice the sergeant had tried to lead the conversation to religious subjects, but without success, for neither Sutherland nor Gaspard were seriously disposed, and both fought shy of such matters.

"Well, it's very kind of you to come an' cheer me up, lads," said Hardy at last; "and I hope I may live to do the same for you, if either of you ever gets knocked over. Now, I want each of you to do me a favour. Will you promise?"

"Of course we will," said Gaspard quickly.

"If we can," said the more cautious Scot.

"Well, then, Gaspard, will you sing me a song? I think it would do me good."

"With the greatest pleasure," answered the soldier; "but," he added, looking round doubtfully, "I don't know how they might like it here."

"They'll not object; besides, you can sing low. You've got the knack of singin' soft -- better than any man I ever heard."

"Well, what shall it be?" returned the gratified Gaspard.

"One of Sankey's hymns," said the sergeant, with the remotest semblance of a twinkle in his eye, as he took a small hymn-book from under his pillow and gave it to his friend.

Gaspard did not seem to relish the idea of singing hymns, but he had often heard the Blue Lights sing them, and could not plead ignorance of the tunes; besides, being a man of his word, he would not refuse to fulfil his promise.

"Sing Number 68, 'Shall we gather at the river?' I'm very fond of that hymn."

In a sweet, soft, mellow voice, that charmed all who were within hearing, Gaspard began the hymn, and when he had finished there was heard more than one "Amen" and "Thank God" from the neighbouring beds.

"Yes, comrades, we shall gather there," said the sergeant, after a brief pause, "for the same Almighty Saviour who saved me died for you as well. I ain't used to wettin' my cheeks, as you know, lads, but I s'pose my wound has weakened me a bit! Now Sutherland, the favour I have to ask of -- "

"If ye're thinkin' o' askin' me to pray," broke in the alarmed Scotsman, "ye may save your breath. When I promised, I said, 'if I can.' Noo, I can not pray, an' it's nae use askin' me to try. Whatever I may come to in this warld, I'll no be a heepycrit for ony leevin' man."

"Quite right, Sutherland -- quite right. I had no intention of asking you to pray," replied Hardy, with a faint smile. "What I want you to do is to draw out my will for me."

"Oh! I'm quite willin' to do that," returned the relieved Scot.

"You see," continued the sergeant, "one never knows what may be the result of a bad wound in a climate like this, and if it pleases my Father in heaven to call me home, I should like the few trifles I possess to go in the right direction."

"That's a wise-like sentiment," returned his friend, with an approving nod and thoughtful frown.

"Now, as you write a capital hand, and know how to express yourself on paper," continued Hardy, "it strikes me that you will do the job better than any one else; and, being a friend, I feel that I can talk freely to you on my private affairs. So you'll help me?"

"I'm wullin' to try, serjint, and ac' the legal adviser -- amytoor-like, ye ken."

"Thank you. Can you come to-morrow morning?"

"No, serjint, I canna, because I've to start airly the morn's mornin' wi' a pairty to meet the Scots Gairds comin' back frae Tamai, but the moment I come back I'll come to ye."

"That will do -- thank you. And now, Gaspard, what's the news from England? I hear that a mail has just come in."

"News that will make your blood boil," said Gaspard sternly.

"It would take a good deal of powerful news to boil the little blood that is left in me," said Hardy, languidly.

"Well, I don't know. Anyhow it makes mine boil. What d'you think of McNeill's brave defence being represented in the papers as a disaster?"

"You don't mean that!"

"Indeed I do. They say that it was a disaster! whereas it was a splendid defence under singularly adverse circumstances! They say that General McNeill permitted himself to be surprised! If he had tried to carry out his instructions to the full extent, it would indeed have been such a surprise that the surprising thing would have been if a single man of us had returned alive to tell the tale -- as you and I know full well. The truth is, it was the fault of the Intelligence Department that nearly wrecked us, and it was McNeill's prudence and our pluck that saved us, and yet these quill-drivers at home -- bah!"

The soldier rose in hot indignation and strode from the room.

"He's a wee thing roosed!" remarked Sutherland, with a good-humoured yet slightly cynical grin. "But guid-nicht to ye, ma man. Keep up hert an' I'll come an' draft yer wull i' the mornin'."

So saying the "amytoor" lawyer took his departure, and was soon tramping over the desert sands with a band of his comrades.

They were not, however, permitted to tramp in peace, for their indefatigable foe hung on their skirts and annoyed them the greater part of the way. Toward evening they met the Guards, and as it was too late to return to Suakim the force bivouacked in McNeill's deserted zereba, surrounded by graves and scarcely buried corpses.

Only those who were there can fully understand what that meant. All round the zereba, and for three miles on the Suakim side of it, the ground was strewn thickly with the graves of Europeans, Indians, and Arabs, and so shallow were these that from each of them there oozed a dark, dreadful stain. To add to the horrors of the scene, portions of mangled and putrefying corpses protruded from many of them -- ghastly skulls, from the sockets of which the eyes had been picked by vultures and other obscene birds. Limbs of brave men upon which the hyena had already begun his dreadful work, and half-skeleton hands, with fingers spread and bent as if still clutching the foe in death-agony, protruded above the surface; mixed with these, and unburied, were the putrefying carcases of camels and mules -- the whole filling the air with a horrible stench, and the soul with a fearful loathing, which ordinary language is powerless to describe, and the inexperienced imagination cannot conceive.

Oh! it is terrible to think that from the Fall till now man has gone on continually producing and reproducing scenes like this -- sometimes, no doubt, unavoidably; but often, too often, because of some trifling error, or insult, on the part of statesmen, or some paltry dispute about a boundary, or, not infrequently, on grounds so shadowy and complex that succeeding historians have found it almost impossible to convey the meaning thereof to the intellects of average men!

Amid these dreadful memorials of the recent fight the party bivouacked!

Next day the troops returned to Suakim, and Sutherland, after breakfast, and what he called a wash-up, went to see his friend Sergeant Hardy, with pen, ink, and paper.

"Weel, serjint, hoo are ye the day?"

"Pretty well, thank you -- pretty well. Ah! Sutherland, I have been thinking what an important thing it is for men to come to Jesus for salvation while in their health and strength; for now, instead of being anxious about my soul, as so many are when the end approaches, I am rejoicing in the thought of soon meeting God -- my Father! Sutherland, my good fellow, it is foolish as well as wrong to think only of this life. Of all men in the world we soldiers ought to know this."

The sergeant spoke so earnestly, and his eyes withal looked so solemnly from their sunken sockets, that his friend could not help being impressed.

"I believe ye're no' far wrang, serjint, an' I tak' shame to mysel' that I've been sic a harum-scarum sinner up to this time."

Sutherland said this with a look so honest that Hardy was moved to put out his large wasted hand and grasp that of his friend.

"Comrade," he said, "God is waiting to be gracious. Jesus is ever ready and willing to save."

Sutherland returned the pressure but made no reply; and Hardy, praying for a blessing on the little that had been said, changed the subject by saying -- 

"You have brought paper and ink, I see."

"Ay, but, man, ye mauna be speakin' o' takin' yer depairture yet. This draftin' o' yer wull is only a precaution."

"Quite right, lad. I mean it only as a precaution," returned Hardy, in a cheerful tone. "But you seem to have caught a cold -- eh? What makes you cough and clear your throat so?"

"A cauld! I wush it was only a cauld! Man, it's the stink o' thae corps that I canna get oot o' my nose an' thrapple."

Hereupon Sutherland, by way of entertaining his invalid friend, launched out into a graphic account of the scene he had so recently witnessed at McNeill's zereba. When that subject was exhausted, he arranged his writing materials and began with all the solemnity of a lawyer.

"Noo, serjeant, what div ye want me to pit doon?"

"Well, I must explain first that I have very little to leave, and no one to leave it to."

"What! Nae frien's ava?"

"Not one. I have neither wife nor child, brother nor sister. I have indeed one old cousin, but he is rich, and would not be benefited by my poor little possessions; besides, he's a cross-grained old fellow, and does not deserve anything, even though I had something worth leaving. However, I bear him no ill-will, poor man, only I don't want what I do leave to go to him, which it would if I were to die without a will; because, of course, he is my natural heir, and -- "

"Haud ye there, man," said the Scot abruptly but slowly. "If he's your nait'ral heir, ye're his nait'ral heir tae, ye ken."

"Of course, I am aware of that," returned the sergeant with an amused look; "but the old man is eccentric, and has always boasted that he means to leave his wealth to some charity. Indeed, I know that he has already made his will, leaving his money to build an hospital -- for incurables of some sort, I believe."

"Ma certy! If I was his lawyer," said Sutherland, with ineffable scorn, "I wad advise him to erec' an hospital in his lifetime for incurable eediots, an' to gang in himsel' as the first patient. But, come awa wi' yer wull, serjint."

"Get ready, then, my lawyer, and see that you put it down all ship-shape, as poor Molloy would have said."

"Oh, ye needna fear," said the Scot, "I'm no' sic an ass as to trust to my ain legal knowledge. But jist you say what ye want an' I'll pit it doon, and then write it into a form in the reg'lar way."

After mentioning a few trifling legacies to various comrades, Hardy said that he had managed to save a hundred pounds during his career, which he wished to divide between his two comrades, John Miles and Willie Armstrong, for whom he expressed strong regard.

Sutherland, instead of noting this down, looked at his friend in sad surprise, thinking that weakness had caused his mind to wander.

"Ye forget, serjint," he said softly, "that Miles an' Airmstrang are baith deed."

"No, lad; no one can say they are certainly dead."

"Aweel -- we canna exactly say it, but when ye consider o' the born deevils that have gotten haud o' them, we are entitled to think them deed ony way."

"They are reported as 'missing,' that is all, and that is enough for me. You write down what I tell you, lad. Now, have you got it down?"

"Ay, fifty to each."

"There may be some interest due on the account," said the sergeant thoughtfully; "besides, there may be a few things in my kit that I have forgotten -- and it's not worth while dividing such trifles between them."

"Weel, weel, ye've only to mak yin o' them yer residooary legitee, an' that'll pit it a' richt."

"True, my lawyer. Let it be so," said Hardy, with a short laugh at the thought of making so much ado about nothing. "Make Miles my residuary legatee. And now, be off, draw it out fair, an' leave me to rest, for I'm a trifle tired after all this legal work."

The will thus carefully considered was duly made out, signed, and witnessed, after which Sergeant Hardy awaited with cheerful resignation whatever fate should be appointed to him.

His strong frame and constitution, undamaged by youthful excess, fought a vigorous battle for life, and he began slowly to mend; but the climate of Suakim was so bad for him that he was finally sent down to the hospital at Alexandria, where, under much more favourable circumstances, he began to recover rapidly.

One of the nurses there was very kind to him. Finding that the sergeant was an earnest Christian, she had many interesting talks with him on the subject nearest his heart.

One day she said to him with unusual animation:

"The doctor says you may go down to the Soldiers' Institute that has recently been set up here, and stay for some time to recruit. It is not intended for invalids, you know, but the ladies in charge are intimate friends of mine, and have agreed to let you have a room. The Institute stands on a very pleasant part of the shore, exposed to the fresh sea-breezes; and there are lots of books and newspapers and games, as well as lectures, concerts, prayer-meetings, Bible-readings, and -- "

"Ay, just like Miss Robinson's Institute at Portsmouth," interrupted Hardy. "I know the sort o' thing well."

"The Alexandrian Soldiers' Institute is also Miss Robinson's," returned the nurse, with a pleased look; "so if you know the one at Portsmouth, there is no need for my describing the other to you. The change will do you more good in a week than months at this place. And I'll come to see you frequently. There is a widow lady staying there just now to whom I will introduce you. She has been helping us to nurse here, for she has great regard for soldiers; but her health having broken-down somewhat, she has transferred her services to the Institute for a time. She is the widow of a clergyman who came out here not long ago and died suddenly. You will find her a very sympathetic soul."



Chapter Twenty.

Old Friends In New Aspects.

On the evening of the third day after the conversation narrated in the last chapter, Sergeant Hardy sat in an easy-chair on the verandah of the Soldiers' Institute at Alexandria, in the enjoyment of a refreshing breeze, which, after ruffling the blue waters of the Mediterranean, came like a cool hand on a hot brow, to bless for a short time the land of Egypt.

Like one of Aladdin's palaces the Institute had sprung up -- not exactly in a night, but in a marvellously short space of time. There was more of interest about it, too, than about the Aladdin buildings; for whereas the latter were evolved magically out of that mysterious and undefinable region termed Nowhere, the Miss Robinson edifice came direct from smoky, romantic London, without the advantage of supernatural assistance.

When Miss Robinson's soldier friends were leaving for the seat of war in Egypt, some of them had said to her, "Three thousand miles from home are three thousand good reasons why you should think of us!" The "Soldiers' Friend" took these words to heart -- also to God. She did think of them, and she persuaded other friends to think of them, to such good purpose that she soon found herself in possession of funds sufficient to begin the work.

As we have seen, her energetic servant and fellow-worker, Mr Thomas Tufnell, was sent out to Egypt to select a site for the building. The old iron and wood Oratory at Brompton was bought, and sent out at Government expense -- a fact which speaks volumes for the Government opinion of the value of Miss Robinson's work among soldiers.

In putting up the old Oratory, Tufnell had transformed it to an extent that might almost have made Aladdin's Slave of the Lamp jealous. Certainly, those who were wont to "orate" in the building when it stood in Brompton would have failed to recognise the edifice as it arose in Egypt on the Boulevard Ramleh, between the Grand Square of Alexandria and the sea.

The nave of the old Oratory had been converted into a room, ninety-nine feet long, with couches and tables running down both sides, a billiard-table in the centre, writing materials in abundance, and pictures on the walls. At one end of the room stood a pianoforte, couches, and easy-chairs, and a door opened into a garden facing the sea. Over the door were arranged several flags, and above these, in large letters, the appropriate words, "In the name of the Lord will we set up our banners." At the other end was a temperance refreshment bar. On a verandah facing the sea men could repose on easy-chairs and smoke their pipes or cigars, while contemplating the peculiarities of an Eastern climate.

It was here that our friend Sergeant Hardy was enjoying that blessed state of convalescence which may be described as gazing straight forward and thinking of nothing!

Of course there were all the other appliances of a well-equipped Institute -- such as sleeping-cabins, manager's room, Bible-class room, lavatory, and all the rest of it, while a handsome new stone building close beside it contained sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, club-room for officers, kitchens, and, by no means least, though last, a large lecture-hall.

But to these and many other things we must not devote too much space, for old friends in new aspects claim our attention. Only, in passing from such details, it may not be out of place to say that it has been remarked that the sight of Miss Robinson's buildings, steadily rising from the midst of acres of ruins, while men's minds were agitated by the bombardment and its results, produced a sense of security which had a most beneficial and quietening effect on the town! Indeed, one officer of high rank went so far as to say that the Institute scheme had given the inhabitants more confidence in the intentions of England than anything yet done or promised by Government!

In a rocking-chair beside the sergeant reclined a shadow in loose --  remarkably loose -- fitting soldier's costume.

"What a blessed place to sit in and rest after the toils and sufferings of war," said Hardy, to the shadow, "and how thankful I am to God for bringing me here!"

"It's a hivenly place intirely," responded the shadow, "an' 'tis mesilf as is thankful too -- what's left o' me anyhow, an' that's not much. Sure I've had some quare thoughts in me mind since I come here. Wan o' them was -- what is the smallest amount o' skin an' bone that's capable of howldin' a thankful spirit?"

"I never studied algebra, Flynn, so it's of no use puttin' the question to me," said Hardy; "besides, I'm not well enough yet to tackle difficult questions, but I'm real glad to see you, my boy, though there is so little of you to see."

"That's it, sarjint; that's just where it lies," returned Flynn, in a slow, weak voice. "I've bin occupied wi' that question too -- namely, how thin may a man git widout losin' the power to howld up his clo'es?"

"You needn't be uneasy on that score," said Hardy, casting an amused glance at his companion, "for there's plenty o' flesh left yet to keep ye goin' till you get to old Ireland. It rejoices my heart to see you beside me, thin though you are, for the report up country was that you had died on the way to Suez."

"Bad luck to their reports! That's always the way of it. I do think the best way to take reports is to belaive the exact opposite o' what's towld ye, an' so ye'll come nearest the truth. It's thrue I had a close shave. Wan day I felt a sort o' light-hiddedness -- as if I was a kind o' livin' balloon -- and was floatin' away, whin the doctor came an' looked at me.

"'He's gone,' says he.

"'That's a lie!' says I, with more truth than purliteness, maybe.

"An' would ye belave it? -- I began to mind from that hour! It was the doctor saved me widout intindin' to -- good luck to him! Anyhow he kep' me from slippin' my cable that time, but it was the good nursin' as brought me back -- my blissin' on the dear ladies as give their hearts to this work all for love! By the way," continued Flynn, coughing and looking very stern, for he was ashamed of a tear or two which would rise and almost overflow in spite of his efforts to restrain them -- but then, you see, he was very weak! "By the way," he said, "you'll niver guess who wan o' the nurses is. Who d'ee think? -- guess!"

"I never could guess right, Flynn."

"Try."

"Well, little Mrs Armstrong."

"Nonsense, man! Why, she's nursin' her old father in England, I s'pose."

"Miss Robinson, then?"

"H'm! You might as well say the Prime Minister. How d'ee s'pose the Portsmuth Institute could git along widout her? No, it's our friend Mrs Drew!"

"What! The wife o' the reverend gentleman as came out with us in the troop-ship?"

"That same -- though she's no longer the wife of the riverend gintleman, for he's dead -- good man," said Flynn, in a sad voice.

"I'm grieved to hear that, for he was a good man. And the pretty daughter, what of her?"

"That's more nor I can tell ye, boy. Sometimes her mother brings her to the hospital to let her see how they manage, but I fancy she thinks her too young yet to go in for sitch work by hersilf. Anyhow I've seen her only now an' then; but the poor widdy comes rig'lar -- though I do belave she does it widout pay. The husband died of a flyer caught in the hospital a good while since. They say that lots o' young fellows are afther the daughter, for though the Drews are as poor as church rats, she's got such a swate purty face, and such innocent ways wid her, that I'd try for her mesilf av it wasn't that I've swore niver to forsake me owld grandmother."

Chatting thus about times past and present, while they watched the soldiers and seamen who passed continuously in and out of the Institute -- intent on a game, or some non-intoxicant refreshment, or a lounge, a look at the papers, a confab with a comrade, or a bit of reading -- the two invalids enjoyed their rest to the full, and frequently blessed the lady who provided such a retreat, as well as her warm-hearted assistants, who, for the love of Christ and human souls, had devoted themselves to carry on the work in that far-off land.

"I often think -- " said Hardy.

But what he thought was never revealed; for at that moment two ladies in deep mourning approached, whom the sergeant recognised at a glance as Mrs Drew and her daughter Marion. The faces of both were pale and sorrowful; but the beauty of the younger was rather enhanced than otherwise by this, and by contrast with her sombre garments.

They both recognised the sergeant at once, and, hastening forward, so as to prevent his rising, greeted him with the kindly warmth of old friends.

"It seems such a long time since we met," said the elder lady, "but we have never forgotten you or the comrades with whom we used to have such pleasant talks in the troop-ship."

"Sure am I, madam," said the sergeant, "that they have never forgotten you and your kind -- kind -- "

"Yes, my husband was very kind to you all," said the widow, observing the delicacy of feeling which stopped the soldier's utterance; "he was kind to every one. But we have heard some rumours that have made me and my daughter very sad. Is it true that a great many men of your regiment were killed and wounded at the battle fought by General McNeill?"

"Quite true, madam," answered the sergeant, glancing at the daughter with some surprise; for Marion was gazing at him with an intensely anxious look and parted lips. "But, thank God, many were spared!"

"And -- and -- how are the two fine-looking young men that were so fond of each other -- like twins almost -- "

"Sure, didn't I tell ye, misthress, that they was both ki -- "

"Hold your tongue, Flynn," interrupted the widow, with a forced smile. "You are one of my most talkative patients! I want to hear the truth of this matter from a man who has come more recently from the scene of action than yourself. What do you think, Mr Hardy?"

"You refer to John Miles and William Armstrong, no doubt, madam," said the sergeant, in a somewhat encouraging tone. "Well, if Flynn says they were killed he has no ground whatever for saying so. They are only reported missing. Of course that is bad enough, but as long as a man is only missing there is plenty of room for hope. You see, they may have managed to hide, or been carried off as prisoners into the interior; and you may be sure the Arabs would not be such fools as to kill two men like Miles and Armstrong; they'd rather make slaves of 'em, in which case there will be a chance of their escaping, or, if we should become friendly again wi' these fellows, they'd be set free."

"I'm so glad to hear you say so, and I felt sure that my desponding patient here was taking too gloomy a view of the matter," said Mrs Drew, with a significant glance at Marion, who seemed to breathe more freely and to lose some of her anxious expression after the sergeant's remarks.

Perhaps at this point a little conversation that took place between Mrs Drew and her daughter that same evening may not be out of place.

"Dear May," said the former, "did I not tell you that Flynn took too gloomy a view of the case of these young soldiers, in whom your dear father was so much interested? But, darling, is it not foolish in you to think so much about Miles?"

"It may be foolish, mother, but I cannot help it," said Marion, blushing deeply; for she was very modest as well as simple.

"May, dear, I wonder that you can make such an admission!" said the mother remonstratively.

"Is it wrong to make such an admission to one's own mother, when it is true?" asked Marion, still blushing, but looking straight in her mother's eyes; for she was very straightforward as well as modest and simple!

"Of course not, dear, but -- but -- in short, Miles is only a -- a -- soldier, you know, and -- "

"Only a soldier!" interrupted Marion, with a flash from her soft brown eyes; for she was an enthusiast as well as straightforward, modest, and simple! "I suppose you mean that he is only a private, but what then? May not the poorest private in the army rise, if he be but noble-minded and worthy and capable, to the rank of a general, or higher -- if there is anything higher? Possibly the Commander-in-Chief-ship may be open to him!"

"True, my love, but in the meantime his social position is -- "

"Is quite as good as our own," interrupted Marion; for she was a desperate little radical as well as an enthusiast, straightforward, modest, and simple!

"You know he let out something about his parents and position, and of course he told the truth. Besides, I repeat that I cannot help loving him, and surely we are not responsible for our affections. We cannot love and hate to order. I might fall in love with -- with -- well, it's no good talking; but, anyhow, I could not help it. I could be silent if you like, but I could not help myself."

Mrs Drew seemed a little puzzled how to deal with her impetuous daughter, and had begun to reply, when May interrupted her. Flushing deeply, for she was very sensitive, and with a feeling that amounted almost to indignation, she continued -- 

"I wonder at you, mother -- it's so unlike you; as if those unworthy considerations of difference of rank and station could influence, or ought to influence, one in such a question as this!"

Mrs Drew paused for a moment. She knew that her daughter gave expression to the views that had marked the dealings of the husband and father, so lately lost to them, in every action of his life. Marion's happiness, too, during the remainder of her days, might be involved in the result of the present conversation, and she was moved to say -- 

"My dear, has John Miles ever spoken to you?"

"Oh! mother, how can you ask me? If he had done so, would I have delayed one minute in letting you know?"

"Forgive me, dearest. I did you wrong in admitting the thought even for a moment. But you spoke so earnestly -- as if you might have some reason for thinking that he cared for you."

"Don't you know," answered Marion, looking down, and a little confused, "that men can speak with their eyes as well as their lips? I not only feel sure that he cares for me, but I feel sure, from the sentiments he expressed to me on the voyage, that nothing would induce him to talk to me of love while in his present position."

"How does all this consist, my love," asked Mrs Drew, "with your knowledge of the fact that he left home in anger, and would not be persuaded, even by your dear father, to write home a penitent letter?"

Marion was silent. This had not occurred to her before. But love is not to be turned from its object by trifles. She was all that we have more than once described her to be; but she was not a meta-physician or a philosopher, capable of comprehending and explaining occult mysteries. Enough for her if she loved Miles and Miles loved her, and then, even if he did not deserve her love, she would remain true -- secretly but unalterably true -- to him as the needle is to the pole!

"Has it not occurred to you, dear," said her mother, pursuing her advantage in a meditative tone, "that if Miles has been so plain-spoken and eloquent with his blue eye, that your pretty brown ones may have said something to him?"

"Never!" exclaimed the girl, with an indignant flash. "Oh! mother, can you believe me capable of -- of -- no, I never looked at him except with the air of a perfect stranger -- at least of a -- a -- but why should I try to deny what could not possibly be true?"

Mrs Drew felt that nothing was to be gained from pursuing the subject --  or one aspect of it -- further.

"At any rate," she said, "I am glad, for his own sake, poor young fellow, that Sergeant Hardy spoke so hopefully."

"And for his comrades' sakes as well," said Marion. "You know, mother, that his friend Armstrong is also reported as missing, and Stevenson the marine, as well as that dear big bluff sailor, Jack Molloy. By the way, do you feel well enough to go to the lecture to-night? It is to be a very interesting one, I am told, with magic-lantern illustrations, and I don't like to go alone."

"I am going to-night, so you may make your mind easy," said her mother. "I would not miss this lecturer, because I am told that he is a remarkably good one, and the hall is likely to be quite full."

In regard to this lecture and some other things connected with the Alexandrian Institute, our friend Sergeant Hardy learned a good deal from the lady at the head of it, not long after the time that Mrs Drew had the foregoing conversation with Marion.

It is scarcely needful to say that the Lady-Superintendent was a capable Christian as well as an enthusiast in her work.

"Come to my room, Sergeant Hardy, and I'll tell you all about it," she said, leading the way to her apartment, where the sergeant placed himself upon a chair, bolt upright, as if he were going to have a tooth drawn, or were about to illustrate some new species of sitting-drill.



Chapter Twenty One.

Shows How The Lady Of The Institute Discourses To The Sergeant, How Jack-Tars Go Out On The Spree, And How Music Conquers Warriors.

"It seems wonderful to me, madam," said Sergeant Hardy, looking round the lady's room with an admiring gaze, "how quickly you have got things into working order here. When I remember that last year this place was a heap of rubbish, it seems like magic."

"Ah! the work of God on earth seems magical the more we reflect on it," returned the lady. "The fact that our Institute was conceived, planned, and carried into successful operation by an invalid lady, in spite of discouragement, and, at first, with inadequate means, is itself little short of miraculous, but what is even more surprising is the fact that the Government, which began by throwing cold water on her Portsmouth work, has ended by recognising it and by affording us every facility here in Alexandria."

"Well, you see, madam, I suppose it's because they see that we soldiers and sailors likes it, an' it does a power o' good -- don't you think?"

"No doubt, but whatever may be the reason, Sergeant, we are very thankful for the encouragement. I suppose you have heard what a grand occasion our opening day was?"

"No, madam, I haven't. You see, away at Suakim we was so constantly taken up with the attentions of Osman Digna that we had little time for anything but eatin' and sleepin' when we wasn't on sentry an' fightin', so that we often missed bits of news. Was there a great turn-out o' men?"

"Indeed there was," returned the lady, with animation; "and not only of men, but of all the Alexandrian notables. It was on the 23rd of February last (1885) that our Institute was opened by Major-General Lennox, V.C., C.B., who was in command of the garrison. This was not the first time by any means that the soldiers had paid us a visit. A number of men, who, like yourself, Sergeant Hardy, sympathise with our work in its spiritual aspects, had been frequently coming to see how we were getting on, and many a pleasant hour's prayer and singing we had enjoyed with them, accompanied by our little harmonium, which had been sent to us by kind friends in England; and every Sunday evening we had had a little service in the midst of the shavings and carpenters' benches.

"But on this grand opening day the men came down in hundreds, and a great surprise some of them got -- especially the sceptical among them. The entrance was decorated with palms. At the further end of the reading-room the trophy of Union Jacks and the Royal Standard, which you see there now, was put up by a band of Jack-tars who had come to help us as well as to see the fun. Over the trophy was our text, 'In the name of the Lord will we set up our banners,' for we liked to feel that we had taken possession of this little spot in Egypt for God -- and we believe that it will always be His.

"Everything was bright and hearty. There were about five hundred soldiers and sailors, and between two and three hundred officers and civilians of all nationalities. On the platform we had Osman Pasha -- "

"Ha!" interrupted the sympathetic sergeant, "I only wish we could have had Osman Digna there too! It would do more to pacify the Soudan than killing his men does!"

"I daresay it would," responded the lady with a laugh, "but have patience, Hardy; we shall have him there yet, and perhaps the Mahdi too -- or some future grand occasion. Well, as I was saying, we had Osman, the Governor of Alexandria, on our platform, and a lot of big-wigs that you know nothing about, but whose influence was of importance, and whose appearance went far to make the place look gay. Of course we had music, beginning with 'God save the Queen,' and speeches -- brilliant as well as heavy; sententious and comic -- like all other similar gatherings, and the enthusiasm was unbounded. How could it be otherwise with sailors to cheer and soldiers to back them up? And you may be sure that in such a meeting the enthusiasm about the undertaking did not fail to extend to the 'Soldiers' Friend' who had originated the whole. In short, it was a splendid success."

"Of course it was," said the sergeant, with emphasis; "first, because of God's blessing, an', second, because the Institoot was greatly needed. Why, madam, if it wasn't for this place the thousands of soldiers stationed here, not to mention the sailors, would have no place to go to spend their leave and leisure time but the drinkin' dens o' the town; an you know well, though p'r'aps not so well as I do, what terrible places these are, where men are tempted, fleeced, debauched, and sometimes murdered."

"Quite true, Hardy. Did you hear of the case that occurred just two days ago? A sergeant of one of the regiments, I forget which, after paying his fare to a donkey-boy, turned quietly to walk away, when the scoundrel felled him with a stick and robbed him of one pound 10 shillings. The case is before the law-court now, and no doubt the robber will receive a just reward.

"Well, as I was remarking, the opening day carried us to high tide, so to speak, and there has been no ebb from that day to this. One comical incident, however, occurred just at the beginning, which might have done us damage. The day after the opening all was prepared for the reception of our soldier and sailor friends. The tables were arranged with books and games, the writing-table with pens, ink, and blotting-paper, and the bar with all sorts of eatables, magnificent urns, coloured glass, etcetera. About one o'clock William, our barman, tasted the coffee. His usual expression of self-satisfaction gave place to one of horror. He tasted the coffee again. The look of horror deepened. He ran to the boiler, and the mystery was cleared up. The boiler had been filled with salt-water! Our Arab, Ibraim, who carries up seawater daily to fill our baths, had filled the boiler with the same. Luckily there was time to correct the mistake, and when our friends came trooping in at four o'clock they found the coffee quite to their taste.

"You know very well," continued the superintendent, "our rules never to force religion on any of our customers, our object being to attract by all the legitimate means in our power. We have our Bible-classes, prayer-meetings, temperance soirees, and the like, distinct -- as at Portsmouth -- from the other advantages of the Institute; and are quite content if some, who come at first from mere curiosity or for the enjoyment of temporal good things, should afterwards continue to come from higher and spiritual motives. But if our military friends prefer to read our papers and books, and play our games, and use our bar, they are at perfect liberty to do so, without what I may style religious interference. It's all fair and above-board, you see. We fully recognise the freedom of will that God has bestowed on man. If you don't care for our spiritual fare you may let it alone. If you relish it -- there it is, and you are welcome. Yet we hold by our right to win men if we can. In point of fact, we have been very successful already in this way, for our motive power from beginning to end is Love.

"One of our most helpful soldier friends -- a sergeant -- has brought several men to the Saviour, who are now our steady supporters. One of these men, whom our sergeant was the means of bringing in, was a professed unbeliever of good standing and ability. The first time he was prevailed on to come to a prayer-meeting, he sat bolt upright while we knelt, being a straightforward sort of man who refused to pretend when he could not really pray. He is now a happy follower of Jesus.

"Our large rooms are constantly filled with soldiers, some chatting, some making up for past privations by having a good English meal, and others reading or playing games. Just now happens to be our quietest hour, but it won't be long before we have a bustling scene."

As if to verify the lady's words there came through the doorways at that moment a sound of shouting and cheering, which caused all the staff of the Institute to start into active life.

"There they come!" exclaimed the lady, with an intelligent smile, as she hurried from the room, leaving Hardy to follow at a pace that was more consistent with his dignity -- and, we may add, his physical weakness.

The shouts proceeded from a party of sailors on leave from one of the ironclads lying in the harbour. These, being out for the day -- on a spree as some of them styled it -- had hired donkeys, and come in a body to the Institute, where they knew that food of the best, dressed in British fashion, and familiar games, were to be had, along with British cheer and sympathy.

When Hardy reached the door he found the place swarming with blue-jackets, trooping up at intervals on various animals, but none on foot, save those who had fallen off their mounts and were trying to get on again.

"They're all donkeyfied together," remarked a sarcastic old salt -- not one of the party -- who stood beside Hardy, looking complacently on, and smoking his pipe.

"They don't steer as well on land as on sea," replied Hardy.

"'Cause they ain't used to such craft, you see -- that's w'ere it is, sarjint," said the old salt, removing his pipe for a moment. "Just look at 'em -- some comin' along sidewise like crabs, others stern foremost. W'y, there's that grey craft wi' the broad little man holdin' on to its tail to prevent his slidin' over its head. I've watched that grey craft for some minutes, and its hind propellers have bin so often in the air that it do seem as if it was walkin' upon its front legs. Hallo! I was sure he'd go down by the head at last."

The donkey in question had indeed gone down by the head, and rolled over, pitching its rider on his broad shoulders, which, however, seemed none the worse for the fall.

"Ketch hold of his tail, Bill," cried another man, "and hold his stern down -- see if that won't cure his plungin'. He's like a Dutchman in a cross sea."

"Keep clear o' this fellow's heels, Jack, he's agoin' to fire another broadside."

"If he does he'll unship you," cried Jack, who was himself at the same moment unshipped, while the owner of the donkey, and of the other donkeys, shouted advice, if nothing worse, in Arabic and broken English.

In a few minutes the sailors "boarded" the Institute, and drew the whole force of the establishment to the bar in order to supply the demand.

"Ah! thin, ye've got Irish whisky, haven't ye?" demanded a facetious seaman.

"Yes, plenty, but we call it coffee here!" answered the equally facetious barman, whose satellites were distributing hot and cold drinks with a degree of speed that could only be the fruit of much practice.

"You'll have to be jolly on mild swipes," said one; "no tostikatin' liquors allowed, Dick."

"H'm!" growled Dick.

"Got any wittles here?" demanded another man, wiping his lips with his sleeve.

"Yes, plenty. Sit down and order what you want."

"For nothin'?" asked the tar.

"For next to nothing!" was the prompt reply. Meanwhile, those whose appetites were not quite so urgent had distributed themselves about the place, and were already busy with draughts, billiards, etcetera, while those who were of more sedate and inquiring temperament were deep in the columns of the English papers and magazines.

"I say, Fred Thorley, ain't it bang up?" remarked a sturdy little man, through a huge slice of cake, with which he had just filled his mouth.

"Fuss-rate!" responded Fred, as he finished a cup of coffee at a draught and called for more. "Didn't I tell you, Sam, that you'd like it better than the native grog-shops?"

"If they'd on'y got bitter beer!" sighed Sam.

"They've got better beer," said his friend; "try some ginger-pop."

"No thankee. If I can't git it strong, let's at least have it hot. But, I say, what's come o' the lobsters? Don't seem to be many about. I thought this here Institoot was got up a-purpose for them.

"So it was, lad, includin' us; but you don't suppose that because you are out on the spree, everybody else is. They're on dooty just now. Wait a bit an' you'll see plenty of 'em afore long."

"Are all that come here Blue Lights?" asked Sam, with a somewhat doleful visage.

"By no manner o' means," returned his friend, with a laugh; "tho' for the matter o' that they wouldn't be worse men if they was, but many of 'em are no better than they should be, an' d'ee know, Sam, there are some of 'em actually as great blackguards a'most as yourself!"

"There's some comfort in that anyhow," returned Sam, with a pleasant smile, "for I hates to be pecooliar. By the way, Fred, p'r'aps they may be able to give you some noos here, if you ax 'em, about your friend Jack Molloy. He was a Blue Light, wasn't he?"

"Not w'en I know'd 'im, but he was a fuss-rate seaman an' a good friend, though he was fond of his glass, like yourself, Sam."

It chanced that at this point Sergeant Hardy, in moving about the place, taking profound interest in all that he saw, came within earshot of the two friends, to whom he at once went up and introduced himself as a friend of Jack Molloy.

"Indeed," said he, "Molloy and I fought pretty near to each other in that last affair under General McNeill, so I can give you the latest news of him."

"Can you, old man? Come, sit down here, an' let's have it then," said Thorley. "Jack was an old messmate o' mine. What'll you take to drink, mate?"

"Nothing, thankee. I'm allowanced by the doctor even in the matter o' tea and coffee," said the sergeant. "As to bein' an' old man -- well, I ain't much older than yourself, I daresay, though wounds and sickness and physic are apt to age a man in looks."

Sitting down beside the sailors, Hardy told of the great fight at McNeill's zereba, and how Molloy and others of his friends had gone to rescue a comrade and been cut off. He relieved Fred's mind, however, by taking the most hopeful view of the matter, as he had previously relieved the feelings of Marion. And then the three fell to chatting on things in general and the war in particular.

"Now don't this feel homelike?" said Sam, looking round the room with great satisfaction. "If it wasn't for the heat I'd a'most think we was in a temperance coffee-house in old England."

"Or owld Ireland," chimed in a sailor at the neighbouring table.

"To say naething o' auld Scotland," added a rugged man in red hair, who sat beside him.

"Well, messmate," assented Fred, "it do feel homelike, an' no mistake. Why, what ever is that?"

The sailor paused, and held up a finger as if to impose silence while he listened, but there was no need to enforce silence, for at that moment the sweet strains of a harmonium were heard at the other end of the long room, and quietude profound descended on the company as a rich baritone voice sang, with wonderful pathos, the familiar notes and words of "Home, Sweet Home!"

Before that song was finished many a warrior there had to fight desperately with his own spirit to conceal the fact that his eyes were full of tears. Indeed, not a few of them refused to fight at all, but, ingloriously lowering their colours, allowed the tell-tale drops to course over their bronzed faces, as they thought of sweethearts and wives and friends and home circles and "the light of other days."



Chapter Twenty Two.

Led Into Captivity.

We turn once more to the Nubian desert, where, it will be remembered, we left several of our friends, cut off from McNeill's zereba at a critical moment when they were all but overwhelmed by a host of foes.

The grand-looking Arab who had so opportunely appeared on the scene and arrested the spears which were about to finish the career of Jack Molloy was no other than the man who had been saved by Miles from the bullet of his comrade Rattling Bill. A kind act had in this case received its appropriate reward, for a brief though slight glance, and a gracious inclination of the Arab's head, convinced our hero that the whole party owed their lives to this man's gratitude.

They were not however exempt from indignity, for at the moment when Jack Molloy fell they were overwhelmed by numbers, their arms were wrenched from their grasp, and their hands were bound behind their backs. Thus they were led, the reverse of gently, into the thick bush by a strong party of natives, while the others, headed by the black-bearded chief, continued their attack on the zereba.

It soon became evident that the men who had charge of the prisoners did not share, or sympathise with, the feelings of the chief who had spared their lives, for they not only forced them to hurry forward as fast as they could go, but gave them occasional pricks with their spear-points when any of them chanced to trip or stumble. One of the warriors in particular -- a fiery man -- sometimes struck them with the shaft of his spear and otherwise maltreated them. It may be easily understood that men with unbroken spirits and high courage did not submit to this treatment with a good grace!

Miles was the first to be tested in this way. On reaching a piece of broken ground his foot caught in something and he stumbled forward. His hands being bound behind him he could not protect his head, and the result was that he plunged into a prickly shrub, out of which he arose with flushed and bleeding countenance. This was bad enough, but when the fiery Arab brought a lance down heavily on his shoulders his temper gave way, and he rushed at the man in a towering rage, striving at the same time, with intense violence, to burst his bonds. Of course he failed, and was rewarded by a blow on the head, which for a moment or two stunned him.

Seeing this, Armstrong's power of restraint gave way, and he sprang to the rescue of his friend, but only to meet the same fate at the hands of the fiery Arab.

Stunned and bleeding, though not subdued, they were compelled to move on again at the head of the party -- spurred on now and then by a touch from the point of the fiery man's lance. Indeed it seemed as if this man's passionate nature would induce him ere long to risk his chief's wrath by disobeying orders and stabbing the prisoners!

Stevenson, the marine, was the next to suffer, for his foot slipped on a stone, and he fell with such violence as to be unable to rise for a few minutes. Impatient of the delay, the fiery man struck him so savagely with the spear-shaft that even his own comrades remonstrated.

"If I could only burst this cord!" growled Simkin between his teeth, "I'd -- "

He stopped, for he felt that it was unmanly, as well as idle, to boast in the circumstances.

"We must have patience, comrade," said Stevenson, as he rose pale and bloodstained from the ground. "Our Great Captain sometimes gives us the order to submit and suffer and -- "

A prick in the fleshy part of his thigh caused him to stop abruptly.

At this point the endurance of Jack Molloy failed him, and he also "went in" for violent action! But Jack was a genius as well as a sailor, and profited by the failures of his comrades. Instead of making futile efforts to break his bonds like them, he lowered his hairy head, and, with a howl and a tremendous rush, like a fish-torpedo, launched himself, or, as it were, took "a header," into the fiery man!

"No fellow," as Jack himself afterwards remarked, "could receive fifteen stone ten into his bread-basket and go on smiling!" On the contrary, he went down like a nine-pin, and remained where he fell, for his comrades -- who evidently did not love him -- merely laughed and went on their way, leaving him to revive at his leisure.

The prisoners advanced somewhat more cheerfully after this event, for, besides being freed from pricks of the spear-point, there was that feeling of elation which usually arises in every well-balanced mind from the sight of demerit meeting with its appropriate reward.

The region over which they were thus led, or driven, was rather more varied than the level country behind them, and towards evening it changed still further, becoming more decidedly hill-country. At night the party found themselves in the neighbourhood of one of the all-important wells of the land, beside which they encamped under a small tree.

Here the prisoners were allowed to sit down on the ground, with one man to guard them, while the others kindled a fire and otherwise arranged the encampment.

Supper -- consisting of a small quantity of boiled corn and dried flesh --  was given to the prisoners, whose hands were set free, though their elbows were loosely lashed together, and their feet tied to prevent their escape. No such idea, however, entered into the heads of any of them, for they were by that time in the heart of an unknown range of hills, in a country which swarmed with foes, besides which, they would not have known in what direction to fly had they been free to do so; they possessed neither arms, ammunition, nor provisions, and were at the time greatly exhausted by their forced march.

Perhaps Jack Molloy was the only man of the unfortunate party who at that moment retained either the wish or the power to make a dash for freedom. But then Jack was an eccentric and exceptional man in every respect. Nothing could quell his spirit, and it was all but impossible to subdue his body. He was what we may term a composite character. His frame was a mixture of gutta-percha, leather, and brass. His brain was a compound of vivid fancy and slow perception. His heart was a union of highly inflammable oil and deeply impressible butter, with something remarkably tough in the centre of it. Had he been a Red Indian he would have been a chief. If born a nigger he would have been a king. In the tenth century he might have been a Sea-king or something similar. Born as he was in the nineteenth century, he was only a Jack-tar and a hero!

It is safe to conclude that if Molloy had been set free that evening with a cutlass in his hand he would -- after supper of course -- have attacked single-handed the united band of forty Arabs, killed at least ten of them, and left the remaining thirty to mourn over their mangled bodies and the loss of numerous thumbs and noses, to say nothing of other wounds and bruises.

Luckily for his comrades he was not free that night.

"Boys," said he, after finishing his scanty meal, and resting on an elbow as he looked contemplatively up at the stars which were beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, "it do seem to me, now that I've had time to think over it quietly, that our only chance o' gittin' out o' this here scrape is to keep quiet, an' pretend that we're uncommon fond of our dear Arab friends, till we throws 'em off their guard, an' then, some fine night, give 'em the slip an' make sail across the desert for Suakim."

"No doubt you're right," answered Miles, with a sigh, for, being tired and sleepy just then, he was not nearly as sanguine as the seaman, "but I have not much hope of gaining their confidence -- especially after your acting the thunderbolt so effectively on one of them."

"Why, man alive! they won't mind that. It was all in the way of fair fight," said Molloy; "an' the rascal was no favourite, I could see that."

"It's a wonder to me you could see anything at all after such a ram!" remarked Moses Pyne, with a yawn, as he lay back and rested his head on a tuft of grass. "The shock seemed to me fit to sink an iron-clad."

"But why pretend to be fond of the Arabs?" asked Stevenson. "Don't you think it would be sufficient that we should obey orders quietly without any humbug or pretence at all about it, till a chance to escape shall come in our way?"

"Don't you think, Stevenson," said Miles, "that there's a certain amount of humbug and pretence even in quiet obedience to orders, when such obedience is not the result of submission, but of a desire to throw people off their guard?"

"But my obedience is the result of submission," returned the marine stoutly. "I do really submit -- first, because it is God's will, for I cannot help it; second, because it is the only course that will enable me to escape bad treatment; third, because I wish to gain the good-will of the men who have me in their power whether I escape or not; and, fourth -- "

"Hallo! old man, how many heads are you goin' to give us in that there sermon?" asked Moses.

"This is the last head, Moses, and you needn't be anxious, for I ain't going to enlarge on any of 'em. My fourth reason is, that by doing as common-sense bids me, our foes will be brought thereby to that state of mind which will be favourable to everything -- our escape included -- and I can't help that, you know. It ain't my fault if they become trustful, is it?"

"No, nor it ain't no part o' your dooty to spoil their trustfulness by failin' to take advantage of it," said Molloy, with a grin; "but it do seem to me, Stevenson, as if there wor a strong smack o' the Jesuit, in what you say."

"I hope not," replied the marine. "Anyhow, no one would expect me, surely, to go an' say straight out to these fellows, 'I'm goin' to obey orders an' be as meek as a lamb, in order to throw you off your guard an' bolt when I get the chance!'"

"Cer'nly not. 'Cause why? Firstly, you couldn't say it at all till you'd learned Arabic," returned Molloy; "secondly -- if I may be allowed for to follow suit an' sermonise -- 'cause you shouldn't say it if you could; an', thirdly, 'cause you'd be a most awful Jack-ass to say it if you did. Now, it's my advice, boys, that we go to sleep, for we won't have an easy day of it to-morrow, if I may judge from to-day."

Having delivered this piece of advice with much decision, the seaman extended himself at full length on the ground, and went to sleep with a pleased smile on his face, as if the desert sand had been his familiar couch from infancy.

Some of the other members of the unfortunate party were not, however, quite so ready for sleep. Miles and his friend Armstrong sat long talking over their fate -- which they mutually agreed was a very sad one; but at last, overcome by exhaustion, if not anxiety, they sank into much-needed repose, and the only sound that broke the stillness of the night was the tread of the Arab sentinel as he paced slowly to and fro.

The country, as they advanced, became more and more rugged, until they found themselves at last in the midst of a hill region, in the valleys of which there grew a considerable amount of herbage and underwood. The journey here became very severe to the captives, for, although they did not suffer from thirst so much as on the plains, the difficulty of ascending steep and rugged paths with their hands bound was very great. It is true the position of the hands was changed, for after the second day they had been bound in front of them, but this did not render their toil easy, though it was thereby made a little less laborious.

By this time the captives had learned from experience that if they wished to avoid the spear-points they must walk in advance of their captors at a very smart pace. Fortunately, being all strong and healthy men, they were well able to do so.

Rattling Bill, perhaps, suffered most, although, after Molloy, he was physically one of the strongest of the party.

Observing that he lagged behind a little on one occasion while they were traversing a somewhat level valley, Stevenson offered him his arm.

"Don't be ashamed to take it, old boy," said the marine kindly, as his comrade hesitated. "You know, a fellow sometimes feels out o' sorts, and not up to much, however stout he may be when well, so just you lay hold, for somehow I happen to feel as strong as an elephant to-day."

"But I ain't ill," returned Simkin, still declining, "and I don't see why I shouldn't be as able as you are to carry my own weight."

"Of course you are better able to do it than I am, in a general way," returned his friend, "but I said that sometimes, you know, a fellow gives in, he don't well know why or how, an' then, of course, his comrades that are still strong are bound to help him. Here, hook on and pocket your pride. You'll have to do the same thing for me to-morrow, may-hap, when I give in. And if it does come to that I'll lean heavy, I promise you."

"You're a good fellow, Stevenson, even though you are a Blue Light," said Simkin, taking the proffered arm.

"Perhaps it's because I am a Blue Light," returned the marine, with a laugh. "At all events, it is certain that whatever good there may be about me at all is the result of that Light which is as free to you as to me."

For some minutes the couple walked along in silence. At last Rattling Bill spoke.

"I wonder," he said, "why it is that a young and healthy fellow like me should break down sooner than you, Stevenson, for I'm both bigger and stronger -- and yet, look at us new. Ain't it strange! I wonder why it is."

"It is strange, indeed," returned the marine quietly. "P'r'aps the climate suits me better than you."

"I know what you're thinkin'," said Simkin, almost testily. "Why don't you say that drink is the cause of it -- straight out, like a man?"

"Because I knew you were saying that to yourself, lad, so there was no need for me to say it," returned his friend, with a side-glance and a twinkle of the eyes.

"Well, whoever says it, it's a fact," continued Simkin, almost sternly, "an' I make no bones of admitting it. I have bin soakin' away, right and left, since I came to this country, in spite o' warnin's from you and other men like you, and now I feel as if all my boasted strength was goin' out at my heels."

Stevenson was silent.

"Why don't you say 'I told you so?'" asked Simkin, sharply.

"Because I never say that! It only riles people; besides," continued the marine, earnestly, "I was asking God at the moment to enable me to answer you wisely. You see, I think it only fair to reveal some of my private thoughts to you, since you are making a father-confessor of me. But as you admit that drink has done you damage, my dear fellow, there is no need for me to say anything more on that subject. What you want now is encouragement as to the future and advice as to the present. Shall I give you both just now, or shall I wait?"

"'Commence firing!'" replied Simkin, with a half-jesting smile.

"Well, then, as to encouragement," said Stevenson. "A point of vital importance with men who have gone in for drink as much as you have, is total-abstinence; and I regard it as an evidence of God's love to you that He has brought you here -- "

"God's love that brought me here!" exclaimed the soldier in surprise. "Well, that is a view o' the case that don't seem quite plain."

"Plain enough if you open your eyes wide enough. See here: If you was in camp now, with your present notions, and was to determine to give up drink, you'd have to face and fight two most tremendous devils. One devil is called Craving, the other is called Temptation, and all the Arabs in the Soudan rolled into one are not so terrible or so strong as these two when a man is left to fight them by himself. Now, is it not a sign of our Father's love that he has, by bringing you here, removed the devil Temptation entirely out of your way, for you can't get strong drink here for love or money. So, you see, you have only got Craving to fight, and that's encouraging, ain't it?"

"D'ye know, I believe you are not far wrong," said Simkin, gravely; "and it is encouraging to know that Temptation's out o' the way, for I feel that the other devil has got me by the throat even now, and that it's him as has weakened me so much."

"That's it, friend. You've got the truth by the tail now, so hold on; but, at the same time, don't be too hard on Craving. It's not his fault that he's here. You have poured liquor down your throat to him daily, and cultivated his acquaintance, and helped him to increase his strength regularly, for many months -- it may be for years. I don't want to be hard on you, lad, but it's of no use shiftin' the burden on to the wrong shoulders. It is not Craving but you who are the sinner. Now, as to advice: do you really want it?"

"Well," replied Simkin, with a "humph!" "it will be time enough for you to shut up when I sound the 'cease firing!'"

"My advice, then, is that you go down on your knees, plead guilty straight off, and ask for grace to help you in your time of need."

"What! go down on my knees here before all them Arabs? If I did, they'd not only laugh at me, but they'd soon rouse me up with their spears."

"I'm not so sure about that, Simkin. Arabs are accustomed to go on their own knees a good deal in public. It is chiefly Christians who, strange to say, are ashamed to be caught in that position at odd times. But I speak not of ceremonies, but of realities. A man may go on his knees, without bending a joint, any time and everywhere. Now, listen: there is this difference between the courts of men and the court of heaven, that in the former, when a man pleads guilty, his sentence is only modified and softened, but in the latter, the man who pleads guilty receives a free pardon and ultimate deliverance from all sin for the sake of Jesus Christ. Will you accept this deliverance, my friend?"

What the soldier replied in his heart we cannot tell, for his voice was silent. Before the conversation could be resumed a halt was called, to partake of the midday meal and rest.

That evening the party came upon a strange and animated scene. It was one of the mountain camps of Osman Digna, where men were assembling from all quarters, to swell the hordes with which their chief hoped to drive the hated Europeans into the Red Sea. Camels and other beasts of burden were bringing in supplies for the vast army, and to this spot had been brought the poor fellows who had been wounded in recent battles.

Here the captives were thrust into a small dark hut and left to their meditations, while a couple of Arab sentries guarded the door.



Chapter Twenty Three.

Shows That Suffering Tends To Draw Out Sympathy.

The word captivity, even when it refers to civilised lands and peoples, conveys, we suspect, but a feeble and incorrect idea to the minds of those who have never been in a state of personal bondage. Still less do we fully appreciate its dread significance when it refers to foreign lands and barbarous people.

It was not so much the indignities to which the captive Britons were subjected that told upon them ultimately, as the hard, grinding, restless toil, and the insufficient food and rest -- sometimes accompanied with absolute corporeal pain.

"A merciful man is merciful to his beast." There is not much of mercy to his beast in an Arab. We have seen an Arab, in Algiers, who made use of a sore on his donkey's back as a sort of convenient spur! It is exhausting to belabour a thick-skinned and obstinate animal with a stick. It is much easier, and much more effective, to tickle up a sore, kept open for the purpose, with a little bit of stick, while comfortably seated on the creature's back. The fellow we refer to did that. We do not say or think that all Arabs are cruel; very far from it, but we hold that, as a race, they are so. Their great prophet taught them cruelty by example and precept, and the records of history, as well as of the African slave-trade, bear witness to the fact that their "tender mercies" are not and never have been conspicuous!

At first, as we have shown, indignities told pretty severely on the unfortunate Englishmen. But, as time went on, and they were taken further and further into the interior, and heavy burdens were daily bound on their shoulders, and the lash was frequently applied to urge them on, the keen sense of insult which had at first stirred them into wild anger became blunted, and at last they reached that condition of partial apathy which renders men almost indifferent to everything save rest and food. Even the submissive Stevenson was growing callous. In short, that process had begun which usually ends in making men either brutes or martyrs.

As before, we must remark that Jack Molloy was to some extent an exception. It did seem as if nothing but death itself could subdue that remarkable man. His huge frame was so powerful that he seemed to be capable of sustaining any weight his tyrants chose to put upon him. And the influence of hope was so strong within him that it raised him almost entirely above the region of despondency.

This was fortunate for his comrades in misfortune, for it served to keep up their less vigorous spirits.

There was one thing about the seaman, however, which they could not quite reconcile with his known character. This was a tendency to groan heavily when he was being loaded. To be sure, there was not much reason for wonder, seeing that the Arabs forced the Herculean man to carry nearly double the weight borne by any of his companions, but then, as Miles once confidentially remarked to Armstrong, "I thought that Jack Molloy would rather have died than have groaned on account of the weight of his burden; but, after all, it is a tremendously heavy one -- poor fellow!"

One day the Arabs seemed to be filled with an unusual desire to torment their victims. A man had passed the band that day on a fast dromedary, and the prisoners conjectured that he might have brought news of some defeat of their friends, which would account for their increased cruelty. They were particularly hard on Molloy that day, as if they regarded him as typical of British strength, and, therefore, an appropriate object of revenge. After the midday rest, they not only put on him his ordinary burden, but added to the enormous weight considerably, so that the poor fellow staggered under it, and finally fell down beneath it, with a very dismal groan indeed!

Of course the lash was at once applied, and under its influence the sailor rose with great difficulty, and staggered forward a few paces, but only to fall again. This time, however, he did not wait for the lash, but made very determined efforts of his own accord to rise and advance, without showing the smallest sign of resentment. Even his captors seemed touched, for one of them removed a small portion of his burden, so that, thereafter, the poor fellow proceeded with less difficulty, though still with a little staggering and an occasional groan.

That night they reached a village near the banks of a broad river, where they put up for the night. After their usual not too heavy supper was over, the prisoners were thrust into a sort of hut or cattle-shed, and left to make themselves as comfortable as they could on the bare floor.

"I don't feel quite so much inclined for sleep to-night," said Miles to Molloy.

"No more do I," remarked the sailor, stretching himself like a wearied Goliath on the earthen floor, and placing his arms under his head for a pillow.

"I feel pretty well used up too," said Simkin, throwing himself down with a sigh that was more eloquent than his tongue. He was indeed anything but Rattling Bill by that time.

Moses Pyne being, like his great namesake, a meek man, sympathised with the others, but said nothing about himself, though his looks betrayed him. Armstrong and Stevenson were silent. They seemed too much exhausted to indulge in speech.

"Poor fellow!" said Moses to Molloy, "I don't wonder you are tired, for you not only carried twice as much as any of us, but you took part of my load. Indeed he did, comrades," added Moses, turning to his friends with an apologetic air. "I didn't want him to do it, but he jerked part o' my load suddenly out o' my hand an' wouldn't give it up again; an', you know, I didn't dare to make a row, for that would have brought the lash down on both of us. But I didn't want him to carry so much, an' him so tired."

"Tired!" exclaimed the sailor, with a loud laugh. "Why, I warn't tired a bit. An', you know, you'd have dropped down, Moses, if I hadn't helped ye at that time."

"Well, I confess I was ready to drop," returned Moses, with a humbled look; "but I would much rather have dropped than have added to your burden. How can you say you wasn't tired when you had fallen down only five minutes before, an' groaned heavily when you rose, and your legs trembled so? I could see it!"

To this the seaman's only reply was the expansion of his huge but handsome mouth, the display of magnificent teeth, the disappearance of both eyes, and a prolonged quiet chuckle.

"Why, what's the matter with you, Jack?" asked Stevenson.

"Nothin's the matter wi' me, old man -- 'cept -- "

Here he indulged in another chuckle.

"Goin' mad, with over-fatigue," said Simkin, looking suspiciously at him.

"Ay, that's it, messmate, clean mad wi' over-fatigue."

He wiped his eyes with the hairy back of his hand, for the chuckling, being hearty, had produced a few tears.

"No, but really, Jack, what is it you're laughing at?" asked Armstrong. "If there is a joke you might as well let us have the benefit of laughing along wi' you, for we stand much in need of something to cheer us here."

"Well, Billy boy, I may as well make a clean breast of it," said Molloy, raising himself on one elbow and becoming grave. "I do confess to feelin' raither ashamed o' myself, but you mustn't be hard on me, lads, for circumstances alters cases, you know, as Solomon said -- leastwise if it warn't him it was Job or somebody else. The fact is, I've bin shammin', mates!"

"Shamming!"

"Ay, shammin' weak. Purtendin' that I was shaky on the legs, an' so not quite up to the cargo they were puttin' aboard o' me."

"If what you've been doing means shamming weak, I'd like to see you coming out strong," observed Miles, with a short laugh.

"Well, p'r'aps you'll see that too some day," returned the sailor, with an amiable look.

"But do you really mean that all that groaning -- which I confess to have been surprised at -- was mere pretence?"

"All sham. Downright sneakin'!" said Molloy. "The short an' the long of it is, that I see'd from the first the on'y way to humbug them yellow-faced baboons was to circumwent 'em. So I set to work at the wery beginnin'."

"Ah, by takin' a header," said Simkin, "into one o' their bread-baskets!"

"No, no!" returned the seaman, "that, I confess, was a mistake. But you'll admit, I've made no more mistakes o' the same sort since then. You see, I perceived that, as my strength is considerable above the average, the baboons would be likely to overload me, so, arter profound excogitation wi' myself, I made up my mind what to do, an' when they had clapped on a little more than the rest o' you carried I began to groan, then I began to shake a bit in my timbers, an' look as if I was agoin' to founder. It didn't check 'em much, for they're awful cruel, so I went fairly down by the head. I had a pretty fair guess that this would bring the lash about my shoulders, an' I was right, but I got up wery slowly an' broken-down-like, so that the baboons was fairly humbugged, and stopped loadin' of me long afore I'd taken in a full cargo -- so, you see, boys, I've bin sailin' raither light than otherwise."

"But do you mean to tell me that the load you've bin carryin' is not too heavy for you?" asked Moses.

"That's just what I does mean to tell you, lad. I could carry a good deal more, an' dance with it. You see, they ain't used to men o' my size, so I was able to humbug 'em into a miscalkilation. I on'y wish I could have helped you all to do the same, but they're too 'cute, as the Yankees say. Anyway, Moses, you don't need to trouble your head when I gives you a helpin' hand again."

"Ah, that expression, 'a helping hand,' sounds familiar in my ears," said Stevenson, in a sad tone.

"Yes, what do it recall, lad?" asked Molloy, extending himself again on his broad back.

"It recalls places and friends in Portsmouth, Jack, that we may never again set eyes on. You remember the Institoot? Well, they've got a new branch o' the work there for the surrounding civilian poor, called the Helping Hand. You see, Miss Robinson understands us soldiers out and out. She knew that those among us who gave up drink and sin, and put on the blue-ribbon, were not goin' to keep all the benefit to ourselves. She knew that we understood the meaning of the word 'enlist' That we'd think very little o' the poor-spirited fellow who'd take the Queen's shillin' and put on her uniform, and then shirk fightin' her battles and honouring her flag. So when some of us put on the Lord's uniform --  which, like that of the Austrians, is white -- and unfurled His flag, she knew we'd soon be wantin' to fight His battles against sin -- especially against drink; so instead of lookin' after our welfare alone, she encouraged us to hold out a helpin' hand to the poorest and most miserable people in Portsmouth, an' she found us ready to answer to the call."

"Ah, they was grand times, these," continued the marine, with kindly enthusiasm, as he observed that his comrades in sorrow were becoming interested, and forgetting for the moment their own sorrows and sufferings. "The Blue-Ribbon move was strong in Portsmouth at the time, and many of the soldiers and sailors joined it. Some time after we had held out a helping hand to the poor civilians, we took it into our heads to invite some of 'em to a grand tea-fight in the big hall, so we asked a lot o' the poorest who had faithfully kept the pledge through their first teetotal Christmas; and it was a scrimmage, I can tell you. We got together more than forty of 'em, men and women, and there were about three hundred soldiers and sailors, and their wives to wait on 'em an' keep 'em company!"

"Capital!" exclaimed Miles, who had a sympathetic spirit -- especially for the poor.

"Good -- good!" said Molloy, nodding his head. "That was the right thing to do, an' I suppose they enjoyed theirselves?"

"Enjoyed themselves!" exclaimed the marine, with a laugh. "I should just think they did. Trust Miss Robinson for knowin' how to make poor folk enjoy themselves -- and, for the matter of that, rich folk too! How they did stuff, to be sure! Many of 'em, poor things, hadn't got such a blow-out in all their lives before. You see, they was the very poorest of the poor. You may believe what I say, for I went round myself with one o' the Institoot ladies to invite 'em, and I do declare to you that I never saw even pigs or dogs in such a state of destitootion -- nothin' whatever to lie on but the bare boards."

"You don't say so?" murmured Moses, with deep commiseration, and seemingly oblivious of the fact that he was himself pretty much in similar destitution at that moment.

"Indeed I do. Look here," continued the marine, becoming more earnest as he went on; "thousands of people don't know -- can't understand -- what misery and want and suffering is going on around 'em. City missionaries and the like tell 'em about it, and write about it, but telling and writin' don't make people know some things. They must see, ay, sometimes they must feel, before they can rightly understand.

"One of the rooms we visited," continued Stevenson, in pathetic tones, "belonged to a poor old couple who had been great drinkers, but had been induced to put on the blue-ribbon. It was a pigeon-hole of a room, narrow, up a dark stair. They had no means of support. The room was empty. Everything had been pawned. The last thing given up was the woman's shawl to pay the rent, and they were starving."

"Why didn't they go to the work'us?" asked Simkin.

"'Cause the workhouse separates man and wife, in defiance of the Divine law -- 'Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.' They was fond of each other, was that old man and woman, and had lived long together, an' didn't want to part till death. So they had managed to stick to the old home, ay, and they had stuck to their colours, for the bit o' blue was still pinned to the tattered coat o' the man and the thin gown o' the woman, (neither coat nor gown would fetch anything at the pawn-shop!) and there was no smell o' drink in the room. Well, that old couple went to the tea-fight. It was a bitter cold night, but they came all the same, with nothing to cover the woman's thin old arms.

"The moment they appeared, away went one o' Miss Robinson's workers to the room where they keep chests full of clothes sent by charitable folk to the Institoot, an' you should have seen that old woman's wrinkled face when the worker returned wi' the thickest worsted shawl she could lay hold of, an' put it on her shoulders as tenderly as if the old woman had been her own mother! At the same time they gave a big-coat to the old man."

"But, I say," interrupted Simkin, "that Christmas feed an' shawl an' coat wouldn't keep the couple for a twel'month, if they was sent home to starve as before, would it?"

"Of course not," returned the marine, "but they wasn't sent off to starve; they was looked after. Ay, an' the people o' the whole neighbourhood are now looked after, for Miss Robinson has bought up a grog-shop in Nobbs Lane -- one o' the worst places in Portsmouth -- an' converted it into a temperance coffee-house, wi' lots of beds to send people to when the Institoot overflows, an' a soup-kitchen for the destitoot poor, an' a wash'us for them and the soldiers' wives, an', in short, it has changed the whole place; but if I go on like this I'll send Moses to sleep, for I've heard 'im smotherin' his yawns more than once a'ready!"

"It's not for want of interest in what you're sayin' though, old man," returned Moses, with a tremendous unsmothered yawn, which of course set all his comrades off, and confirmed them in the belief that it was time to seek repose.

Scarcely a single comment was made on the narrative, as each laid his weary head on his arm or on a folded garment, and stretched himself out on the hard ground, in nearly as destitute a condition as the poor folk, about whom they had been hearing; for while their bed was as hard as theirs, and the covering as scant, the meal they had recently consumed was by no means what hungry men would call satisfying.

There is reason to believe, however, that their consideration of the sad lot of "the poor" at home did not render less profound or sweet that night's repose in the great African wilderness.



Chapter Twenty Four.

Adventures Among The Soudanese, And Strange Meeting With The Mahdi.

Day after day, for many days, our captives were thus driven over the burning desert, suffering intensely from heat and thirst and hunger, as well as from fatigue, and treated with more or less cruelty according to the varying moods of their guards.

At last one afternoon they arrived at a city of considerable size, through the streets of which they were driven with unusual harshness by the Arab soldiers, who seemed to take pleasure in thus publicly heaping contempt on Christian captives in the sight of the Mohammedan population.

Their case seemed truly desperate to Miles, as he and his comrades passed through the narrow streets, for no pitying eye, but many a frown, was cast on them by the crowds who stopped to gaze and scoff.

What city they had reached they had no means of finding out, being ignorant of Arabic. Indeed, even though they had been able to converse with their guards, it is probable that these would have refused to hold communication with them.

Turning out of what appeared to be a sort of market-place, they were driven, rather than conducted, to a whitewashed building, into which they entered through a low strong door, studded with large iron-headed nails. As they entered a dark passage, the door was slammed and locked behind them. At first, owing to their sudden entrance out of intensely bright day, they seemed to be in profound darkness, but when they became accustomed to the dim light, they found that they were in the presence of several powerful men, who carried long Eastern-like pistols in their girdles, and curved naked swords in their hands. These stood like statues against the wall of the small room, silently awaiting the orders of one whose dress betokened him of superior rank, and who was engaged in writing with a reed in Persian characters. A tall, very black-skinned negro stood beside this officer.

After a few minutes the latter laid down the reed, rose up, and confronted the prisoners, at the same time addressing some remark to his attendant.

"Who is you, an' where you come fro?" asked the negro, addressing himself to Miles, whom he seemed intuitively to recognise as the chief of his party.

"We are British soldiers!" said Miles, drawing himself up with an air of dignity that would have done credit to the Emperor of China. You see, at that moment he felt himself to be the spokesman for, and, with his comrades, the representative of, the entire British army, and was put upon his mettle accordingly. "We come from Suakim -- "

"Ay, black-face!" broke in Jack Molloy at that moment, "and you may tell him that if he has the pluck to go to Suakim, he'll see plenty more British soldiers -- an' British seamen too -- who'll give him an' his friends a hot and hearty welcome wi' bullet, bayonet, and cutlash whenever he feels inclined."

"Are you officer?" asked the negro of Miles, and not paying the smallest attention to Molloy's warlike invitation.

"No, I am not."

Turning to the armed men, the officer gave them an order which caused them to advance and stand close to the Englishmen -- two beside each prisoner -- with drawn swords. An extra man took up his position behind Molloy, evidently having regard to his superior size! Then two men, who looked like jailers, advanced to Stevenson, cut the cords that bound his arms, and proceeded to put iron fetters on his wrists.

"Comrades," said Molloy, in a low voice, when he perceived that his turn was coming, "shall we make a burst for it -- kill them all, get out into street, cut and slash through the town, and make a grand run for it -- or die like men?"

"Die like fools!" growled Simkin, as he suffered his hands to be manacled.

"No, no, Jack," said Armstrong; "don't be rash. Let's bide our time. There's no sayin' what'll turn up."

"Well, well," sighed Molloy, resigning himself to his fate, "there's only one thing now that's sartin sure to turn up, an' that is the sod that'll cover our graves."

"You're not sure even of that, man," said Moses Pyne, who was beginning to give way to despair, "for may-hap they'll only dig a hole in the sand, an' shove us in."

"More likely to leave the dogs an' vultures to clear us out o' the way," said Simkin, whose powers of hope were being tested almost beyond endurance.

While the prisoners indulged in these gloomy anticipations, the operation of fixing their irons was finished, after which they were taken across an inner court which was open to the sky. At the other side of this they came to another heavy iron-studded door, which, when opened, disclosed a flight of steps descending into profound darkness.

"Go in!" said the negro, who had accompanied them.

Molloy, who was first, hesitated, and the tremendous flush on his face, and frown on his shaggy brows, seemed to indicate that even yet he meditated attempting his favourite "burst"! But Stevenson, pushing past him, at once descended, saying, as he went, "Don't be foolish, Jack; we must learn to submit."

There were only three steps, and at the bottom a room about fifteen feet square, to enlighten which there was a small hole high up in one of the walls. It did little more, however, than render darkness visible.

"God help us!" exclaimed Miles, with a sensation of sinking at the heart which he had never felt before.

And little wonder, for, as their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, it was seen that the walls were blank, with nothing on them to relieve the eye save the little hole or window just mentioned; that the floor was of hard earth, and that there was not a scrap of furniture in the room -- not even a stool, or a bundle of straw on which to lie down.

"'I will trust, and not be afraid,'" said Stevenson, in a low voice.

"Who will you trust?" asked Simkin, who was not aware that his comrade had quoted Scripture.

"I will trust God," answered the marine.

"I wouldn't give much for your trust, then," returned Simkin bitterly, as well as contemptuously, for he had given way to despair. "You Blue Lights and Christians think yourselves so much better than everybody else, because you make so much talk about prayin' an' singin', an' doin' your duty, an' servin' God, an' submitting. It's all hypocrisy."

"Don't you believe that Sergeant Hardy is a good soldier?" asked Stevenson.

"Of course I do," replied Simkin, in some surprise at the question.

"An' he doesn't think much of himself, does he?" continued the marine.

"Certainly not. He's one o' the kindest an' humblest men in the regiment, as I have good reason to know."

"Yet he frequently talks to us of attendin' to our duty, an' doin' credit to the British Flag, an' faithfully serving the Queen. If this is praiseworthy in the sergeant, why should the talk of duty an' service an' honour to God be hypocrisy in the Christian? Does it not seem strange that we Blue Lights -- who have discovered ourselves to be much worse than we thought ourselves, an' gladly accept Jesus as our Saviour from sin -- should be charged with thinkin' ourselves 'better than other people'!"

"Come now," cried Jack Molloy, seating himself on the floor, and leaning his back against the wall; "it do seem to me, as you putt it, Stevenson, that the charge ought to be all the other way; for we, who make no purfession of religion at all, thinks ourselves so far righteous that we've got no need of a Saviour. Suppose, now, as we've got to as low a state o' the dumps as men can well come to, we all sits down in a row an' have a palaver about this matter -- Parson Stevenson bein' the chief spokesman."

They all readily agreed to this proposal. Indeed, in the circumstances, any proposal that offered the faintest hope of diverting their minds from present trouble would have been welcome to them at that moment. The marine was nothing loath to fall in with the fancy of his irrepressible comrade, but we do not propose to follow them in the talk that ensued. We will rather turn at once to those events which affected more immediately the fortunes of the captives.

On the morning after their arrival in the city there was assembled in the principal square a considerable concourse of Soudan warriors. They stood chatting together in various groups in front of a public building, as if awaiting some chief or great man, whose richly caparisoned steed stood in front of the main entrance, with its out-runner standing before it.

This runner was a splendid specimen of physical manhood. He was as black as coal, as graceful as Apollo, and apparently as powerful as Hercules, -- if one might judge from the great muscles which stood out prominently on all his limbs, he wore but little clothing -- merely a pair of short Arab drawers of white cotton, a red fez on his head, and a small tippet on his shoulders. Unlike negroes in general, his features were cast in a mould which one is more accustomed to see in the Caucasian race of mankind -- the nose being straight, the lips comparatively thin, and the face oval, while his bearing was that of a man accustomed to command.

The appearance of a few soldiers traversing the square drew the eyes of all in their direction, and caused a brief pause in the hum of conversation. Our friends, the captives, were in the midst of these soldiers, and beside them marched the negro interpreter whom they had first met with in the prison.

At the door of the public building the soldiers drew up and allowed the captives to pass in, guarded by two officers and the interpreter. Inside they found a number of military men and dignitaries grouped around, conversing with a stern man of strongly marked features. This man -- towards whom all of them showed great deference -- was engaged when the captives entered; they were therefore obliged to stand aside for a few minutes.

"Who is he?" asked Molloy of the negro interpreter.

"Our great leader," said the negro, "the Mahdi."

"What! the scoundrel that's bin the cause o' all this kick-up?" asked Jack Molloy, in surprise.

The interpreter did not quite understand the seaman's peculiar language, but he seemed to have some idea of the drift of it, for he turned up his up-turned nose in scorn and made no reply.

In a few minutes an officer led the captives before the Mahdi, who regarded them with a dark frown, directing his attention particularly to Jack Molloy, as being the most conspicuous member of the party, perhaps, also, because Molloy looked at him with an air and expression of stern defiance.

Selecting him as a spokesman for the others, the Mahdi, using the negro as an interpreter, put him through the following examination: -- 

"Where do you come from?" he asked, sternly.

"From Suakim," answered Molloy, quite as sternly.

"What brought you here?"

"Your dirty-faced baboons!"

It is probable that the negro used some discretion in translating this reply, for the chief did not seem at all offended, but with the same manner and tone continued -- 

"Do you know the number of men in Suakim?"

"Yes."

"Tell me -- how many?"

To this Molloy answered slowly, "Quite enough -- if you had only the pluck to come out into the open an' fight like men -- to give you such a lickin' that there wouldn't be a baboon o' you left in the whole Soudan!"

Again it is probable that the interpreter did not give this speech verbatim, for while he was delivering it, the Mahdi was scanning the features of the group of prisoners with a calm but keen eye.

Making a sign to one of his attendants to lead Molloy to one side, he said a few words to another, who thereupon placed Miles in front of his master.

"Are you an officer?" was the first question put.

"No," answered our hero, with quiet dignity, but without the slightest tinge of defiance either in tone or look.

"Will you tell me how many men you have in Suakim?"

"No."

"Dare you refuse?"

"Yes; it is against the principles of a British soldier to give information to an enemy."

"That's right, John Miles," said Molloy, in an encouraging tone; "give it 'im hot! They can only kill us once, an' -- "

"Silence!" hissed the Mahdi between his teeth.

"Silence!" echoed the interpreter.

"All right, you nigger! Tell the baboon to go on. I won't run foul of him again; he ain't worth it."

This was said with free-and-easy contempt.

"Do you not know," resumed the Mahdi, turning again to Miles with a fierce expression, "that I have power to take your life?"

"You have no power at all beyond what God gives to you," said Miles quietly.

Even the angry Mahdi was impressed with the obvious truth of this statement, but his anger was not much allayed by it.

"Know you not," he continued, "that I have the power to torture you to death?"

Our hero did not at once reply. He felt that a grand crisis in his life had arrived, that he stood there before an assemblage of "unbelievers," and that, to some extent, the credit of his countrymen for courage, fidelity, and Christianity was placed in his hands.

"Mahdi," he said, impressively, as he drew himself up, "you have indeed the power to torture and kill me, but you have not the power to open my lips, or cause me to bring dishonour on my country!"

"Brayvo, Johnny! Pitch into him!" cried the delighted Molloy.

"Fool!" exclaimed the Mahdi, whose ire was rekindled as much by the seaman's uncomprehended comment as by our hero's fearless look and tone, "you cannot bring dishonour on a country which is already dishonoured. What dishonour can exceed that of being leagued with the oppressor against the oppressed? Go! You shall be taught to sympathise with the oppressed by suffering oppression!"

He waved his hand, and, quickly leaving the court, walked towards his horse, where the fine-looking negro runner stood and held his stirrup, while he prepared to mount. Instead of mounting, however, he stood for a few seconds looking thoughtfully at the ground. Then he spoke a few words to the runner, who bowed his head slightly as his master mounted and rode away.

Grasping a small lance and flag, which seemed to be the emblems of his office, he ran off at full speed in front of the horse to clear the way for his master.

At the entrance to the building an official of some sort took hold of Miles's arm and led him away. He glanced back and observed that two armed men followed. At the same time he saw Molloy's head towering above the surrounding crowd, as he and his comrades were led away in another direction. That was the last he saw of some at least, of his friends for a considerable time.

Poor Miles was too much distressed at this sudden and unexpected separation to take much note of the things around him. He was brought back to a somewhat anxious consideration of his own affairs by being halted at the gate of a building which was more imposing, both in size and appearance, than the houses around it. Entering at the bidding of his conductors, he found himself in an open court, and heard the heavy door closed and bolted behind him.

Thereafter he was conducted to a small chamber, which, although extremely simple, and almost devoid of furniture, was both cleaner and lighter than that in which he and his comrades had been at first immured. He observed, however, with a feeling of despondency, that it was lighted only by small square holes in the roof, and that the door was very substantial!

Here his conductor left him without saying a word and bolted the door. As he listened to the retreating steps of his jailer echoing on the marble pavement of the court, a feeling of profound dejection fell upon our hero's spirit, and he experienced an almost irresistible tendency to give way to unmanly tears. Shame, however, came to his aid and enabled him to restrain them.

In one corner of the little room there was a piece of thick matting. Sitting down on it with his back against the wall, the poor youth laid his face in his hands and began to think and to pray. But the prayer was not audible; and who can describe the wide range of thought -- the grief, the anxiety for comrades as well as for himself, the remorse, the intense longing to recall the past, the wish that he might awake and find that it was only a wild dream, and, above all, the bitter -- almost vengeful -- self-condemnation!

He was aroused from this condition by the entrance of a slave bearing a round wooden tray, on which were a bowl of food and a jug of water.

Placing these before him, the slave retired without speaking, though he bestowed a glance of curiosity on the "white infidel dog," before closing the door.

Appetite had ever been a staunch friend to Miles Milton. It did not fail him now. Soldier-life has usually the effect of making its devotees acutely careful to take advantage of all opportunities! He set to work on the bowlful of food with a will, and was not solicitous to ascertain what it consisted of until it was safely washed down with a draught from the jug. Being then too late to enter on an inquiry as to its nature, he contented himself with a pleasing recollection that the main body of the compost was rice, one of the constituents oil, and that the whole was by no means bad. He also wished that there had been more of it, and then resumed his previous -- and only possible -- amusement of meditation.

Thinking, like fighting, is better done on a full stomach! He had gradually thought himself into a more hopeful state of mind, when he was again interrupted by the entrance of visitors -- two armed men, and the magnificent negro runner whom he had observed holding the Mahdi's horse. One of the armed men carried a small bundle, which he deposited on the ground, and then stood beside his companion. Both stood like sentinels with drawn swords, ready, apparently, to obey the commands of the runner.

Advancing to the captive, the latter, producing a key, unlocked and removed his manacles. These he handed to one of the men, and, turning again to Miles, said, to his great surprise, in English -- 

"Undress, and put on de t'ings in bundle."

We may here observe that up to this time Miles and his comrades in adversity had worn, day and night, the garments in which they had been captured. Our hero was not sorry, therefore, at the prospect of a change. Untying the bundle to see what substitute was given for his uniform, he found that it contained only a pair of loose cotton drawers and a red fez.

"Is this all?" he asked, in surprise.

"All," answered the negro.

"And what if I refuse to undress?" asked Miles.

"Your clo'es will be tore off your back and you be bastinado!"

This was said so calmly, and the three grave, powerful men seemed so thoroughly capable of performing the deed, that our hero wisely submitted to the inevitable and took off his uniform, which one of the guards gathered up piece by piece as it was removed. Then he pulled on the drawers, which covered him from the waist to a little below the knees. When he had put on the red fez he found himself clothed in exactly the same costume as the runner, with the exception of a small green tippet which barely covered the top of his shoulders, and seemed to be worn rather as an ornament than a piece of clothing, though perhaps it formed a slight protection from the sun.

In this cool costume they left him, carrying away his uniform, as if more thoroughly to impress on him what uncommonly cool things they were capable of doing in the hot regions of the Soudan!



Chapter Twenty Five.

Miles Is Promoted -- Molloy Overthrows The Mahdi, And Is Elevated For So Doing.

Next day Miles Milton became painfully aware of the fact that his life in captivity was not to be one of ease or idleness.

Soon after daybreak the door of his prison creaked on its ponderous hinges, and he started up from the mat on which he had slept without covering of any kind. His visitor was the Mahdi's runner, who, after closing the door, came and sat down beside him, cross legged a la Turk and tailor.

For a brief space the handsome black stared steadily at Miles, who returned the compliment as steadily, not being sure whether curiosity or insolence lay at the foundation of the stare.

"Englishmin," said the runner at last, "you is unfortnit."

"I am indeed," returned Miles; "at the same time I am fortunate in so unexpectedly finding one who recognises the fact, and who can tell me so in my own tongue. May I venture to hope that you are friendly towards me?"

"Yes; I am your friend, but my friendness can do for you not'ing. Like youself, I am captive -- slave. But in my own land I was a chief, and friend of the great and good Gordon, so I is friend to all Englishmin. Once I was 'terpreter to Gordon, but the Mahdi came. I fell into his hands, and now I do run befront his horse, an' hold de stirrup! I comes to you from the Mahdi wid bad news."

"Indeed! But I need not wonder. You could scarcely come from him with good news. What have you to tell?"

"The Mahdi has made you his runner," answered the negro.

"That is strange news rather than bad, is it not?"

"No; it is bad. He do dis 'cause he hate you. Somehow you has anger him. He say he will tame you. He try to tame me," said the negro, with sudden and tremendous ferocity, "an' him t'ink he do it! But I only waits my chance to kill him.

"Now he send me again to dirty work, an' put you in my place to humble you -- to insult you before every one, who will say, 'Look! de bold Christin dog lick de dust now, an' hold de Mahdi's stirrup.'"

"This is indeed bad news. But how is it that you, who seem to be free, do not use your opportunity to escape? I saw you holding the Mahdi's horse. It seems to be a splendid one. Why did you not jump on its back and fly?"

The runner frowned, and then, changing his mood, smiled sadly.

"You is young," he said, "and knows not'ing. At night I am locked up like yourself. In de day-time de city is full of enemies, who all knows me. Do you t'ink dey will salute, and say, 'Go in peace,' to de runner of de Mahdi when he is running away with his best horse?"

"Perhaps not," said Miles, "but I would try if I were you."

"You will be me very soon," returned the runner, "and you can try. I did try -- twice. I was caught both times and beat near to death. But I did not die! I learn wisdom; and now I submit and wait my chance to kill him. If you is wise you begin at once to submit and wait too."

"There is truth in what you say," rejoined Miles, after a few minutes' thought. "I will take your advice and submit and wait, but only till the opportunity to escape offers. I would not murder the man even if I had the chance."

"Your words remind me of de good Gordon. He was not vengeful. He loved God," said the runner, in a low and very different tone. "But," he added, "Gordon was a white man. He did not -- could not -- understand de feelings of de black chief."

As the last remark opened up ground which Miles was not prepared to traverse, he made no rejoinder but asked the runner what the Mahdi required of him in his new capacity.

"He require you to learn de city, so as you know how to run when you is told -- an' I is to teach you, so you come wid me," said the runner, rising.

"But am I to go in this costume, or rather in this half-naked state?" asked Miles, rising and spreading out his hands as he looked down at his unclothed chest and lower limbs.

"You not cause for be ashamed," replied the runner, with a nod.

This was true, for the hard travelling which Miles had recently endured, and the heavy burdens which he had borne, had developed his muscles to such an extent that his frame was almost equal to that of the negro, and a fit subject for the sculptor's chisel.

"Your white skin will p'r'aps blister at first," continued the runner, "but your master will be glad for dat. Here is a t'ing, however, will save you shoulders. Now, you makes fuss-rate runner."

He took the little green tippet off his own shoulders and fastened it on those of his successor.

"Come now," he added, "let us see how you can run."

They passed out into the street together, and then poor Miles felt the full sense of his degradation, when he saw some of the passers-by stop to gaze with looks of hatred or contempt or amusement at the "Christian captive."

But he had not much leisure to think or feel, for the negro ran him down one street and up another at a pace which would soon have exhausted him if, besides being a naturally good runner, he had not recently been forced to undergo such severe training. During the run his guide pointed out and named most of the chief places, buildings, and mosques.

"You will do," said the negro, pausing at length and turning towards his companion with a look of approval, "You a'most so good as myself!"

With this compliment he proceeded to instruct the new runner in his duties, and at night Miles found himself again in his prison, ready to do full justice to his bowl of rice-compost, and to enjoy his blanket-less mat bed -- if a man can be said to enjoy anything about which he is profoundly unconscious during the time of its enjoyment!

Next morning he awoke with a sensation that led him for a moment to fancy he must have gone supper-less to bed. While he was waiting impatiently for breakfast he revolved several ideas in his mind, one of which was that, come what might, he would not suffer any indignity, however gross, to get the better of him. He would take a leaf out of his friend Stevenson's book, and bear patiently whatever was sent to him, in the hope that by so doing he might gain the good-will of his captors, and thus, perhaps, be in a better position to take advantage of any opportunity to escape that might occur.

He was very confident of his power of self-restraint, and trusted a good deal to that determination of will which we have before referred to as being one of his characteristics. That same day his powers were severely tested.

All the morning he was left in his prison to fret in idleness, but towards the afternoon he was called by his friend the ex-runner to go out to his work.

"Do what you is told an' hold you tongue, an' keep your eyes on de ground. Dems my advice," said the negro, as he resigned the bridle of the Mahdi's steed to his successor, and placed the lance of office in his hand.

Just as he did so the Mahdi came out of a door-way and advanced towards them, while the negro retired and mingled with the crowd which had assembled to see the chief mount his horse.

Miles tried faithfully to attend to his friend's injunctions, but could not resist one glance at his new master, which showed him that a cynical smile rested on his swarthy countenance, a smile which he also observed was copied by those of the crowd who did not prefer to regard him with scowling looks -- for the people of the Soudan were, naturally enough, filled with indignation against all Europeans, and especially against the British, at that time.

The glance did not improve Miles's state of mind, nevertheless he forced himself to look at the ground with an utterly expressionless face, as he held the Mahdi's stirrup. He received a slight push from his master's foot instead of thanks when he had mounted, but Miles resolutely kept his eyes on the ground and restrained his rising wrath, ignorant of the fact that the Mahdi wished to point out the direction in which he was to run.

A smart blow from the riding-switch on his naked back aroused him to his duty, and caused a slight laugh among the onlookers.

Never before, perhaps, was the Mahdi so near his end as at that moment, for, as our hero felt the sting, and heard the low laugh, all the blood in his body seemed to leap into his brow, and the lance of office quivered as his hand tightened on it. The fact that two guards with drawn swords stood at his side, and that their weapons would have been in his heart before he could have accomplished the deed, would probably have failed to restrain him had not his pride of purpose, as we may style it, come to his aid. He looked up, with a frown indeed, but without uttering a word. The Mahdi pointed along one of the streets, and Miles instantly bounded away -- heartily glad to be able to let off his superfluous feeling in violent action.

For several hours his master kept him running -- evidently on purpose to try his powers, as a jockey might test the qualities of a new horse, and, strong though he was, the poor youth began at last to feel greatly distressed, and to pant a good deal. Still his pride and a determination not to be beaten sustained him.

At one point of his course he was passing a band of slaves who were labouring to lift a large beam of wood, when the sound of a familiar voice caused him to look up, and then he saw his friend Jack Molloy, in costume like his own, minus the fez and tippet, with one of his great shoulders under the beam, and the sweat pouring down his face.

"Hallo, Miles!" exclaimed the seaman.

But our hero did not dare to pause, and could not speak. His glancing aside, however, had the effect of causing him to stumble, and, being too much exhausted at the time to recover himself, he fell heavily to the ground. As he slowly rose up, half-stunned, the Mahdi could scarcely avoid riding him down. As it was, he stooped, and, a second time laid his riding-switch smartly on the poor youth's naked shoulders.

Jack Molloy, who saw the cruel act, lost all control of himself, uttered one of his leonine roars, sprang into the middle of the road, and seized the reins of the Mahdi's horse. The startled animal reared and attempted to swerve. Molloy assisted the swerve by a violent side-pull at the reins. At the same time he caught one of the upraised forelegs, and, with an almost superhuman exertion of strength hurled both horse and rider to the ground!

A very howl of consternation and amazement burst from the populace as they beheld their Mahdi lying flat and motionless on his back as if dead!

Of course Jack Molloy was instantly seized by an overpowering number of soldiers, bound hand and foot, and carried back to his dungeon, while the Mahdi was tenderly raised and conveyed to the house which he inhabited at that time.

Miles had also been seized and dragged somewhat violently back to his prison. As for the other members of the captive band, none of them were there at the time. They were all separated at the time our hero was taken from them, and each remained for a considerable time in ignorance of the fate of his fellows. We may say at once here that they were all put to severe and menial labour. Each also had his uniform exchanged for a pair of Arabian drawers, and a felt cap or a fez, so that they were little better than naked. This would have mattered little -- the weather being very warm -- if their skins had been accustomed to the powerful rays of a tropical sun. But the effect on them was so severe that their taskmasters, in an unwonted gush of pity, at last gave them each a loose garment of sacking, which served as a partial protection.

After the incident which has just been related, Miles was permitted to remain during the rest of that day and night in his room. Not so Jack Molloy. The anger of the populace was so powerfully aroused against the impetuous sailor that they clamoured for his instant execution, and at last, unable or unwilling to resist the pressure of public opinion, the officers in charge of him gave in. They put a rope round his neck, and led him to a spot where criminals were wont to be executed.

As he went along and saw only scowling faces whenever he looked round in the hope of meeting some pitying eye, the poor man began to feel convinced that his last hour had in very truth arrived.

"Well, well, who'd ha' thowt it would ever come to this?" he sighed, shaking his head mournfully as he came in sight of the place of execution. "But, after all, ye richly desarve it, John Molloy, for you've bin a bad lot the greater part o' your life!"

Again he looked on either side of him, for hope was strongly enshrined in his broad bosom, but not a friendly or even pitiful face could he see among all the hundreds that surrounded him.

Arrived at the place, he glanced up at the beam over his head, and for one moment thought of trying, like Samson, to burst the bonds that held him; but it was only for a moment. The impossibility of freeing himself was too obvious. He meekly bowed his head. Another instant and the rope tightened round his neck, and he felt himself swinging in the air.

Before his senses had quite left him, however, he felt his feet again touch the ground. The choking sensation passed away, and he found himself supported by two men. A burst of mocking laughter then proved to the wretched man that his tormentors had practised on him the refined cruelty of half-hanging him. If he had had any doubt on this subject, the remark of the interpreter, as he afterwards left him in his cell to recover as best he might, would have dispelled it -- 

"We will 'ang you dead de nex' time!"



Chapter Twenty Six.

Cruel Treatment -- Despair Followed By Hope And A Joyful Discovery.

After the rough treatment he had received, the Mahdi, as we may well believe, did not feel more amiably disposed towards his prisoners.

Of course he had no reason for blaming Miles for what had occurred, nevertheless he vented his wrath against white men in general on him, by keeping him constantly on the move, and enforcing prolonged and unusual speed while running, besides subjecting him publicly to many insults.

It was a strange school in which to learn self-restraint and humility. But our hero profited by the schooling. Necessity is a stern teacher, and she was the head-mistress of that school. Among other things she taught Miles to reason extensively -- not very profoundly, perhaps, nor always correctly, but at all events in a way that he never reasoned before. The best way to convey to the reader the state of his mind will be to let him speak for himself. As he had a habit of thinking aloud --  for sociability, as it were -- in the dark cell to which he had been relegated, we have only to bend down our ear and listen.

One night, about a week after the overthrow of his tyrant master, Miles was seated on the hard floor of his cell, leaning against the wall, with his knees drawn up and his face in his hands -- his usual attitude when engaged in meditation after a hard day's work.

"I wouldn't mind so much," he murmured, "if I only saw the faintest prospect of its coming to an end, but to go on thus from day to day, perhaps year to year, is terrible. No, that cannot be; if we cannot escape it won't be long till the end comes. (A pause.) The end! -- the end of a rope with a noose on it is likely to be my end, unless I burst up and run a-muck. No, no, Miles Milton, don't you think of that! What good would it do to kill half-a-dozen Arabs to accompany you into the next world? The poor wretches are only defending their country after all. (Another pause.) Besides, you deserve what you've got for so meanly forsaking your poor mother; think o' that, Miles, when you feel tempted to stick your lance into the Mahdi's gizzard, as Molloy would have said. Ah! poor Molloy! I fear that I shall never see you again in this life. After giving the Mahdi and his steed such a tremendous heave they would be sure to kill you; perhaps they tortured you to -- "

He stopped at this point with an involuntary shudder.

"I hope not," he resumed, after another pause. "I hope we may yet meet and devise some means of escape. God grant it! True, the desert is vast and scorching and almost waterless -- I may as well say foodless too! And it swarms with foes, but what then? Have not most of the great deeds of earth, been accomplished in the face of what seemed insurmountable difficulties? Besides -- "

He paused again here, and for a longer time, because there came suddenly into his mind words that had been spoken to him long ago by his mother: "With God all things are possible."

"Yes, Miles," he continued, "you must make up your mind to restrain your anger and indignation, because it is useless to give vent to them. That's but a low motive after all. Is it worthy of an intelligent man? I get a slap in the face, and bear it patiently, because I can't help myself. I get the same slap in the face in circumstances where I can help myself, and I resent it fiercely. Humble when I must be so; fierce when I've got the power. Is not this unmanly -- childish -- humbug? There is no principle here. Principle! I do believe I never had any principle in me worthy of the name. I have been drifting, up to this time, before the winds of caprice and selfish inclination. (A long pause here.) Well, it just comes to this, that whatever happens I must submit with a good grace -- at least, as good grace as I can -- and hope that an opportunity to escape may occur before long. I have made up my mind to do it -- and when I once make up my mind, I -- "

He paused once more at this point, and the pause was so long that he turned it into a full stop by laying his head on the block of wood which formed his pillow and going to sleep.

It will be seen from the above candid remarks that our hero was not quite as confident of his power of will as he used to be, -- also, that he was learning a few useful facts in the school of adversity.

One evening, after a harder day than usual, Miles was conducted to the prison in which he and his companions had been confined on the day of their arrival.

Looking round the cell, he observed, on becoming accustomed to the dim light, that only one other prisoner was there. He was lying on the bare ground in a corner, coiled up like a dog, and with his face to the wall. Relieved to find that he was not to be altogether alone, Miles sat down with his back against the opposite wall, and awaited the waking of his companion with some interest, for although his face was not visible, and his body was clothed in a sort of sacking, his neck and lower limbs showed that he was a white man. But the sleeper did not seem inclined to waken just then. On the contrary, he began, ere long, to snore heavily.

Miles gradually fell into a train of thought that seemed to bring back reminiscences of a vague, indefinable sort. Then he suddenly became aware that the snore of the snorer was not unfamiliar. He was on the point of rising to investigate this when the sleeper awoke with a start, sat bolt upright with a look of owlish gravity, and presented the features of Jack Molloy.

"Miles, my lad!" cried Jack, springing up to greet his friend warmly, "I thought you was dead."

"And, Jack, my dear friend," returned Miles, "I thought -- at least I feared -- that you must have been tortured to death."

"An' you wasn't far wrong, my boy. Stand close to me, and look me straight in the eyes. D'ee think I'm any taller?"

"Not much -- at least, not to my perception. Why?"

"I wonder at that, now," said Molloy, "for I've bin hanged three times, an' should have bin pulled out a bit by this time, considering my weight."

His friend smiled incredulously.

"You may laugh, lad, but it's no laughin' matter," said Molloy, feeling his neck tenderly. "The last time, I really thought it was all up wi' me, for the knot somehow got agin my windpipe an' I was all but choked. If they had kep' me up half a minute longer it would have bin all over: I a'most wished they had, for though I never was much troubled wi' the narves, I'm beginnin' now to have a little fellow-feelin' for the sufferin's o' the narvish."

"Do you really mean, my dear fellow, that the monsters have been torturing you in this way?" asked Miles, with looks of sympathy.

"Ay, John Miles, that's just what I does mean," returned the seaman, with an anxious and startled look at the door, on the other side of which a slight noise was heard at the moment. "They've half-hanged me three times already. The last time was only yesterday, an' at any moment they may come to give me another turn. It's the uncertainty o' the thing that tries my narves. I used to boast that I hadn't got none once, but the Arabs know how to take the boastin' out of a fellow. If they'd only take me out to be hanged right off an' done with it, I wouldn't mind it so much, but it's the constant tenter-hooks of uncertainty that floors me. Hows'ever, I ain't quite floored yet. But let's hear about yourself, Miles. Come, sit down. I gets tired sooner than I used to do since they took to hangin' me. How have they bin sarvin' you out since I last saw ye?"

"Not near so badly as they have been serving you, old boy," said Miles, as he sat down and began to detail his own experiences.

"But tell me," he added, "have you heard anything of our unfortunate comrades since we parted?"

"Nothing -- at least nothing that I can trust to. I did hear that poor Moses Pyne is dead; that they had treated him the same as me, and that his narves couldn't stand it; that he broke down under the strain an' died. But I don't believe it. Not that these Arabs wouldn't kill him that way, but the interpreter who told me has got falsehood so plainly writ in his ugly face that I would fain hope our kind-hearted friend is yet alive."

"God grant it may be so!" said Miles fervently. "And I scarcely think that even the cruellest of men would persevere in torturing such a gentle fellow as Moses."

"May-hap you're right," returned Molloy; "anyhow, we'll take what comfort we can out o' the hope. Talkin' o' comfort, what d'ee think has bin comfortin' me in a most wonderful way? You'll never guess."

"What is it, then?"

"One o' them little books as Miss Robinson writes, and gives to soldiers and sailors -- 'The Victory' it's called, havin' a good deal in it about Nelson's flagship and Nelson himself; but there's a deal more than that in it -- words that has gone straight to my heart, and made me see God's love in Christ as I never saw it before. Our comrade Stevenson gave it to me before we was nabbed by the Arabs, an' I've kep' it in the linin' o' my straw hat ever since. You see it's a thin little thing -- though there's oceans o' truth in it -- an' it's easy stowed away.

"I forgot all about it till I was left alone in this place, and then I got it out, an' God in his marcy made it like a light in the dark to me.

"Stevenson came by it in a strange way. He told me he was goin' over a battle-field after a scrimmage near Suakim, lookin' out for the wounded, when he noticed somethin' clasped in a dead man's hand. The hand gripped it tight, as if unwillin' to part with it, an' when Stevenson got it he found that it was this little book, 'The Victory.' Here it is. I wouldn't change it for a golden sov, to every page."

As he spoke, footsteps were heard approaching the door. With a startled air Molloy thrust the book into its place and sprang up.

"See there, now!" he said remonstratively, "who'd ever ha' thowt that I'd come to jerk about like that?"

Before the door opened, however, the momentary weakness had passed away, and our seaman stood upright, with stern brow and compressed lips, presenting to those who entered as firm and self-possessed a man of courage as one could wish to see.

"I knowed it!" he said in a quiet voice to his friend, as two strong armed men advanced and seized him, while two with drawn swords stood behind him. At the same time, two others stood guard over Miles. "They're goin' to give me another turn. God grant that it may be the last!"

"Yes -- de last. You be surely dead dis time," said the interpreter, with a malignant smile.

"If you hadn't said it, I would have had some hope that the end was come!" said Molloy, as they put a rope round his neck and led him away.

"Good-bye, Miles," he added, looking over his shoulder; "if I never come back, an' you ever gets home again, give my kind regards to Miss Robinson -- God bless her!"

Next moment the door closed, and Miles was left alone.

It is impossible to describe the state of mind in which our hero paced his cell during the next hour. The intense pity, mingled with anxiety and fierce indignation, that burned in his bosom were almost unbearable. "Oh!" he thought, "if I were only once more free, for one moment, with a weapon in my hand, I'd -- "

He wisely checked himself in the train of useless thought at this point. Then he sat down on the floor, covered his face with his hands, and tried to pray, but could not. Starting up, he again paced wildly about the cell like a caged tiger. After what seemed to him an age he heard footsteps in the outer court. The door opened, and the sailor was thrust in. Staggering forward a step or two, he was on the point of falling when Miles caught him in his arms, and let him sink gently on the ground, and, sitting down beside him, laid his head upon his knee. From the inflamed red mark which encircled the seaman's powerful neck, it was obvious enough that the cruel monsters had again put him to the tremendous mental agony of supposing that his last hour had come.

"Help me up, lad, and set my back agin the wall," he said, in a low voice.

As Miles complied, one or two tears that would not be repressed fell from his eyes on the sailor's cheek.

"You're a good fellow," said Molloy, looking up. "I thank the Lord for sendin' you to comfort me, and I do need comfort a bit just now, d'ee know. There -- I'm better a'ready, an' I'll be upside wi' them next time, for I feels, somehow, that I couldn't stand another turn. Poor Moses! I do hope that the interpreter is the liar he looks, and that they haven't treated the poor fellow to this sort o' thing."

Even while he spoke, the door of the cell again opened and armed men entered.

"Ay, here you are," cried the sailor, rising quickly and attempting to draw himself up and show a bold front. "Come away an' welcome. I'm ready for 'ee."

But the men had not come for Molloy. They wanted Miles, over whom there came a sudden and dreadful feeling of horror, as he thought they were perhaps going to subject him to the same ordeal as his friend.

"Keep up heart, lad, and trust in the Lord," said the sailor, in an encouraging tone as they led our hero away.

The words were fitly spoken, and went far to restore to the poor youth the courage that for a moment had forsaken him. As he emerged into the bright light, which dazzled him after the darkness of his prison-house, he thought of the Sun of Righteousness, and of the dear mother who had sought so earnestly to lead him to God in his boyhood.

One thing that greatly encouraged him was the fact that no rope had been put round his neck, as had been done to Molloy, and he also observed that his guards did not treat him roughly. Moreover, they led him in quite a different direction from the open place where he well knew that criminals were executed. He glanced at the interpreter who marched beside him, and thought for a moment of asking him what might be his impending fate, but the man's look was so forbidding that he forbore to speak.

Presently they stopped before a door, which was opened by a negro slave, and the guards remained outside while Miles and the interpreter entered. The court into which they were ushered was open to the sky, and contained a fountain in the centre, with boxes of flowers and shrubs around it. At the inner end of it stood a tall powerful Arab, leaning on a curved sword.

Miles saw at a glance that he was the same man whose life he had saved, and who had come so opportunely to the rescue of his friend Molloy. But the Arab gave him no sign of recognition. On the contrary, the glance which he bestowed on him was one of calm, stern indifference.

"Ask him," he said at once to the interpreter, "where are the Christian dogs who were captured with him?"

"Tell him," replied Miles, when this was translated, "that I know nothing about the fate of any of them except one."

"Which one is that?"

"The sailor," answered Miles.

"Where is he?"

"In the prison I have just left."

"And you know nothing about the others?"

"Nothing whatever."

The Arab seemed to ponder these replies for a few minutes. Then, turning to the interpreter, he spoke in a tone that seemed to Miles to imply the giving of some strict orders, after which, with a wave of his hand, and a majestic inclination of the head, he dismissed them.

Although there was little in the interview to afford encouragement, Miles nevertheless was rendered much more hopeful by it, all the more that he observed a distinct difference in the bearing of the interpreter towards him as they went out.

"Who is that?" he ventured to ask as he walked back to the prison.

"That is Mohammed, the Mahdi's cousin," answered the interpreter.

Miles was about to put some more questions when he was brought to a sudden stand, and rendered for the moment speechless by the sight of Moses Pyne -- not bearing heavy burdens, or labouring in chains, as might have been expected, but standing in a shallow recess or niche in the wall of a house, busily engaged over a small brazier, cooking beans in oil, and selling the same to the passers-by!

"What you see?" demanded the interpreter.

"I see an old friend and comrade. May I speak to him?" asked Miles, eagerly.

"You may," answered the interpreter.

The surprise and joy of Moses when his friend slapped him on the shoulder and saluted him by name is not easily described.

"I am so glad to see you, old fellow!" he said, with sparkling eyes. "I thought you must be dead, for I've tried so often to find out what had become of you. Have some beans and oil?"

He dipped a huge ladleful out of the pot, as if he were going to administer a dose on the spot.

"No, thank you, Moses, I'm a prisoner. These are my guards. I wonder they have allowed me even to exchange a word with you. Must be quick. They told us you had been half-hanged till you were frightened to death."

"They told you lies, then. I've been very well treated, but what troubles me is I can't find out where any of our comrades have gone to."

"I can tell only of one. Molloy is alive. I wish I could say he's well. Of the others I'm as ignorant as yourself. But I've seen a friend who -- "

At this point he was interrupted by the interpreter and told to move on, which he was fain to do with a cheery good-bye to Moses and a wave of the hand.

Arrived at the prison, he found that Molloy had been removed to a more comfortable room, into which he was also ushered, and there they were left alone together.

"D'you feel better now, my poor fellow?" asked Miles, when the door was shut.

"Better, bless you, yes! I feels far too well. They've given me a rare blow-out of beans an' oil since you were taken off to be hanged, and I feels so strong that the next turn off won't finish me! I could never have eaten 'em, thinkin' of you, but, d'ee know, I was quite sure, from the way they treated you as you went out, that it warn't to be hangin' wi' you this time. An' when they putt me into this here room, an' produced the beans an' oil, I began to feel quite easy in my mind about you. It was the man that brought your marchin' orders that told 'em to putt me here. D'ee know, lad, I can't help feelin' that a friend o' some sort must have bin raised up to us."

"You're right, Jack, I have just seen the Arab whose life I saved, and who saved yours! It's very strange, too, that beans and oil should have been your fare to-day, for I have also seen Moses Pyne in the street, not half-an-hour since, cooking and selling beans and oil!"

"You don't mean that?"

"Indeed I do. I've spoken to him."

Sitting down on a stool -- for they were promoted to a furnished apartment -- Miles entered into an elaborate account of all that had befallen him since the hour that he had been taken out, as they both thought, to be hanged!



Chapter Twenty Seven.

In Which Hopes And Fears Rise And Fall.

"There is a tide in the affairs of men," undoubtedly, and the tide in the affairs of Miles Milton and his comrades appeared to have reached low-water at this time, for, on the day mentioned in the last chapter, it began to turn, and continued for a considerable time to rise.

The first clear evidence of the change was the "blow-out" of beans and oil, coupled with the change of prison. The next was the sudden appearance of the beans-and-oil-man himself.

"Why, I do believe -- it's -- it's Moses," exclaimed Molloy, as his old comrade entered the prison. "Give us your flipper. Man alive! but I'm right glad to see you. We thought you was -- let's have a look at your neck. No; nothing there. I knowed as that interpreter was a liar. But what brings you here, lad? What mischief have 'ee bin up to?"

"That's what puzzles myself, Jack," said Moses, shaking hands warmly with Miles. "I've done nothing that I know of except sell beans and oil. It's true I burned 'em sometimes a bit, but they'd hardly put a fellow in jail for that -- would they? However, I'm glad they've done it, whatever the reason, seeing that it has brought us three together again. But, I say," continued Moses, while a look of anxiety came over his innocent face, "what can have become of our other comrades?"

"You may well ask that, lad. I've asked the same question of myself for many a day, but have never bin able to get from myself a satisfactory answer. I'm wery much afeared that we'll never see 'em again."

It seemed almost to be a spring-tide in the affairs of the trio at that time, for while the seaman was speaking -- as if to rebuke his want of faith -- the door opened and their comrade Armstrong walked in.

For a few moments they were all rendered speechless! Then Miles sprang up, seized his friend by both shoulders, and gazed into his face; it was a very thin and careworn face at that time, as if much of the bloom of youth had been wiped from it for ever.

"Willie! Am I dreaming?" exclaimed Miles.

"If you are, so must I be," replied his friend, "for when I saw you last you had not taken to half-nakedness as a costume!"

"Come now," retorted Miles, "you have not much to boast of in that way yourself."

"There you are wrong, Miles, for I have to boast that I made my garment myself. True, it's only a sack, but I cut the hole in the bottom of it for my head with my own hand, and stitched on the short sleeves with a packing-needle. But, I say, what's been the matter with Molloy? Have they been working you too hard, Jack?"

"No, Willum, no, I can't exactly say that, but they've bin hangin' me too hard. I'll tell 'ee all about it in coorse o' time. Man alive! but they have took the flesh off your bones somehow; let's see -- no, your neck's all right. Must have bin some other way."

"The way was simple enough," returned the other. "When they separated us all at first, they set me to the hardest work they could find -- to dig, draw water, carry burdens that a horse might object to, sweep, and clean up; in fact, everything and anything, and they've kep' us hard at it ever since. I say us, because Rattlin' Bill Simkin was set to help me after the first day, an' we've worked all along together. Poor Simkin, there ain't much rattle in him now, except his bones. I don't know why they sent me here and not him. And I can't well make out whether I'm sent here for extra punishment or as a favour!"

"Have you seen or heard anything of Stevenson?" asked Moses.

"I saw him once, about a week ago, staggering under a great log -- whether in connection with house-builders or not I can't tell. It was only for a minute, and I got a tremendous cut across the back with a cane for merely trying to attract his attention."

The tide, it will be seen, had been rising pretty fast that afternoon. It may be said to have come in with a rush, when, towards evening, the door of their prison once more opened and Simkin with Stevenson were ushered in together, both clothed alike in an extemporised sack-garment and short drawers, with this difference, that the one wore a species of felt hat, the other a fez.

They were still in the midst of delighted surprise at the turn events seemed to be taking, when two men entered bearing trays, on which were six smoking bowls of beans and oil!

"Hallo! Moses, your business follows you even to prison," exclaimed Molloy.

"True, Jack, and I'll follow my business up!" returned Moses, sitting down on the ground, which formed their convenient table, and going to work.

We need scarcely say that his comrades were not slow to follow his example.

The tide may be said to have reached at least half-flood, if not more, when, on the following morning, the captives were brought out and told by the interpreter that they were to accompany a body of troops which were about to quit the place under the command of Mohammed, the Mahdi's cousin.

"Does the Mahdi accompany us?" Miles ventured to ask.

"No. The Mahdi has gone to Khartoum," returned the interpreter, who then walked away as if he objected to be further questioned.

The hopes which had been recently raised in the breasts of the captives to a rather high pitch were, however, somewhat reduced when they found that their supposed friend Mohammed treated them with cool indifference, did not even recognise them, and the disappointment was deepened still more when all of them, except Miles, were loaded with heavy burdens, and made to march among the baggage-animals as if they were mere beasts of burden. The savage warriors also treated them with great rudeness and contempt.

Miles soon found that he was destined to fill his old post of runner in front of Mohammed, his new master. This seemed to him unaccountable, for runners, he understood, were required only in towns and cities, not on a march. But the hardships attendant on the post, and the indignities to which he was subjected, at last convinced him that the Mahdi must have set the mind of his kinsman against him, and that he was now undergoing extra punishment as well as unique degradation.

The force that took the field on this occasion was a very considerable one -- with what precise object in view was of course unknown to all except its chiefs, but the fact that it marched towards the frontiers of Egypt left no doubt in the mind of any one. It was a wild barbaric host, badly armed and worse drilled, but fired with a hatred of all Europeans and a burning sense of wrong.

"What think ye now, Miles?" asked Armstrong, as the captives sat grouped together in the midst of the host on the first night of their camping out in the desert.

"I think that everything seems to be going wrong," answered Miles, in a desponding tone. "At first I thought that Mohammed was our friend, but he has treated me so badly that I can think so no longer."

"Don't you think he may be doing that to blind his followers as to his friendship?" said Moses; "for myself, I can't help thinkin' he must be grateful for what you did, Miles."

"I only wish you had not touched my rifle that day," said Rattling Bill, fiercely -- being fatigued and out of temper -- "for the blackguard would have bin in 'Kingdom come' by this time. There's no gratitude in an Arab. I have no hope at all now."

"My hope is in God," said Stevenson.

"Well, mate, common-sense tells me that that should be our best ground of hope," observed Molloy; "but common experience tells me that the Almighty often lets His own people come to grief."

"God never lets 'em come to grief in the sense that you mean," returned the marine. "If He kills His people, He takes them away from the evil to come, and death is but a door-way into glory. If he sends grief and suffering, it is that they may at last reach a higher state of joy."

"Pooh! according to that view, nothing can go wrong with them that you call His people," said Simkin, with contempt.

"Right you are, comrade," rejoined Stevenson; "nothing can go wrong with us; nothing can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our lord; and you may be one of 'us' this minute if you will accept God's offer of free salvation in Christ."

Silence followed, for Simkin was too angry, as well as worn out, to give his mind seriously to anything at that time, and the others were more or less uncertain, as to the truth of what was advanced.

Sleep, profound and dreamless, soon banished these and all other subjects from their minds. Blessed sleep! so aptly as well as beautifully styled, "Tired Nature's sweet restorer." That great host of dusky warriors -- some unquestionably devout, many cruel and relentless, not a few, probably, indifferent to everything except self, and all bent on the extermination of their white-skinned foes, -- lay down beside their weapons, and shared in that rest which is sent alike to the just and to the unjust, through the grand impartiality, forbearance, and love of a God whom many people apparently believe to be a "respecter of persons!"

A few days later the little army came to the edge of a range of hills, beyond which lay the plains of the vast Nubian desert. At night they encamped at the base of the hill-country, through which they had been travelling, and the captives were directed to take up their position in front of an old ruined hut, where masses of broken stones and rubbish made the ground unsuitable for camping on.

"Just like them!" growled Simkin, looking about for a fairly level spot. "There's not a place big enough for a dog to lie on!"

Supper made Rattling Bill a little more amiable, though not much more forgiving to his foes. A three-quarters moon soon afterwards shed a faint light on the host, which, except the sentries, was sound asleep.

Towards midnight a solitary figure moved slowly towards the place where the captives lay and awakened Miles, who sat up, stared, winked, and rubbed his eyes two or three times before he could bring himself to believe that his visitor was no other than the chief of the host --  Mohammed!

"Rise. Com. I speak small Engleesh."

Miles rose at once and followed the chief into the ruined hut.

"Clear de ground," he said, pointing to the centre of the floor.

Our hero obeyed, and, when the loose rubbish was cleared away, the moonbeams, shining through the ruined roof, fell on a ring bolt. Being ordered to pull it, he raised a cover or trap-door, and discovered beneath what appeared to be a cellar.

"Now," said Mohammed, "listen: you an' friends go down -- all. I shut door and cover up -- rubsh. When we all go 'way, com out and go home. See, yonder is home."

He pointed to the north-eastward, where a glowing star seemed to hang over the margin of the great level desert.

"You are generous -- you are kind!" exclaimed Miles, with a burst of enthusiasm.

"Me grateful," said Mohammed, extending his hand in European fashion, which Miles grasped warmly. "Go, wake you comerads. Tell what me say, and com quick!"

Miles was much too well-disciplined a soldier to hesitate, though he would have liked much to suggest that some of the troops might, before starting, take a fancy to explore the ruin, and to ask how long they should remain in the cellar before venturing out. Quietly awaking all his comrades, and drawing their surprised heads together, he whispered his tale in their wondering ears. After that they were quite prepared to act, and accompanied him noiselessly into the ruin.

"Is the cellar deep?" asked Miles, as he was about to descend.

"No; not deep."

"But what about grub -- whittles, meat, an' water -- you know," said Molloy, with difficulty accommodating his words to a foreigner. "We'll starve if we go adrift on the desert with nothin' to eat or drink."

"Here -- food," said Mohammed, unslinging a well-filled haversack from his shoulders and transferring it to those of the sailor. "Stop there," he continued, pointing to the cellar, "till you hears guns -- shoot -- noise. I have make prep'rations! After that, silence. Then, com out, an' go home." Once again he pointed towards the glowing star in the north-east.

"Mohammed," exclaimed Molloy, becoming suddenly impressed with the generous nature of the Arab's action, "I don't know as you're a descendant o' the Prophet, but I do know that you're a brick. Give us your flipper before we part!"

With a grave expression of kindliness and humour the chief shook hands with the seaman. Then the captives all descended into the hole, which was not more than four feet deep, after which the Arab shut the trap, covered it as before with a little rubbish, and went away.

"Suppose he has bolted the door!" suggested Moses.

"Hold your tongue, man, and listen for the signal," said Miles.

"I forget what he said the signal was to be," observed Simkin.

"Guns -- shoot -- noise -- after that silence!" said Armstrong. "It's a queer signal."

"But not difficult to recognise when we hear it," remarked Miles.

The time seemed tremendously long as they sat there listening -- the cellar was too low for them to stand -- and they began to fancy that all kinds of horrible shapes and faces appeared in the intense darkness around them. When they listened intensely, kept silent, and held their breath, their hearts took to beating the drums of their ears, and when a sudden breath or sigh escaped it seemed as if some African monster were approaching from the surrounding gloom.

"Is that you, Simkin, that's breathin' like a grampus?" asked Molloy, after a long pause.

"I was just goin' to ask you to stop snorin'," retorted the soldier.

"Hush! There's a shot!"

It was indeed a distant shot, followed immediately by several more. Then a rattle of musketry followed -- nearer at hand.

Instantly, as if the earth had just given birth to them, the host of dusky warriors sprang up with yells of surprise and defiance, and, spear in hand, rushed in the direction of the firing. For a few minutes the listeners in the cellar heard as it had been a mighty torrent surging past the ruined hut. Gradually the force of the rush began to abate, while the yells and firing became more distant; at last all sounds ceased, and the listeners were again oppressed by the beating on the drums of their ears.

"They're all gone -- every mother's son," said Molloy at last, breaking the oppressive silence.

"That's so," said Rattling Bill; "up wi' the trap, Miles. You're under it, ain't you? I'm suffocating in this hole."

"I'm not under it. Molloy came down last," said Miles.

"What if we can't find it?" suggested Stevenson.

"Horrible!" said Moses, in a hoarse whisper, "and this may be a huge cavern, with miles of space around us, instead of a small cellar!"

"Here it is!" cried the sailor, making a heave with his broad back. "I say -- it won't move! Ah, I wasn't rightly under it. Yo! heave-o!" Up went the door with a crash, and the soft moonlight streamed in upon them.

A few seconds more and they stood outside the hut -- apparently the only living beings in all that region, which had been so full of human life but a few minutes before.

"Now we must lose no time in getting away from this place, and covering as much of the desert as we can during the night," said Miles, "for it strikes me that we'll have to lie quiet during the day, for fear of being seen and chased."

They spoke together in whispers for a few minutes, deciding the course they meant to pursue. Then Molloy shouldered the provision bag, Miles grasped his official lance -- the only weapon they had among them, -- and off they set on their journey across the desert, like a ship entering on an unknown sea, without the smallest idea of how far they were from the frontier of Egypt, and but a vague notion of the direction in which they ought to go.



Chapter Twenty Eight.

A Horrible Situation.

All that night our fugitives walked steadily in the direction of their guiding-star, until the dawn of day began to absorb its light. Then they selected a couple of prominent bushes on the horizon, and, by keeping these always in their relative positions, were enabled to shape their course in what they believed to be the right direction. By repeating the process continuously they were enabled to advance in a fairly straight line.

Molloy, as we have said, carried the provision bag, and, although it was a very heavy one, he refused to let his comrades relieve him of it until breakfast-time. Then it was discovered that inside of the large bag there were rolled tight up four smaller bags with shoulder-straps to them.

"A knowin' feller that Mohammed is," said Jack Molloy, as he handed a bag to each; "he understands how to manage things. Let's see what sort o' grub he has. Corn-cakes, I do believe, an' dates, or some sort o' dried fruit, an' -- water-bottles! well, that is a comfort. Now then, boys, go ahead. We can't afford to waste time over our meals."

The others so thoroughly agreed with their friend on this point that they began to eat forthwith, almost in silence. Then, the provisions having been distributed, they resumed their march, which was almost a forced one, so anxious were they to get as far away as possible from the Arab army.

Coming to a large mimosa bush in the course of the morning they halted and sat down to rest a little, and hold what the sailor called a "palaver."

"You see, boys," he said, "it'll be of no manner of use our scuddin' away before the wind under a press o' canvas like this, without some settled plan -- "

"Ain't our plan to git away from the Arabs as fast as we can?" said Moses Pyne, who sat on a stone at the sailor's feet.

"Yes, Moses, but that's only part of it," returned Molloy. "We must keep away as well as get away -- an' that won't be quite so easy, for the country is swarmin' wi' the dark-skinned rascals, as the many tracks we have already passed shows us. If we was to fall in wi' a band of 'em --  even a small one -- we would be took again for sartin', for we've got nothin' to fight wi' but our fists."

"These would offer but poor resistance to bullet and steel," said Armstrong, "and that lance you're so fond of, Miles, wouldn't be worth much."

"Not much," admitted Miles, surveying the badge of his late office, "but better than nothing."

"What if the Arabs should change their course and fall in with us again?" asked Moses.

"No fear o' that, seein' that Mohammed himself gave us our sailin' orders, an' laid our course for us; but it would never do to fall in wi' other bands, so I proposes that we cast anchor where we are, for there's pretty good holdin' ground among them bushes, keep quiet all day, an' travel only at night. I've got the krect bearin's just now, so w'en the stars come out we'll be able to fix on one layin' in the right direction, and clap on all sail, slow and aloft -- stu'n s'ls, sky-scrapers, an' all the rest on it."

"A good plan, Jack," said Armstrong, "but what if it should come cloudy and blot out the stars?"

"Besides," added Miles, "you forget that men of the desert are skilled in observing signs and in following tracks. Should any of them pass near this little clump of bushes, and observe our footsteps going towards it, they will at once come to see if we are still here."

Molloy put his head on one side and looked perplexed for a moment.

"Never mind. Let 'em come," he said, with a sudden look of sagacity, "we'll circumwent 'em. There's nothin' like circumwention w'en you've got into a fix. See here. We'll dig a hole in a sandbank big enough to hold us all, an' we'll cut a big bush an' stick it in front of the hole so as they'll never see it. We can keep a bright look-out, you know, an' if anything heaves in sight on the horizon, down we go into the hole, stick up the bush, an there you are -- all safe under hatches till the enemy clears off."

"But they will trace our footsteps up to the hole or the bush," said Miles, "and wonder why they can trace them no further. What then?"

Again the seaman fell into perplexed meditation, out of which he emerged with a beaming smile.

"Why, then, my lad, we'll bamboozle 'em. There's nothin' like bamboozlement w'en circumwention fails. Putt the two together an' they're like a hurricane in the tropics, carries all before it! We'll bamboozle 'em by runnin' for an hour or two all over the place, so as no mortal man seein' our footprints will be able to tell where we comed from, or what we've bin a-doin' of."

"You don't know the men of the desert, Jack," rejoined Miles, with a laugh. "They'd just walk in a circle round the place where you propose to run about and bamboozle them, till they found where our tracks entered this bit of bush. Then, as they'd see no tracks leaving it, of course they'd know that we were still there. D'you see?"

"That's a puzzler for you, Jack," remarked Moses, as he watched the perplexed expression looming up again like a cloud on the sailor's face.

"By no manner o' means," retorted Molloy, with sudden gravity. "I sees my way quite clear out o' that. You remember the broad track, not half a mile off from where we now sit?"

"Yes; made I suppose by a pretty big band o' some sort crossin' the desert," said Moses.

"Well, lad, arter runnin' about in the bush to bamboozle of 'em, as aforesaid, we'll march back to that track on the sou'-west'ard -- as it may be -- an' then do the same on the nor'-west'ard -- so to speak -- an' so lead 'em to suppose we was a small party as broke off, or was sent off, from the main body to reconnoitre the bit o' bush, an' had rejoined the main body further on. That's what I call circumwentin', d'ee see?"

While this palaver was going on, Stevenson and Bill Simkin were standing a short way off taking observation of something in the far distance. In a few minutes they ran towards their comrades with the information that a band of men were visible on the horizon, moving, they thought, in an opposite direction to their line of march.

"It may be so," said Miles, after a brief survey, "but we can't be sure. We must put part of your plan in force anyhow, Jack Molloy. Away into the scrub all of you, and stoop as you go."

In saying this, our hero, almost unintentionally, took command of the little party, which at once tacitly accorded him the position. Leading them -- as every leader ought -- he proceeded to the centre of the clump of bushes, where, finding a natural hollow or hole in the sand, at the root of a mimosa bush, three of them went down on hands and knees to scoop it out deeper, while the others cut branches with Molloy's clasp-knife.

Using flat stones, chips of wood, and hands as shovels, they managed to dig out a hole big enough to conceal them all, the opening to which was easily covered by a mass of branches.

It is doubtful whether this ingenious contrivance would have availed them, if "men of the desert" had passed that way, but fortune favoured them. The band, whether friends or foes, passed far off to the westward, leaving them to enjoy their place of fancied security.

To pass the first day there was not difficult. The novelty of the position was great; the interest of the thing immense. Indefinite hopes of the future were strong, and they had plenty to say and speculate about during the passing hours. When night came, preparation was made for departure. The provision bags were slung, a moderate sip of water indulged in, and they set forth, after a very brief prayer by Stevenson, that God would guide them safely on their way. There was no formality in that prayer. The marine did not ask his comrades to kneel or to agree with him. He offered it aloud, in a few seconds, in the name of Jesus, leaving his hearers to join him or not as they pleased.

"See that you lay your course fair now, Molloy," said Miles, as they sallied out upon the darkening plain.

"Trust me, lad, I've taken my bearin's."

It was very dark the first part of the night, as the moon did not rise till late, but there was quite enough light to enable them to proceed with caution, though not enough to prevent their taking an occasional bush or stump for an advancing foe. All went well, however, until dawn the following morning, when they began to look about for a suitable clump of bushes, in which to conceal themselves. No such spot could they find.

"Never mind, lads," said the inexhaustible Molloy, "we'll just go on till we find a place. We're pretty tough just now, that's one comfort."

They were indeed so tough that they went the whole of that day, with only one or two brief halts to feed. Towards evening, however, they began to feel wearied, and, with one consent, determined to encamp on a slight eminence a short way in advance, the sides of which were covered with low scrub.

As they approached the spot an unpleasant odour reached them. It became worse as they advanced. At last, on arriving, they found to their surprise and horror that the spot had been a recent battle-field, and was strewn with corpses and broken weapons. Some days must have elapsed since the fight which strewed them there, for the bodies had been all stripped, and many of them were partially buried, while others had been hauled half out of their graves by those scavengers of the desert, hyenas and vultures.

"Impossible to halt here," said Armstrong. "I never witness a sight like this that it does not force on me the madness of warfare! What territorial gain can make up for these lost lives -- the flower of the manhood of both parties?"

"But what are we to do?" objected Molloy. "Men must defend their rights!"

"Not necessarily so," said Stevenson. "Men have to learn to bear and forbear."

"I have learned to take advantage of what luck throws in my way," said Rattling Bill, picking up a rifle which must have escaped the observation of the plunderers who had followed the army.

The body of the poor fellow who had owned it was found concealed under a bush not far off. He was an English soldier, and a very brief inspection showed that the battle had been fought by a party of British and Egyptian troops against the Soudanese.

It seemed as if the plunderers had on this occasion been scared from their horrible work before completing it, for after a careful search they found rifles with bayonets, and pouches full of ammunition, more than sufficient to arm the whole party.

"There are uniforms enough, too, to fit us all out," said Simkin, as they were about to leave the scene of slaughter.

"No dead men's clo'es for me," said Moses Pyne, with a shrug of disgust.

Jack Molloy declared that he had become so used to loose cotton drawers, and an easy-fittin' sack, that for his part he had no desire to go back to civilised costume! and as the rest were of much the same opinion, no change was made in the habiliments of the party, except that each appropriated a pair of boots, and Miles exchanged his green tippet for a flannel shirt and a pith helmet. He also took a revolver, with some difficulty, from the dead hand of a soldier, and stuck it in his belt.

Thus improved in circumstances, they gladly quitted the ghastly scene, and made for a bushy hillock a few hundred yards in advance.

On the way they were arrested by the sound of distant firing.

"Mohammed must have met our countrymen!" exclaimed Molloy, with excited looks, as they halted to listen.

"It may be so, but there are other bands about besides his," said Miles. "What's that? a cheer?"

"Ay, a British cheer in the far distance, replied to by yells of defiance." Molloy echoed the cheer in spite of his better judgment.

"Let's run an' jine 'em!" he exclaimed.

"Come along, then!" cried Miles, with the ardour of inexperienced youth.

"Stop! are ye mad?" cried Stevenson. "Don't it stand to reason that the enemy must be between us an' Suakim? and that's the same as sayin' they're between us an' our friends. Moreover, the cheerin' proves that our side must be gettin' the best of it, an' are drivin' the enemy this way, so all we've got to do is to hide on that hillock an' bide our time."

"Right you are, comrade," cried Rattling Bill, examining his cartridges, and asserting with an oath that nothing would afford him greater pleasure than a good hand-to-hand fight with the black, (and something worse), scoundrels.

"Don't swear at your enemies, Simkin," said the marine quietly; "but when you get the chance fire low!"

Agreeing with Stevenson's advice to "bide their time," the little band was soon on the top of the hillock, and took up the best position for defending the place, also for observing the fight, which, they could now see, was drawing gradually nearer to them.

They were not kept waiting long, for the natives were in full flight, hotly pursued by the English and Indian cavalry. A slight breeze blowing from the north carried not only the noise, but soon the smoke of the combat towards them. As they drew nearer a large detachment of native spearmen was seen to make for the hillock, evidently intending to make a stand there.

"Now comes our turn," said Armstrong, examining the lock of his rifle to see that all was right.

"'England expec's every man,' etceterer," said Molloy, with a glance at Miles. "Capting, you may as well let us know your plans, so as we may work together."

Miles was not long in making up his mind.

"You'll fire at first by command," he said quickly, but decidedly; "then down on your faces flat, and load. After that wait for orders. When it comes to the push -- as it's sure to do at last -- we'll stand back to back and do our best. God help us to do it well! Don't hurry, boys --  especially in square. Let every shot tell."

He had barely concluded this brief address when the yelling savages reached the hillock. Miles could even see the gleaming of their teeth and eyes, and the blood of the slightly wounded coursing down their black skins as they rushed panting towards the place where he and his little party were crouching. Then he gave the word: "Ready -- present!"

The smoke, fire, and death to the leading men, which belched from the bushes, did not check the rush for more than a moment. And even that check was the result of surprise more than fear. A party of those Arabs who were armed with rifles instantly replied, but the bullets passed harmlessly over the prostrate men.

Again the voice of Miles was heard: "Ready -- present!" and again the leading men of the enemy fell, but the rushing host only divided, and swept round the hillock, so as to take it on both sides at once.

"Now -- form square! and pick each man," cried Miles, springing up and standing back to back with Armstrong. Molloy stood shoulder to shoulder with him and backed Bill Simkin, while Stevenson did the same for Moses Pyne. The bushes did not rise much above their waists, and as the dusky host suddenly beheld the knot of strange-looking men, whose bristling bayonets glistened in the setting sunshine, and whose active rifles were still dealing death among their ranks, they dashed at the hill-top with a yell of mingled rage and surprise. Another moment and spearmen were dancing round the little square like incarnate fiends, but the white men made no sound. Each confined himself to two acts -- namely, load and fire -- and at every shot a foremost savage fell, until the square became encircled with dead men.

Another moment and a party of Arab riflemen ran to the front and took aim. Just then a tremendous cheer was heard. The defenders of the hillock made a wild reply, which was drowned in a furious fusillade. The entire savage host seemed to rush over the spot, sweeping all before it, while smoke rolled after them as well as lead and fire. In the midst of the hideous turmoil, Miles received a blow which shattered his left wrist. Grasping his rifle with his right hand he laid about him as best he could. Next moment a blow on the head from behind stretched him senseless on the ground.

The return of our hero to consciousness revealed to him that he was still lying on the battle-field, that it was night, and that an intolerable weight oppressed his chest. This last was caused by a dead native having fallen across him. On trying to get rid of the corpse he made the further discovery that nearly all his strength was gone, and that he could scarcely move his right arm, although it was free, and, as far as he could make out, unwounded. Making a desperate effort, he partially relieved himself, and, raising his head, tried to look round. His ears had already told him that near to him wounded men were groaning away the little of life that remained to them; he now saw that he was surrounded by heaps of dead men. Excepting the groans referred to, the night was silent, and the moon shone down on hundreds of up-turned faces -- the bloodless grey of the black men contrasting strangely with the deadly pallor of the white, all quiet and passionless enough now --  here and there the head of a warrior resting peacefully on the bosom or shoulder of the foe who had killed him!

A slight noise on his right caused Miles to turn his head in that direction, where he saw a wounded comrade make feeble efforts to raise himself, and then fall back with a deep groan. In other circumstances our hero would have sprung to his assistance, but at that moment he felt as if absolutely helpless; indeed, he was nearly so from loss of blood. He made one or two efforts to rise, but the weight of the dead man held him down, and after a few brief attempts he fainted.

Recovering again, he looked round, attracted by the sound of a struggle on his right. One of those fiends in human form, the plunderers of a battle-field, had, in his ghoulish progress, come across the wounded man who lay close to Miles, and the man was resisting him. The other put a quick end to the strife by drawing a knife across the throat of the poor fellow. A horror of great darkness seemed to overwhelm Miles as he saw the blood gush in a deluge from the gaping wound. He tried to shout, but, as in a nightmare, he could neither speak nor move.

As the murderer went on rifling his victim, Miles partially recovered from his trance of horror, and anxiety for his own life nerved him to attempt action of some sort. He thought of the revolver for the first time at that moment, and the remembrance seemed to infuse new life into him. Putting his right hand to his belt, he found it there, but drew it with difficulty. Doubting his power to discharge it by means of the trigger alone, he made a desperate effort and cocked it.

The click made the murderer start. He raised himself and looked round. Our hero shut his eyes and lay perfectly still. Supposing probably that he must have been mistaken, the man resumed his work. Miles could have easily shot him where he kneeled if he had retained power to lift his arm and take an aim. As it was, he had strength only to retain the weapon in his grasp.

After a short time, that seemed an age to the helpless watcher, the murderer rose and turned his attention to another dead man, but passing him, came towards Miles, whose spirit turned for one moment to God in an agonising prayer for help. The help came in the form of revived courage. Calm, cool, firm self-possession seemed to overbear all other feelings. He half closed his eyes as the murderer approached, and gently turned the muzzle of the revolver upwards. He even let the man bend over him and look close into his face to see if he were dead, then he pulled the trigger.

Miles had aimed, he thought, at the man's breast, but the bullet entered under his chin and went crashing into his brain. A gush of warm blood spouted over Miles's face as the wretch plunged over him, head first, and fell close by his side. He did not die at once. The nature of the ground prevented Miles from seeing him, but he could hear him gradually gasp his life away.

A few minutes later and footsteps were heard ascending the hillock. Miles grasped his revolver with a hand that now trembled from increasing weakness, but he was by that time unable to put the weapon on full cock. Despair had well-nigh seized him, when a familiar voice was heard.

"This way, lads. I'm sure it was hereabouts that I saw the flash."

"Macleod!" gasped Miles, as the big Scotsman was about to pass.

"Losh me! John Miles, is that you? Are ye leevin?"

"Scarcely!" was all that the poor youth could utter ere he became again insensible.

A fatigue party tramped up with a stretcher at the moment. Macleod with a handkerchief checked the ebbing tide of life, and they bore away from the bloody field what seemed little more than the mortal remains of poor Miles Milton.



Chapter Twenty Nine.

Describes A Few Meetings And Several Surprises.

The fight described in the last chapter was only one of the numerous skirmishes that were taking place almost daily near Suakim at that time. But it turned out to be a serious occasion to our hero, for it cost him one of his hands, and put an end to his soldiering days for ever.

On being taken to the British lines the surgeons saw at once that amputation a little above the wrist was absolutely necessary. Of course Miles -- although overwhelmed with dismay on hearing the fiat of the doctors -- could offer no objection. With the informal celerity of surgical operations as practised in the field, the shattered limb was removed, and almost before he could realise the full significance of what was being done our poor hero was minus his left hand! Besides this, he was so cut and battered about, that most of his hair had to be cut off, and his head bandaged and plastered so that those of his old comrades who chanced to be with the troops at the time could recognise him only by his voice. Even that was scarcely audible when he was carried into Suakim.

At this time the hospitals at Suakim were overcrowded to such an extent that many of the wounded and invalids had to be sent on by sea to Suez and the hospitals at Ramleh. Miles was sent on along with these, and finally found rest at Alexandria.

And great was the poor fellow's need of rest, for, besides the terrible sufferings and hardships he had endured while in captivity, the wounds and bruises, the loss of blood and of his left hand, and the fatigue of the voyage, his mind was overwhelmed by the consideration that even if he should recover he was seriously maimed for life. In addition to all this suffering, Miles, while at Suakim, had received a blow which well-nigh killed him. A letter came informing him of the sudden death of his father, and bitter remorse was added to his misery as he lay helpless in his cot on the Red Sea.

The consequent depression, acting on his already exhausted powers after he reached Alexandria, brought him to the verge of the grave. Indeed, one of the nurses said one day to one of her fellows, with a shake of her head, "Ah! poor fellow, he won't last long!"

"Won't he!" thought Miles, with a feeling of strong indignation. "Much you know about it!"

You see Miles possessed a tendency to abstract reasoning, and could meditate upon his own case without, so to speak, much reference to himself! His indignation was roused by the fact that any one, calling herself a nurse, should be so stupid as to whisper beside a patient words that he should not hear. He did not know that the nurse in question was a new one -- not thoroughly alive to her duties and responsibilities. Strange to say, her stupidity helped to render her own prophecy incorrect, for the indignation quickened the soldier's feeble pulse, and that gave him a fillip in the right direction.

The prostration, however, was very great, and for some time the life of our hero seemed to hang by a thread. During this dark period the value of a godly mother's teaching became deeply impressed on him, by the fact that texts from God's Word, which had been taught him in childhood, and which he seemed to have quite forgotten, came trooping into his mind, and went a long way to calm and comfort him. He dwelt with special pleasure on those that told of love and mercy in Jesus to the thankless and undeserving; for, now that strength, health, and the high hopes of a brilliant career were shattered at one blow, his eyes were cleared of life's glamour to see that in his existence hitherto he had been ungodly -- not in the sense of his being much worse than ordinary people, but in the sense of his being quite indifferent to his Maker, and that his fancied condition of not-so-badness would not stand the test of a dying hour.

About this time, too, he became desperately anxious to write to his mother, not by dictation, but with his own hand. This being impossible in the circumstances, he began to fret, and his power to sleep at length failed him. Then a strange desire to possess a rose seized him -- perhaps because he knew it to be his mother's favourite flower. Whatever the cause, the longing increased his insomnia, and as he did not say, perhaps did not know, that the want of a rose had anything to do with his complaint, no one at first thought of procuring one for him.

He was lying meditating, wakefully, about many things one day when one of the nurses approached his bed. He did not see her at first, because his head was so swathed in bandages that only one eye was permitted to do duty, and that, as Molloy might have said, was on the lee-side of his nose -- supposing the side next the nurse to represent the wind'ard side!

"I have been laid up a long time," said a lady, who accompanied the nurse, "and have been longing to resume my visits here, as one or two patients whom I used to nurse are still in hospital."

The heart of Miles gave a bound such as it had not attempted since the night he witnessed the murder on the battle-field, for the voice was that of Mrs Drew.

"This is one of our latest arrivals," remarked the nurse, lowering her voice as they advanced. "A poor young soldier -- lost a hand and badly wounded -- can't sleep. He has taken a strange longing of late for a rose, and I have asked a friend to fetch one for him."

"How lucky that we happen to have one with us!" said Mrs Drew, looking back over her shoulder where her daughter stood, concealed from view by her ample person. "Marion, dear, will you part with your rose-bud to a wounded soldier?"

"Certainly, mother, I will give it him myself."

She stepped quickly forward, and looked sadly at the solitary, glowing eye which gazed at her, as she unfastened a rose-bud from her bosom. It was evident that she did not recognise Miles, and no wonder, for, besides the mass of bandages from out of which his one eye glowed, there was a strip of plaster across the bridge of his nose, a puffy swelling in one of the cheeks, and the handsome mouth and chin were somewhat veiled by a rapidly developing moustache and beard.

Miles did not speak -- he could not speak; he scarcely dared to breathe as the girl placed a red rose-bud in his thin hand. His trembling fingers not only took the rose, but the hand that gave it, and pressed it feebly to his lips.

With a few words of comfort and good wishes the ladies passed on. Then Miles drew the rose down under the bed-clothes, put it to his lips, and, with a fervently thankful mind, fell into the first profound slumber that he had enjoyed for many days.

This was a turning-point. From that day Miles began to mend. He did not see Marion again for some time, for her visit had been quite incidental, but he was satisfied to learn that she was staying at the Institute with her mother, assisting the workers there. He wisely resolved to do and say nothing at that time, but patiently to wait and get well, for he had a shrewd suspicion that to present himself to Marion under existing circumstances would be, to say the least, injudicious.

Meanwhile, time, which "waits for no man," passed on. As Miles became stronger he began to go about the hospital, chatting with the convalescent patients and trying to make himself generally useful. On one of these occasions he met with a man who gave him the sorrowful news that Sergeant Hardy was dead, leaving Miles his executor and residuary legatee. He also learned, to his joy, that his five comrades, Armstrong, Molloy, Stevenson, Moses, and Simkin, had escaped with their lives from the fight on the hillock where he fell, and that, though all were more or less severely wounded, they were doing well at Suakim. "Moreover," continued his informant, "I expect to hear more about 'em to-night, for the mail is due, and I've got a brother in Suakim."

That night not only brought news of the five heroes, but also brought themselves, for, having all been wounded at the same time, all had been sent to Alexandria together. As they were informed at Suakim that their comrade Miles had been invalided home, they did not, of course, make further inquiry about him there.

While they stayed there, awaiting the troop-ship which was to take them home, they made Miss Robinson's Institute their constant rendezvous, for there they not only found all the comforts of English life, but the joy of meeting with many old comrades, not a few of whom were either drawn, or being drawn, to God by the influences of the place.

It chanced that at the time of their arrival Mrs Drew and her daughter had gone to visit an English family living in the city, and did not for several days return to the Institute; thus the invalids failed to meet their lady friends at first. But about this time there was announced a source of attraction in the large hall which brought them together. This attraction -- which unites all creeds and classes and nationalities in one great bond of sympathy -- we need hardly say was music! A concert was to take place in the great hall of the Institute for some local charity, we believe, but are not sure, at which the elite of Alexandria was expected, and the musical talent of Alexandria was to perform -- among others the band of the somethingth Regiment. And let us impress on you, reader, that the band of the somethingth Regiment was something to be proud of!

This brought numerous friends to the "Officers' House," and great numbers of soldiers and Jack-tars to the various rooms of the Institute.

In one of these rooms, towards evening, our friend Stevenson was engaged, at the request of the Superintendent, in relating to a number of earnest-minded men a brief account of the wonderful experiences that he and his comrades had recently had in the Soudan, and Jack Molloy sat near him, emphasising with a nod of his shaggy head, or a "Right you are, messmate," or a slap on his thigh, all the marine's points, especially those in which his friend, passing over second causes, referred all their blessings and deliverances direct to his loving God and Father. In another room a Bible-reading was going on, accompanied by prayer and praise. In the larger rooms, tea, coffee, etcetera, were being consumed to an extent that "no fellow can understand," except those who did it! Games and newspapers and illustrated magazines, etcetera, were rife elsewhere, while a continuous roar, rather the conventional "buzz," of conversation was going on everywhere. But, apparently, not a single oath in the midst of it all! The moral atmosphere of the place was so pure that even bad men respected -- perhaps approved -- it.

Just before the hour of the concert our friends, the five invalids, sat grouped round a table near the door. They were drinking tea, and most of them talking with tremendous animation -- for not one of them had been wounded in the tongue! Indeed it did not appear that any of them had been very seriously wounded anywhere.

While they were yet in the midst of their talk two lady-workers came down the long room, followed by two other ladies in deep mourning, the younger of whom suddenly sprang towards our quintet, and, clasping her hands, stood speechless before them, staring particularly at Jack Molloy, who returned the gaze with interest.

"Beg pard'n, Miss Drew," exclaimed the sailor, starting up in confusion, and pulling his forelock, "but you've hove me all aback!"

"Mr Molloy!" gasped Marion, grasping his hand and looking furtively round, "is it possible? Have you all escaped? Is -- is -- "

"Yes, Miss, we've all escaped, thank God, an' we're all here -- 'cept John Miles, in coorse, for he's bin invalided home -- "

"He's no more invalided home than yourself, Jack," said a seaman, who was enjoying his coffee at a neighbouring table; "leastwise I seed John Miles myself yesterday in hospital wi' my own two eyes, as isn't apt to deceive me."

"Are ye sure o' that, mate?" cried Molloy, turning in excitement to the man, and totally forgetting Marion.

"Mother, let us go out!" whispered the latter, leaning heavily on Mrs Drew's arm.

They passed out to the verandah -- scarcely observed, owing to the excitement of the quintet at the sailor's news -- and there she would have fallen down if she had not been caught in the arms of a soldier who was advancing towards the door.

"Mr Miles!" exclaimed Mrs Drew, as she looked up in amazement at the scarred and worn face.

"Ay, Mrs Drew, through God's mercy I am here. But help me: I have not strength to carry her now."

Marion had nearly fainted, and was led with the assistance of her mother to a retired part of the garden, and placed in an easy-chair. Seeing that the girl was recovering, the other ladies judiciously left them, and Miles explained to the mother, while she applied smelling-salts to Marion, that he had come on purpose to meet them, hoping and expecting that they would be attracted to the concert, like all the rest of the world, though he had scarcely looked for so peculiar a meeting!

"But how did you know we were here at all?" asked Mrs Drew in surprise.

"I saw you in the hospital," replied Miles, with a peculiar look. "Your kind daughter gave me a rose!"

He pointed as he spoke to a withered bud which was fastened to his coat.

"But -- but -- that young man had lost his hand; the nurse told us so," exclaimed Mrs Drew, with a puzzled look.

Miles silently pointed to the handless arm which hung at his left side.

Marion had turned towards him with a half-frightened look. She now leaned back in her chair and covered her face with both hands.

"Mr Miles," said the wise old lady, with a sudden and violent change of subject, "your friends Armstrong and Molloy are in the Institute at this moment waiting for you!"

Our hero needed no second hint. Next minute he dashed into the entrance hall, with wonderful vigour for an invalid, for he heard the bass voice of Molloy exclaiming -- 

"I don't care a button, leave or no leave, I'll make my way to John Mi --  Hallo!"

The "Hallo!" was caused by his being rushed into by the impetuous Miles with such force that they both staggered.

"Why, John, you're like the ram of an iron-clad! Is it really yourself? Give us your flipper, my boy!"

But the flipper was already in that of Willie Armstrong, while the others crowded round him with congratulations.

"Wot on airth's all the noise about in that there corner?" exclaimed a Jack-tar, who was trying hard to tell an interminable story to a quiet shipmate in spite of the din.

"It's only that we've diskivered our captin," cried Molloy, eager to get any one to sympathise.

"Wot captin's that?" growled the Jack-tar.

"Why, him as led us on the hillock, to be sure, at Suakim."

When acts of heroism and personal prowess are of frequent occurrence, deeds of daring are not apt to draw general attention, unless they rise above the average. The "affair of the hillock," however, as it got to be called, although unnoticed in despatches, or the public prints, was well-known among the rank and file who did the work in those hot regions. When, therefore, it became known that the six heroes, who had distinguished themselves on that hillock, were present, a great deal of interest was exhibited. This culminated when a little man rushed suddenly into the room, and, with a wild "hooroo!" seized Molloy round the waist -- he wasn't tall enough to get him comfortably by the neck -- and appeared to wrestle with him.

"It's Corporal Flynn -- or his ghost!" exclaimed Molloy.

"Sure an' it's both him an' his ghost togither!" exclaimed the corporal, shaking hands violently all round.

"I thought ye was sent home," said Moses.

"Niver a bit, man; they tell awful lies where you've come from. I wouldn't take their consciences as a gift. I'm as well as iver, and better; but I'm goin' home for all that, to see me owld grandmother. Ye needn't laugh, you spalpeens. Come, three cheers, boys, for the 'heroes o' the hillock!'"

Most heartily did the men there assembled respond to this call, and then the entire assembly cleared off to the concert, with the exception of Miles Milton. "He," as Corporal Flynn knowingly observed, "had other fish to fry." He fried these fish in company with Mrs and Marion Drew; but as the details of this culinary proceeding were related to us in strict confidence, we refuse to divulge them, and now draw the curtain down on the ancient land of Egypt.



Chapter Thirty.

Conclusion.

Once more we return to the embarkation jetty at Portsmouth.

There, as of old, we find a huge, white-painted troop-ship warping slowly in, her bulwarks and ports crowded with white helmets, and eager faces gazing at the equally eager but anxious faces on shore.

Miss Robinson's coffee-shed shows signs of life! Our friend Brown is stimulating the boiler. The great solitary port-hole has been opened, and the never-failing lady-workers are there, preparing their ammunition and getting ready for action, for every troop-ship that comes to Portsmouth from foreign shores, laden with the bronzed warriors of Britain, has to face the certainty of going into action with that unconquerable little coffee-shed!

We do not, however, mean to draw the reader again through the old scene, further than to point out that, among the many faces that loom over these bulwarks, five are familiar, namely, those of our friends Miles Milton, William Armstrong, Moses Pyne, Stevenson, and Simkin. Jack Molloy is not with them, because he has preferred to remain in Egypt, believing himself to be capable of still further service to Queen and country.

A feeling of great disappointment oppresses Miles and his friend Armstrong, for they fail to recognise in the eager crowd those whom they had expected to see.

"My mother must be ill," muttered Miles.

"So must my Emmy," murmured his friend.

There was a very anxious little widow on the jetty who could not manage to distinguish individuals in the sea of brown faces and white helmets, because the tears in her eyes mixed them all up most perplexingly. It is not surprising that Miles had totally failed to recognise the mother of old in the unfamiliar widow's weeds -- especially when it is considered that his was a shrinking, timid mother, who kept well in the background of the demonstrative crowd. Their eyes met at last, however, and those of the widow opened wide with surprise at the change in the son, while those of the son were suddenly blinded with tears at the change in the mother.

Then they met -- and such a meeting! -- in the midst of men and women, elbowing, crowding, embracing, exclaiming, rejoicing, chaffing, weeping! It was an awkward state of things, but as every one else was in the same predicament, and as all were more or less swallowed up in their own affairs, Miles and his mother were fain to make the best of it. They retired under the partial shelter of a bulkhead, where block-tackles and nautical debris interfered with their footing, and tarry odours regaled their noses, and there, in semi-publicity, they interchanged their first confidences.

Suddenly Mrs Milton observed a tall young fellow standing not far off, looking wistfully at the bewildering scene, apparently in deep dejection.

"Who is that, Miles?" she asked.

"Why, that's my comrade, chum, and friend, whom I have so often written about, Willie Armstrong. Come. I will introduce you."

"Oh! how selfish of me!" cried the widow, starting forward and not waiting for the introduction; "Mr Armstrong -- I'm so sorry; forgive me! I promised to let you know that your wife waits to meet you at the Soldiers' Institute."

The difference between darkness and light seemed to pass over the soldier's face, then a slight shade of anxiety clouded it. "She is not ill, is she?"

"No, no, quite well," said Mrs Milton, with a peculiar smile; "but she thought it wiser not to risk a meeting on the jetty as the east wind is sharp. I'm so sorry I did not tell you at once, but I selfishly thought only -- "

"Pray make no apology, madam," interrupted Armstrong. "I'm so thankful that all is well. I had begun to fear that something must be wrong, for my Emmy never disappoints me. If she thinks it wiser not to meet on the jetty, it is wiser!"

A crowd of men pushed between them at this moment. Immediately after, a female shout was heard, followed by the words, "There he is! Och, it's himsilf -- the darlint!"

Mrs Flynn had discovered the little corporal, and her trooper son, Terence, who had come down with her, stood by to see fair-play while the two embraced.

Drifting with a rather rapid tide of mingled human beings, Miles and his mother soon found themselves stranded beside the coffee-shed. Retiring behind this they continued their conference there, disturbed only by wind and weather, while the distribution of hot coffee was going on in front.

Meanwhile, when leave was obtained, Armstrong made his way to the Institute, where the old scene of bustle and hilarity on the arrival of a troop-ship was going on. Here, in a private room, he discovered Emmy and the cause of her not appearing on the jetty.

"Look at him -- Willie the second!" cried the little woman, holding up a bundle of some sort. The soldier was staggered for a moment -- the only infantry that had ever staggered him! -- for his wife had said nothing about this bundle in her letters. He recovered, however, and striding across the room embraced the wife and the bundle in one tremendous hug!

The wife did not object, but the bundle did, and instantly set up a howl that quite alarmed the father, and was sweetest music in the mother's ears!

"Now tell me," said the little woman, after calming the baby and putting it in a crib; "have you brought Miles Milton home all safe?"

"Yes, all right, Emmy."

"And is he married to that dear girl you wrote about?"

"No, not yet -- of course."

"But are they engaged?"

"No. Miles told me that he would not presume to ask her while he had no home to offer her."

"Pooh! He's a goose! He ought to make sure of her, and let the home look after itself. He may lose her. Girls, you know, are changeable, giddy things!"

"I know nothing of the sort, Emmy."

The young wife laughed, and -- well, there is no need to say what else she did.

About the same time, Mrs Milton and her son were seated in another private room of the Institute finishing off that interchange of confidences which had begun in such confusion. As it happened, they were conversing on the same subject that occupied Emmy and her husband.

"You have acted rightly, Miles," said the mother, "for it would have been unfair and selfish to have induced the poor girl to accept you until you had some prospect of a home to give her. God will bless you for doing the right, and trusting to Him. And now, dear boy, are you prepared for bad news?"

"Prepared for anything!" answered Miles, pressing his mother's hand, "but I hope the bad news does not affect you, mother."

"It does. Your dear father died a bankrupt. I shrank from telling you this when you were wounded and ill. So you have to begin again the battle of life with only one hand, my poor boy, for the annuity I have of twenty pounds a year will not go far to keep us both."

Mrs Milton tried to speak lightly on this point, by way of breaking it to her son, but she nearly broke down, for she had already begun to feel the pinch of extreme poverty, and knew it to be very, very different from what "well-off" people fancy. The grave manner in which her son received this news filled her with anxiety.

"Mother," he said, after pondering in silence for a few moments, and taking her hand in his while he slipped the handless arm round her waist, "the news is indeed serious, but our Father whom you have trusted so long will not fail us now. Happily it is my right hand that has been spared, and wonders, you know, may be wrought with a strong right hand, especially if assisted by a strong left stump, into which spoons, forks, hooks, and all manner of ingenious contrivances can be fitted. Now, cheer up, little mother, and I'll tell you what we will do. But first, is there nothing left? Do the creditors take everything?"

"All, I believe, except some of the furniture which has been kindly left for us to start afresh with. But we must quit the old home next month. At least, so I am told by my kind little lawyer, who looks after everything, for I understand nothing."

"Your mention of a lawyer reminds me, mother, that a poor sergeant, who died a short time ago in Egypt, made me his executor, and as I am painfully ignorant of the duties of an executor I'll go and see this 'kind little lawyer' if you will give me his address."

Leaving Miles to consult his lawyer, we will now turn to a meeting -- a grand tea-fight -- in the great hall of the Institute, that took place a few days after the return of the troop-ship which brought our hero and his friends to England. Some telling incidents occurred at this fight which render it worthy of notice.

First, Miss Robinson herself presided and gave a stirring address, which, if not of much interest to readers who did not hear it, was a point of immense attraction to the hundreds of soldiers, sailors, and civilians to whom it was delivered, for it was full of sympathy, and information, and humour, and encouragement, and, above all, of the Gospel.

Everybody worth mentioning was there -- that is, everybody connected with our tale who was in England at the time. Miles and his mother of course were there, and Armstrong with Emmy -- ay, and with Willie the second too -- who was pronounced on all hands to be the born image of his father. Alas for his father, if that had been true! A round piece of dough with three holes punched in it and a little knot in the midst would have borne as strong a resemblance to Miles as that baby did. Nevertheless, it was a "magnificent" baby! and "so good," undeniably good, for it slept soundly in its little mother's lap the whole evening!

Stevenson was also there, you may be sure; and so were Moses and Sutherland, and Rattling Bill Simkin and Corporal Flynn, with his mother and Terence the Irish trooper, who fraternised with Johnson the English trooper, who was also home on the sick-list -- though he seemed to have a marvellous colour and appetite for a sick man.

"Is that the 'Soldiers Friend?'" asked Simkin, in a whisper, of a man who stood near him, as a lady came on the platform and took the chair.

"Ay, that's her," answered the man -- and the speaker was Thomas Tufnell, the ex-trooper of the Queen's Bays, and the present manager of the Institute -- "Ay, that's the 'Soldier's Friend.'"

"Well, I might have guessed it," returned Simkin, "from the kindly way in which she shook hands with a lot of soldiers just now."

"Yes, she has shook hands with a good many red-coats in her day, has the 'Soldier's Friend,'" returned the manager. "Why, I remember on one occasion when she was giving a lecture to soldiers, and so many men came forward to shake hands with her that, as she told me herself, her hand was stiff and swelled all night after it!"

"But it's not so much for what she has done for ourselves that we're grateful to her," remarked a corporal, who sat on Simkin's right, "as for what she has done for our wives, widows, and children, through the Soldiers' and Sailors' Wives' Aid Association. Lookin' arter them when we're away fightin' our country's battles has endeared her to us more than anything else."

Thus favourably predisposed, Simkin was open to good impressions that night. But, indeed, there was an atmosphere -- a spirit of good-will -- in the hall that night which rendered many others besides Simkin open to good impressions. Among the civilians there was a man named Sloper, who had for some time past been carefully fished for by an enthusiastic young red-coat whom he had basely misled and swindled. He had been at last hooked by the young red-coat, played, and finally landed in the hall, with his captor beside him to keep him there -- for Sloper was a slippery fish, with much of the eel in his nature.

Perhaps the most unexpected visitors to the hall were two ladies in mourning, who had just arrived from Egypt by way of Brindisi. Mrs and Miss Drew, having occasion to pass through Portsmouth on their way home, learned that there was to be a tea-fight at the Institute, and Marion immediately said, "I should like so much to see it!"

However much "so much" was, Mrs Drew said she would like to see it as much, so away they went, and were conducted to the front row. There Miles saw them! With his heart in his mouth, and his head in confusion, he quietly rose, bade his wondering mother get up; conducted her to the front seat, and, setting her down beside the Drews, introduced them. Then, sitting down beside Marion, he went in for a pleasant evening.

And it was a pleasant evening! Besides preliminary tea and buns, there were speeches, songs, recitations, etcetera, -- all being received with immense satisfaction by a crowded house, which had not yet risen to the unenviable heights of classical taste and blaseism. As for Miles and Marion, nothing came amiss to them! If a singer had put B flat in the place of A natural they would have accepted it as quite natural. If a humourist had said the circle was a square, they would have believed it -- in a sense -- and tried to square their reason accordingly.

But nothing is without alloy in this life. To the surprise of Miles and his mother, their "kind little lawyer" also made his appearance in the hall. More than that, he insisted, by signs, that Miles should go out and speak with him. But Miles was obdurate. He was anchored, and nothing but cutting the cable could move him from his anchorage.

At last the "kind little man" pushed his way through the crowd.

"I must have a word with you, my dear sir. It is of importance," he said.

Thus adjured, Miles unwillingly cut the cable, and drifted into a passage.

"My dear sir," said the little man, seizing his hand, "I congratulate you."

"You're very kind, but pray, explain why."

"I find that you are heir to a considerable fortune."

Miles was somewhat interested in this, and asked, "How's that?"

"Well, you remember Hardy's will, which you put into my hands a few days ago?"

"Yes; what then? That can't be the fortune!"

"Indeed it is. Hardy, you remember, made you his residuary legatee. I find, on inquiry, that the old cousin you told me about, who meant to leave all his money to build a hospital, changed his mind at the last and made out a will in favour of Hardy, who was his only relative. So, you see, you, being Hardy's heir, have come into possession of something like two thousand a year."

To this Miles replied by a whistle of surprise, and then said, "Is that all?"

"Upon my word, sir," said the 'kind little lawyer,' in a blaze of astonishment, "you appear to take this communication in a peculiar manner!"

"You mistake me," returned Miles, with a laugh. "I don't mean 'is that all the fortune?' but 'is that all you have to say?'"

"It is, and to my mind I have said a good deal."

"You certainly have. And, believe me, I am not indifferent or unthankful, but -- but -- the fact is, that at present I am particularly engaged. Good-bye, and thank you."

So saying, Miles shook the puzzled old gentleman heartily by the hand, and hurried back to his anchorage in the hall.

"I've done it, mother!" whispered Miles, two days thereafter, in the privacy of the Institute reading-room.

"Miles!" said the startled lady, with a reproachful look, "I thought you said that nothing would induce you -- "

"Circumstances have altered, mother. I have had a long consultation with your 'kind little lawyer,' and he has related some interesting facts to me."

Here followed a detailed account of the facts.

"So, you see, I went and proposed at once -- not to the lawyer -- to Marion."

"And was accepted?"

"Well -- yes. I could hardly believe it at the time. I scarcely believe it now, so I'm going back this afternoon to make quite sure."

"I congratulate you, my darling boy, for a good wife is God's best gift to man."

"How do you know she is good, mother?"

"I know it, because -- I know it! Anybody looking in her face can see it. And with two thousand a year, why -- "

"One thousand, mother."

"I thought you said two, my son."

"So I did. That is the amount of the fortune left by the eccentric old hospital-for-incurables founder. When poor Hardy made out his will he made me residuary legatee because the trifle he had to leave -- his kit, etcetera, -- was not worth dividing between me and Armstrong. If it had been worth much he would have divided it. It is therefore my duty now to divide it with my friend."

But in our anxiety to tell you these interesting facts, dear reader, we have run ahead of the tea-fight! To detail all its incidents, all its bearings, all its grand issues and blessed influences, would require a whole volume. We return to it only to mention one or two gratifying facts.

It was essentially a temperance -- that is, a total-abstinence, a blue-ribbon -- meeting, and, at the end, the "Soldiers' Friend" earnestly invited all who felt so disposed to come forward and sign the pledge. At the same time, medals and prizes were presented to those among the civilians who had loyally kept their pledge intact for certain periods of time. On an average, over a thousand pledges a year are taken at the Institute, and we cannot help thinking that the year we are writing of must have exceeded the average -- to judge from the numbers that pressed forward on this particular night.

There were soldiers, sailors, and civilians; men, women, and children. Amongst the first, Rattling Bill Simkin walked to the front -- his moral courage restored to an equality with his physical heroism -- and put down his name. So did Johnson and Sutherland -- the former as timid before the audience as he had been plucky before the Soudanese, but walking erect, nevertheless, as men do when conscious that they are in the right; the latter "as bold as brass" -- as if to defy the world in arms to make him ever again drink another drop of anything stronger than tea.

Moses Pyne also "put on the blue," although, to do him justice, he required no protection of that sort, and so did Corporal Flynn and Terence and their mother -- which last, if truth must be told, stood more in need of the pledge than her stout sons.

Among the civilians several noted personages were influenced in the right direction. Chief among these was sodden, blear-eyed, disreputable Sloper, whose trembling hand scrawled a hieroglyphic, supposed to represent his name, which began indeed with an S, but ended in a mysterious prolongation, and was further rendered indecipherable by a penitent tear which fell upon it from the point of his red, red nose!

Some people laughed, and said that there was no use in getting Sloper to put on the blue-ribbon, that he was an utterly demoralised man, that he had no strength of character, that no power on earth could save him! They were right. No power on earth could save him -- or them! These people forgot that it is not the righteous but sinners who are called to repentance.

Time passed away and wrought its wonted changes. Among other things, it brought back to Portsmouth big, burly Jack Molloy, as hearty and vigorous as he was when being half-hanged in the Soudan, but -- minus a leg! Poor Jack! a spent cannon-ball -- would that it had been spent in vain! -- removed it, below the knee, much more promptly than it could have been taken off by the surgeon's knife. But what was loss to the Royal Navy was gain to Portsmouth, for Jack Molloy came home and devoted himself, heart and soul, to the lending of "a helping hand" to his fellow-creatures in distress -- devoting his attentions chiefly to the region lying round Nobbs Lane, and causing himself to be adored principally by old women and children. And there and thus he probably works to this day -- at least, some very like him do.

When not thus engaged he is prone to take a cruise to a certain rural district in the south of England, where he finds congenial company in two very tall, erect, moustached, dignified gentlemen, who have a tendency to keep step as they walk, one of whom has lost his left hand, and who dwell in two farm-houses close together.

These two gentlemen have remarkably pretty wives, and wonderfully boisterous children, and the uproar which these children make when Molloy comes to cast anchor among them, is stupendous! As for the appearance of the brood, and of Jack after a spree among the hay, the word has yet to be invented which will correctly describe it.

The two military-looking farmers are spoken of by the people around as philanthropists. Like true philanthropists, whose foundation-motive is love to God, they do not limit their attentions to their own little neighbourhood, but allow their sympathies and their benefactions to run riot round the world -- wheresoever there is anything that is true, honourable, just, pure, lovely, or of good report to be thought of, or done, or assisted.

Only one of these acts of sympathy and benefaction we will mention. Every Christmas there is received by Miss Robinson at the Soldiers' Institute, Portsmouth, a huge hamper full of old and new garments of all kinds -- shoes, boots, gowns, frocks, trousers, shawls, comforters, etcetera, -- with the words written inside the lid -- "Blessed are they that consider the poor." And on the same day come two cheques in a letter. We refuse, for the best of all reasons, to divulge the amount of those cheques, but we consider it no breach of confidence to reveal the fact that the letter containing them is signed by two old and grateful Blue Lights.

<eob>

Jack, The Young Explorer

By

George Bird Grinnell



Chapter I

A Meeting Of Friends


As the train drew slowly into the Helena station Jack's eyes searched the platform, looking for Hugh, and in a moment he recognized the tall form, standing well back from the crowd and looking at the platform of each car as it passed.

"Hurrah, Hugh!" called Jack, as he waved his hand frantically; but he had to jump down to the platform and elbow his way through the crowd before Hugh's eye caught his.

"Well, son," said Hugh, as he grasped his hand in a firm clasp, "I sure am glad to see you. I only got here last night myself, but it's been a long day waiting around here alone, and I was afraid that maybe you wouldn't come on this train."

"Well," replied Jack, "I'm mighty glad to get here. I was a little afraid that maybe something might have happened to keep you, and that I should have to do the waiting. It's all right now though, and I hope we can get off to-morrow. I don't want to stop in towns any more than you do, and I guess we shall both be glad to get into camp."

"Sure, we will," said Hugh. "Now, what have you in the way of baggage? Of course you've got your bed, and I see your gun and bag in your hand. I've got a room at the Merchants' Hotel, and I reckon we might as well go up there, and then after you've eaten we can see the sights."

"Well," said Jack, "I've got a small trunk and my bed, and we can pack those up to the hotel, and then I'll put the stuff I need in my bed and my war bag and we'll be all ready for the stage whenever it goes."

"All right," said Hugh, "I reckon we better take one of these hacks here, and the man can put your things on top, while we ride inside. It isn't much of a walk up to the hotel, only about a mile, but maybe we'd better get there as quick as we can and have our dinner and attend to our business, and then we won't have anything on our minds."

Before long they were rolling rapidly over the smooth road toward the town, which stands at some distance from the railroad. As they passed along, Jack saw, to the right, enormous piles of cobblestones extending for half a mile or more toward the town. For some time he looked at them with curiosity, and then asked Hugh what they were.

"Why, don't you know?" Hugh replied. "That's the old placer ground that they used to work over when this camp was first settled. Last Chance Gulch they called it. That gravel and rock that you see there came out of the sluice boxes. Every little while, I'm told, a man comes down here now and works over some of that gravel, and they say that to-day there's fair wages to be made mining right here in the town. I've heard that there are some Chinamen that work these gravels right along. There's a heap of gold been taken out of that gulch, but, of course, just how much nobody knows. Every now and then, in digging the foundations of a house in town, some man will turn up a little nugget of gold, and then all the workmen quit digging and begin to pan out the foundations."

"That seems queer, Hugh, doesn't it? I suppose the same thing happens in lots of places along the Rocky Mountains, because a great many of the big towns now stand where old mining camps used to be."

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's surely true. There's lots of gold left in the sides of these hills yet, even after the miners have been over the dirt."

"What kind of a trip did you have coming up, Hugh?" asked Jack. "Did anything happen on the road?"

"No," replied Hugh; "nothing of any account. Joe drove me in to the railroad with my stuff. He had to come in for a load of groceries and a keg of nails, and I took the train west to Ogden, and that little narrow gauge road up to Garrisons, and then came east on the main line. I was kind of scared that maybe I'd get lost, making so many changes; but everybody I met was mighty pleasant spoken, and I didn't have a mite of trouble. Of course you know what I saw on the road, for you and I went back that same way two years ago, when we came back from the coast."

By this time they were climbing the hills of the town, and a moment later the hack stopped in front of the Merchants' Hotel. Jack got a room, in which his things were put, and the two friends went down to dinner.

After this was over, it took Jack but half an hour to get from his trunk and pack in his bag the few things that he needed for his trip, and then he and Hugh sallied out and took a long walk out of town, into the high hills which overlook Helena and the great flat through which the river flows.

On the way back they passed the stage office and arranged for two seats on the box of the stage that left the next morning.

"It ain't much use for you to engage these seats," said the man in the office; "I don't believe there's ary person going out to-morrow morning except you two, still I'll put your names down for the two seats on the box if you like. It can't do no harm, anyhow. You have your stuff down here to-morrow morning any time after seven o'clock and we'll take care of it and see that it goes on the stage."

Their long walk had given Hugh and Jack a good appetite and they heartily enjoyed their supper. After they had eaten they started out again and walked through the brilliantly lighted streets, looking in at the windows of shops and saloons, each of which seemed to be full of customers. The air was mild and balmy and the beautiful night had brought many people into the street.

As they passed an open door, from which shone a bright light, Jack looked in and saw people sitting at tables playing cards, while toward the back of the room was a long narrow table surrounded by men who seemed greatly interested in what was going on.

"What are they doing in there, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Why, I reckon that's a gambling house," was the reply. "You know there's no law against gambling in most of these Montana towns, the way I hear there is in towns back East. Everybody is free to go in and play if he wants to."

"I've never been in a gambling house, Hugh. Can't we go in and look on? I'd like to see what they are doing."

"Why, yes," said Hugh; "there's no harm in going in and looking on. That isn't the sort of thing that I would do for fun, but there's no harm in it and you may see something that will teach you a good lesson. I never was much on gambling myself. I never had much money to lose, and I never wanted to win anybody else's. It never seemed to me quite square to take money without you worked for it. I never could see the sense of betting, either; but, come on; let's go in."

Hugh led the way into the room, and Jack followed. The people playing at the various tables and those overlooking the game paid no attention to them. All were intent on their own affairs. Hugh walked around to one end of the long table and gradually edged his way into the crowd, gently pushing men this way and that in so good-natured a fashion that no one objected to it. Jack kept close behind him, and presently, when Hugh had reached a point where he had a good view of the table, he squeezed back a little and let Jack pass in and stand in front of him.

Behind the table sat a man smoking a long cigar, while in front of him was a little silver box about the size of a playing card, from which at short intervals the man drew two cards, one after another, which he placed on two little piles by the box. In the middle of the table was a long frame on which were painted representations of cards, and on these cards, in various positions, were placed circular disks, white, red, and blue. The players placed these disks on the cards, and then when two cards came out of the box, sometimes the dealer took over to his side of the table the chips that were on a particular card, or else put on that card as many more chips as were already on it. Then the player usually removed these chips and put some or all of them on another card. Most of the people about the table appeared to be acquainted with each other, and those who spoke to the dealer seemed to know him, calling him by his first name. For some minutes Jack watched the game intently and began to have a glimmering idea of how it was played. Once or twice he whispered a question to Hugh, but Hugh shook his head for silence, and one or two of the people near by looked frowningly at the speaker. "Evidently," Jack thought, "this is not a place for conversation."

As they stood there, the crowd in the room increased; more and more people gathered around the faro table; the smoke in the air grew thicker, and there was the sound of more or less hum and bustle. Presently Jack felt a hand on his shoulder, and looking back at Hugh saw him move his head toward the door, and the two pushed their way through the crowd and out again into the street.

"Might as well get away from there," said Hugh; "they are playing pretty heavy. Two or three men came in that were full of liquor, and it looks to me as if there might be trouble in there to-night. There's no special reason why we should be there if there's going to be any shooting."

"No," said Jack, "I should say not. It's about the last place in which I'd want to be shot, a gambling house."

"Yes," said Hugh, "you're dead right about that. I don't know as I'd mind about being killed if I had to be killed, but I'd like to have it done in the right sort of a place."

"Is there much of that thing going on in town, Hugh?" asked Jack.

"Right smart," said Hugh. "I reckon from what I saw last night and from what I hear that there must be twenty-five or thirty places like that, and maybe a good many more that are not as decent as that one."

"Well," said Jack, "do men lose much money there?"

"I reckon they do," answered Hugh. "A whole lot more than they can afford, even if the game is straight. There's quite a percentage in favor of the dealer and a good many of the games are not straight."

"How do you mean, Hugh?" said Jack. "Do the gamblers cheat?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "I reckon they do. Some of those fellows are awful slick at dealing and shuffling. They can shuffle the cards just about the way they want them, so that they know just what card is coming out next, and if they see the bets are going against them they can slip two cards out of the box instead of one and make themselves win instead of lose."

"But," said Jack, "I should think they would get caught at it."

"No," said Hugh, "scarcely ever; and if a man does see anything crooked, it's only his word against the dealer's, and the dealer is apt to have two or three friends around the table who will talk for him. If the worst comes to worst, why, of course, the dealer has got to draw quick, and usually he is a man who can do that."

"Do you mean shoot, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Well, yes," said Hugh; "sometimes it comes to that, though generally the dealer can bluff it out, especially if he's got two or three men to wrangle and shout for him."

"Well," said Jack, "that seems pretty rough."

"It is rough," said Hugh; "but that's the way it is in a good many of these towns."

Soon after seven o'clock next morning Jack and Hugh were at the stage office with their beds, their bags, and their rifles. For a time they sat on their rolls of bedding talking, but at length a man came out from a stable near by and spoke to Hugh, and the beds were carried into the stable and lashed on to the rack behind the stage and the bags thrown into the boot under the driver's seat. A little later the four horses were brought out and hitched to the vehicle, and presently the driver, carrying his long whip, came from the office. The stage was led out into the street before the stable, the driver mounted, and Jack and Hugh followed him, all three sitting on the front seat. Then a clerk came from the office and spoke to the driver, telling him that there were no other passengers that morning, and with a parting nod the team started off and trotted swiftly out of town.

"Hugh," said Jack, "is this the sort of stage that they use everywhere in the mountains?"

"No," replied Hugh, "I reckon not. This is the old-fashioned stage, such as they used to drive in crossing the plains away back before the railroad was built, but stage-driving is pretty near over now and the old stages are laid on the shelf. Usually for these short little mountain trips most any kind of a jerky or even a lumber wagon is used. This stage here is one of the real old kind."

It was a high, large vehicle hung on C springs, with abundant room inside and two or three seats without. Back of the seats the roof of the coach was strengthened with slats of wood running lengthwise, and all about this roof was a high iron railing, so that a good lot of baggage might be piled there and lashed firmly to the top.

"I have seen coaches like this more than once," said Jack. "Up in Massachusetts, where my grandfather lives, they have just such a coach as this to send around the village to gather passengers for the train in the morning, and it takes away the passengers that come by the train and leaves them at their homes. Once, too, when I went to the Catskill Mountains, they had a stage like this to take us from the landing at the river up to the hotel, a long drive."

"Well," said Hugh, "these coaches are easy to ride in, but by the time a man's been on the stage about twenty-four hours he is generally in the frame of mind where he is willing to fight with his best friend. You see, the trouble is, he can't get any sleep, and without sleep a man's temper shortens up pretty fast."

"Well," said Jack, "we have got to go more than twenty-four hours without sleep, haven't we? We travel right along, don't we?" he asked, turning to the driver, who nodded in reply and added that it would take in the neighborhood of twenty-four hours to get to Benton. "Of course," he remarked, "we could go faster if there was any reason for it. We change teams about every fifteen miles, but there is no reason why we should hurry the horses. It doesn't make any difference to you, I reckon, whether yet get in at four o'clock in the morning or six, does it?"

"Not a bit," said Jack. "I like this riding on a stage, but I don't know just how long I'll continue to like it."

They had now turned from the flat prairie, over which the smooth road ran straight, and were entering a wide valley of the mountains, which gradually closed in on them until there seemed hardly room for more than the river that flowed through it and the road.

"That's Wolf Creek," said the driver, motioning toward the stream with his whip. "And this here canyon that we are going through is called Prickly Pear Canyon."

On either side of the stream the hills rose sharply, sometimes in steep grassy slopes, shaggy with clumps of small pines and spruces, at others, in a sheer rocky precipice, or yet again in steep slopes covered with small shrubbery through which great knobs of rock showed here and there.

"Any game on these hills?" asked Hugh of the driver.

"Plenty of deer," was the reply, "and some elk; lots of bear, too. Not many people travel over these hills, except prospectors, and they don't do any hunting to amount to anything."

As he finished speaking, Jack, who had been scanning the hillside ahead of the team, suddenly grasped Hugh's arm and said, "There's a deer now, Hugh."

"Sure enough," said Hugh, and all hands looking, a black-tail was seen feeding alone on the hillside, not eating the grass, but walking from one clump of weeds or brush to another and biting a mouthful of food from each. As they drew nearer, the animal heard the trotting of the horses or the rattle of the coach and stood for a few moments looking innocently at the team as it approached. The deer was a young buck, his horns, of course, in the velvet, for it was but the last of June. He studied the team with his huge ears turned forward to catch the sound which it made, and every now and then lifted his head higher, and seemed to feel the air with his nose.

At last, when the coach was fairly close to him, the driver said, "Do either of you want to take a shot at him?"

"Not I," said Hugh.

"Nor I," said Jack.

"Well," said the driver, "I'm glad you don't, for it would take us some time to butcher him, and I don't like to loaf much just after starting out. The end of the day is the better time to drive slowly."

Presently the buck seemed to have satisfied himself that there was possible danger in this great object approaching him, and turning, he bounded lightly along the hillside, gradually working up until at last he passed out of sight.

"Wasn't it fine, Hugh," said Jack, "to see him use his nose. That is what a deer depends on, isn't it? He doesn't trust his eyes very much, nor his ears, but his nose never lies to him."

"Well," replied Hugh, "that's so. And it isn't so only about deer, but about all sorts of game animals. I've had deer walk right straight up to me. So long as I kept still they didn't pay any attention to me, and likely thought I was a stump or a rock, but just as soon as they passed along near enough to catch the wind of me they never stopped to look or listen, but got up and dusted the best they knew how; and yet you can come on a bunch of deer and they'll hear you and jump to their feet and look at you, and maybe you can fire three or four shots at them and kill two or three before they'll run away."

"Yes," said the driver, "that's sure enough true; but you mustn't say that it's only deer or game that acts that way. Take a dog now --  -- "

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's right enough, too."

"Why," said the driver, "I have seen dogs -- owned 'em, too -- that didn't seem to get any satisfaction at all out of their eyes; they couldn't trust them. I have seen the time when I'd be walking along with my dog, and maybe I'd get a little ahead or a little behind him and I'd stop to talk with three or four fellows, and the dog would start to look for me; and even if he saw me right plain, he wouldn't be sure it was me until he had come up behind me and stuck the end of his nose against my leg so that he could smell me. I remember once standing with three or four men in front of the Bella saloon in Benton when my dog did a trick like that. One of the men I was talking to didn't like dogs; in fact, he was awful scared of them. The dog came up to us and smelt of each man, and when he shoved his nose hard against the leg of the man who was afraid of dogs, the man felt the dog's nose and looked down and saw the dog, and he thought he'd been bit. He jumped about four feet into the air and reached for his gun to try to kill the dog that had bit him, but the others of us got hold of him and held him until we'd explained matters.

"Curious how scared some people are over a little thing, and yet maybe all the time they've got good sand and wouldn't run away in the worst kind of a scrap."

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's one of the queer things about human nature; you never can tell what it is that is going to scare a man. I've seen men that would run a mile to get away from some little bug like a spider or a hornet, and yet I know those men weren't cowards, because I've seen them in tight places and they were always willing to take as many risks as anybody. Why, once I even saw a man that was afraid of a mouse."

"No?" exclaimed the stage driver.

"Fact," said Hugh. "He was afraid of a mouse, and when one ran over his face, just after he had gone to bed, he got up and sat by the fire all night for fear it would do it again."

"Why, Hugh," said Jack, "don't you remember that the great Napoleon was afraid of a cat. It would make him sick if there was one in the room, even though he didn't see it and didn't know that it was there. And Napoleon was one of the greatest soldiers that ever lived, and, I suppose, a brave man."

"Yes," said Hugh, "I reckon he was."

"I have known lots of people," Jack went on, "who were afraid of snakes. It didn't make any difference whether they were venomous snakes or not. Just as long as they were snakes, they scared these people."

"That's so," said Hugh. "I've known one man that was afraid of snakes, and, what's more, he could tell if there was one around, whether he saw it or not. He said he smelled them. That seems queer, too."

"It does for a fact," remarked the driver.

Before they had passed through the Prickly Pear Canyon they reached the stage station where the horses were to be changed. There all hands got down and walked about a little to stretch their legs; but in a very few minutes four fresh horses had been harnessed and they recommenced their journey.

"Do you ever have trouble with road agents on this line?" Hugh asked of the driver.

"No," said he, "we've never been stopped but once. The fact is, we scarcely ever carry anything that makes it worth while for anyone to stop the stage. Early this spring, though, my partner was held up just as he was coming over the Bird Tail Divide. There had been some talk of sending out some dust from Benton by the stage, but it was given up and the gold went out another way. Of course none of us knew that it was going, but the news must have got out somehow, for that night, just as the stage reached the top of the Bird Tail Divide and the two leaders had got up onto the level, two men stepped out in the moonlight and told Buck -- that's my partner -- to stop. He started to lay the whip on his horses, but they were all walking, and the men brought down their guns and called to him again that if he started they'd kill the leaders. So he pulled up and asked the men what they wanted, and they said they wanted the treasure chest and told him to throw it down. He said there wasn't any treasure chest, and if they didn't believe him they could come and search the coach. With that a third man that Buck hadn't seen before popped up from the side of the road and climbed up and looked through the boot and searched Buck, and then went through the whole stage. They were a pretty mad lot when they let Buck go on."

"Was it ever known who they were?"

"No," said the driver. "I always had an idea that Buck knew who the little fellow was that searched the stage, but as they didn't get anything and didn't bother Buck any, I reckon he didn't want to say much about it."

All through the day they trotted briskly forward changing horses at regular intervals, so that the teams were always fresh and progress rapid. They had dinner and supper at the stage stations which they passed, and about ten o'clock at night reached Fort Shaw.

By this time both Hugh and Jack were tired and sleepy, but the driver seemed as fresh as ever.

While the horses were being changed, Hugh sat down on the front steps of the building and smoked his pipe, and Jack, trying to get the sleep out of his eyes, walked up and down on the boardwalk. As he was doing this he was joined by a little Irishman, who conversed pleasantly.

"Are you working now?" said the little man, as he puffed at his short pipe.

"No," said Jack, "not now. I'm just going up to Benton."

"Do yez want work?" asked the stranger. "I need a couple more hands on me ranch down below here and I'd like to hire yez. Thirty dollars and board is what I pay; good wages for the time and for the country."

"Well," said Jack, "I'd like the work and I'd like the money, but I'm just traveling through the country and I've got to meet a man in Benton, and couldn't stop now to take even a good job."

"Well," said the man, "I'm sorry. If ever yez come through Shaw again, maybe ye'd be needin' work, and ye'd better come to my place and see if I can't give yez a job. Maloney is me name, on Sun River, five miles below the post."

Jack was quite tickled at this offer, and when they started again, told Hugh about it.

"Yes," said Hugh, "you are getting to be a man now, and ought to be able to do a man's work, and I reckon you are."

All through the night the stage rattled and swung over the prairie, and soon after the sun rose the next morning trotted swiftly across Benton bottom and drew up at the end of its journey.




Chapter II

Historic Land


"There are some friends of ours," said Hugh, as the stage approached the hotel, and he raised his hand and made the Indian sign to attract attention.

"Yes," said Jack, "I see them. There is Baptiste and there's Joe, too. It's splendid to see them both again." Jack signaled earnestly and made the sign for shaking hands, to which his two friends responded.

As the stage drew up, Hugh said, "Now, son, you get down into the boot and haul out our bags and throw them to me," and when Hugh had reached the ground Jack passed him the bags and then sprang down himself. There were hearty handshakes and many questions between the four delighted friends, and presently Baptiste said, "Casse-tete, let us go now to my cabane, and there we will eat and smoke. I have many things to ask you."

"All right," said Hugh. "Just wait a minute till I see about our beds."

In the meantime Jack and Joe had engaged in a sort of war dance, followed by a wrestling match, to express their joy at meeting again, and then Jack thought of the beds on the coach and ran and unstrapped the leather apron which covered the baggage rack, and the two boys, loosening the lashings, threw the beds on the ground by the hotel door.

"Hello," said Hugh, "those boys have got our beds off now. We can go on. Just set those beds inside the office, and tell the clerk we'll stop for them with the wagon when we start. Then come on to Bat's cabin."

Before long Hugh and Jack were seated in the cabin, while Baptiste and Joe were busily engaged in the work of preparing breakfast. Soon all were seated at the table. The fare was simple, but heartily enjoyed, for all had healthy appetites and contented minds.

"How are you getting on, Bat?" said Hugh. "How do you live? Just about as you did a couple of years ago?"

"Yes," said Baptiste; "I live well; I always have lived well since you and these boys came in from the north and made me that fine present of the gold that you think I lost many years ago. Every month the bank pays me my money, and then besides I work a little for the company at the furs, so they pay me something, and I have some money that I can spend. I have bought me two horses, and sometimes I go off on a hunt; sometimes I trap a little. It is not much, but it is pleasant; it brings back to my mind the old days. Also, my mind is better than it was. I do not forget things as I used to. It was a good thing for me when you three men came in from the north and found me here, and you would not have found me except for the charger that Jack picked up on the prairie."

"Doesn't it seem wonderful that the finding of that little piece of metal should have changed a man's life as yours has been changed, Baptiste?" said Jack.

"Yes," said Hugh; "we, none of us, can ever tell what influence the smallest thing we do will have on other people. Now, Joe," he went on, "have you got a team here, and are you ready to take us out to the camp, as Mr. Sturgis wrote you?"

"Yes," said Joe, "the team's here and the wagon, and I reckon we can make the agency in three or four days and we can start just whenever you are ready. I've got a mess outfit and some coffee and sugar and bacon and flour, and if you need anything more we can get it here. I'm ready to start as soon as you are."

"Well," said Hugh, "the sooner we get off the better, I expect. What do you say, son?"

"Why," replied Jack, "you can't start too soon for me. I'm anxious to get to the camp, and then into the mountains. I always feel as if I didn't have much time out here anyhow, and I want to make the most of what I have."

"Well, then," said Hugh, as they pushed back their chairs from the table, "let's sit down and smoke a pipe and talk for a little while, and then you and Jack can go and get the team, and Bat and I will sit here and chew the rag about old times until you come for us. Get the beds and the bags when you come by the hotel, and then we can pull right out. I reckon Joe has grub enough and we won't have to buy anything here without it is a piece of fresh meat. We might get beef enough for two or three meals, but the weather is kind o' hot now, and likely there'll be a chance to get meat at some of the ranches we pass if we need it."

For a time Hugh and Baptiste sat together talking about the old trapping days, bringing up one after another the names of men whom they had known, and relating incidents of hunting, trapping, buffalo chasing, and Indian fighting. Jack thought it was good to listen to, but at length Hugh turned to the boys and said, "Well, go on now and get your wagon and we'll pull out. It's a long ways from here to the agency, and every hour we lose on this end we've got to make up on the other."

The boys started off for the team, leaving the old men to sit in the sun and talk about the past. A little later the wagon drew up to the door, and Hugh, after glancing through its contents and tightening one of the ropes that lashed on the load, said, "Well, we may as well be going. Good-by, Bat; we're likely to get back here about two months hence, and we'll meet then. I reckon up in the camp we'll see all the Monroes and old man Choquette, but those are all the old-timers we're likely to meet. So long," and he climbed into the wagon.

"Good-by, Baptiste," said Jack, as he shook hands, and Joe, reaching down from the driver's seat, pressed the old man's hand without a word.

"Good-by, my friends, good-by," said Baptiste. "It has been good to see you. Always your coming brings joy to my heart. I shall look for you to come again."

Joe gathered up the reins, spoke to the horses, and in a moment they were rattling along the street headed for the road leading up the Teton River.

It was a beautiful day. The air was cool and pleasant, yet the sun shone warm. The prairie and the distant hills were still green, and beautiful flowers dotted the plain. From the top of almost every sage brush came the sweet, mellow whistle of the meadow lark. In the air all about birds were rising from the ground, singing as though their throats would burst, and then after reaching a certain height, slowly floating down again on outspread wings, the song ending just as they reached the ground.

After they had gone a short distance away from the town the country seemed as lonely as the wildest prairie. Far off, here and there, grazed a few cattle or horses. Ahead of them the white, level road wound about among the bushes of the sage. To Jack it was all very delightful. The change from the crowded city was absolute, and as he looked about him and enjoyed his surroundings his heart seemed to swell within his breast, and he felt as though he could hardly speak.

Presently Joe said to Hugh, "Have you plenty of room, White Bull? I got this extra wide seat before I started because I thought we'd all want to sit on one seat, but I don't know whether it gives you room enough."

"Oh, yes," said Hugh, "there's lots of room for all of us."

"Yes," said Jack, "we could pretty nearly put another man here."

"Now, Joe," said Hugh a little later, "I want to ask you something about the people. I heard that two years ago, and maybe last year also, they starved, and that many of them died. I heard, too, that even up here the buffalo have all gone."

"Yes," said Joe, "that is true. Two years ago and also last year the people starved, but it was two years ago that the most of them died, that is, one winter back from this winter that has just passed. Old Four Bears kept a kind of count on a stick, cutting a notch for every person that died, and they say that nearly six hundred of the people starved to death. There was no food. The buffalo had not been seen for two winters. The people had hunted and sometimes killed an elk or a deer or a few antelope, but at last these had all been killed, and there was left nothing but rabbits and such birds as we could shoot or snare. It was a hard time; everybody was hungry. Everybody got poor. Even people that had once been heavy and had much fat on their bodies grew lean and thin. When you looked at the old people, the women and the children, you could see their bones sticking out against the skin. The little children and the old people were the ones that died. The men and the women were very hungry and got weak, but they did not die. White Calf, who is now the chief, asked the agent to give us what food there was in the storehouse and let us have one good meal and then die, but the agent would not do it. He told us to go out and kill food for ourselves. You know Father Prando?" Hugh nodded.

"Well, he had seen for a long time what was coming and he had written to people back East, asking that food might be sent out to us, and telling them that unless it was sent we should all starve to death. Besides that, he wrote to the commanding officer at Fort Shaw, and during the winter an officer was sent up to the agency to see how the people were getting on. This officer came and went around through the camp, and asked the people to tell him the truth. He didn't have to ask many questions; he had eyes and could see for himself. They tell me that in some of the lodges that officer sat and cried; that the tears ran down his face as they do down the face of a woman whose child has just died.

"After a while he went away, and we heard nothing more, but presently the news came that wagons loaded with food were coming from Fort Shaw, and then a little while after that came a government inspector who asked many questions and removed the agent and stopped here. This inspector was a good man, I think. He kept sending messages to Fort Shaw and trying to hurry the food along, and they say that he sent telegrams to Washington. Anyhow, about the end of the winter wagons began to come loaded with flour and bacon, and this was given out to the people, and then the suffering stopped, and the people stopped dying. After a little while, too, we got a new agent, a good man, who seems to be trying to help the people. He taught them how to plow the ground and to put seed into it. Maybe that is good. The seed grew, but it did not get ripe. We had plenty of oat straw, but no oats; but ever since the food began to come a year ago last winter we have been doing better."

"Well, well, that's a hard story," said Hugh. "How did it come that there was not food enough in the warehouses to help the people along?"

"I heard two of the white men that have married into the tribe talking," said Joe, "and they said that the agent had been writing to Washington that the Indians were doing well and were growing crops and becoming civilized. They said that he wrote those things so that the people at Washington would think that he was a great man and was helping the Indians along. Of course the people never grew any crops; they didn't know how. They lived well enough as long as there were buffalo, but when the buffalo went away, then the people had nothing to depend on."

"You say nearly six hundred died?" asked Hugh.

"That is what they told me," replied Joe.

"Good Lord," said Hugh, "that was about one-fourth of the people. I don't suppose there was more than twenty-five hundred or three thousand Piegans at best."

"I don't know," said Joe, "how many there were, but I know that many died. You can see their bodies in all the trees along the creeks."

"But, Hugh," said Jack, "how is it possible that such a thing should occur? Why didn't the people back East know about this suffering and send food out to relieve it?"

"Well, son," said Hugh, "you know it's an awful long way from here back East, and then it's hard always to get at the truth about any of these stories. An Indian reservation is a great place for getting up kicks and complaints, and I suppose that maybe those people in Washington are so used to hearing complaints that they don't pay much attention to them."

"But just think," said Jack, "of six hundred people being starved to death. It's almost impossible to believe it."

"I reckon," said Hugh, "that we'll find a good many of our old friends dead when we get to the camp."

"Yes," said Joe, "a good many."

All day long the horses trotted briskly up the level road along the Teton River. The sun was hot, but a cool breeze blew down from the mountains to the west and the whole country was fresh, green, and charming. About three o'clock they camped on the river at the edge of a grove of cottonwood trees, and unhitching the horses, Joe and Jack picketed them on the fresh green grass. Hugh, meanwhile, had brought some wood and built the campfire, and before long supper was ready.

As they sat about after eating, Hugh smoking his pipe, the boys lounging in the warm sunshine, and all watching the sun as it sank toward the west, and the shadows of the cottonwoods grow longer minute by minute, Hugh said to Jack, "We were talking this morning, son, about the hard times the Piegans have had this winter, and that brought to my mind another hard time that they had a good many years ago."

"What was that, Hugh?" said Jack, sitting up to listen, while Joe, who had been lying on his back with his eyes shut, rolled over so that he faced the old man.

"Did you ever hear of the Baker massacre?" asked Hugh.

"No," said Jack, "I never did."

"I did," said Joe. "My father was killed that time. I don't remember anything about it. I was too little. Only I remember my mother, how she cried."

"Yes," said Hugh, "lots of people cried that time."

"Tell us about it," said Jack.

"Well," said Hugh, "it's quite a long story and it made quite a fuss in its time, not so much among the white folks out here as among the Indians and, as I've heard, among white people back East. It certainly was a bad killing. You read in the books about the way Indians massacre white women and children when they're on the warpath, but I reckon Indians never did anything worse than this killing at the Baker massacre. The way the white men killed and cut up the Cheyenne and Arapahoe women and children at Sand Creek down in Colorado, and the way they killed women and children up here on the Marias, no Indians could ever beat."

Hugh paused, and looked around for a twig with which to push down the fire in his pipe.

"I've heard about the Sand Creek massacre, Hugh," said Jack, "though I never heard the whole story. Some day I'm going to get you to tell me that; but what was the Baker massacre?"

"Well," said Hugh, "along in '66-'67, and from that time up to 1870, this country up here in Montana was run over by a whole lot of different Indian tribes. Of course it was Piegan country, and with the Piegans were the Blackfeet and Bloods, and a part of the time the Gros Ventres of the prairie. They were all on good terms with each other after the Gros Ventres made peace with the Piegans along about 1868. Besides these, there were the Crows, who were hostile to the Blackfeet, and every now and then the Kootenays would come over the mountains and have a scrap, and the Crees would come down from the north and steal Piegan horses, and Assinaboines and other Sioux would come up from the east and they'd tackle the Blackfeet. Pretty nearly any of these Indians, if they saw a chance to run off some stock or to kill a lone white man would do it, but the Piegans, being close at home and always within reach, got the credit of most of the deviltry that was done. As a matter of fact, I reckon it was the Sioux and Assinaboines that did most of it. Anyhow, the trappers and traders and freighters in the country, and there were quite a number of them, got to thinking that the Piegans made all the trouble. I reckon that the Bloods from the north, and sometimes a band of Blackfeet coming down to visit the Piegans, did considerable horse stealing, and maybe they killed a few white men.

"Along about that time, too, Malcolm Clark took it into his head to pound up a young Piegan and gave him a terrible beating, and this young Piegan, who was a brother of Clark's wife, went off and got a party of his friends and went back and killed Clark. Meantime all the Piegans were camping in their country as usual and were passing back and forth, going into Benton and not looking for any trouble at all; but some of the toughs in Benton, whose names I won't mention, because you may meet some of them, took an old Piegan, a beaver trapper and a good old man, and killed him and threw him into the river; and another man took out a young boy, considerably younger than you are, and just shot him down in the street. A lot of false reports were sent back East about what the Indians had been doing, and the result was that Colonel Baker was ordered to march against a certain village of Indians who were camping up here on the Marias, north of where we are now and about forty miles from Benton. The troops were guided by two men who are now living on the Piegan reservation, each of them married to an Indian woman. The orders given to Colonel Baker were to strike Mountain Chief's band of Piegans, because from some information they had it was supposed that these people had been plundering and perhaps killing white people. As a matter of fact, the village found by the troops was that of Red Horn and Bear Chief. The camp consisted of less than forty lodges, and probably had in it a little more than two hundred people. The troops got up close to the village in the gray of the morning, without being seen, and their orders were to shoot to kill when they fired. There were but few people stirring when the first volley was fired. They were all killed, and then the people began to stream out of the lodges. At once they saw that they were being attacked by troops, and thought that it was a mistake. Bear Chief, unarmed, rushed toward the soldiers holding up a paper given him by some white man, but before he got to the soldiers he fell, with half a dozen bullets through him. The women and children were killed just as the men were, and of all the village only about forty-five got away, and some of these were off hunting and were not there when the attack was made. There were a hundred and seventy-six Indians killed, thirty-seven of them men, ninety women, and about fifty children.

"There was no pretense of a defense by the Indians. They didn't fight at all. They were just shot down until the troops got tired of shooting. The Indians have told me that most of the thirty-seven men that were killed were old men and young boys. As if to make it a little rougher on the Indians, there was smallpox in the camp at the time.

"You'll see old Almost-a-Dog up at the agency, and if you shake hands with him you'll notice that his hand is crooked. He got that wound at the Baker massacre."

"Why, Hugh, that's one of the most terrible things I ever heard of," said Jack. "A hundred and seventy-six killed, and out of that a hundred and forty women and little children!"

"Yes," said Hugh, "it always seemed to me pretty bad. Of course, when men go to war or try to steal horses or do anything of that kind they take all the chances that there are. It's all right to kill them if you can, but how anybody that's got any sense can shoot down women and children the way that man Baker did gets away with me.

"Well," he went on, "after a while the news of this massacre drifted East, and I heard that the newspapers took it up and told the truth about it, and I reckon the army officers most concerned in it got called a good many names. I've heard that Colonel Baker lost his chance of ever getting very high up in the army on account of this fight, and yet he only did just what he was ordered to do."

"That certainly was terribly cruel," said Jack, "and I don't see how it could be excused."

"Joe," said Hugh, turning to the Indian, who had said nothing, but still lay on the grass with his head resting on his hand, "were you in that camp, or were you somewhere else?"

"No," said Joe, "I was not in that camp. My mother was and a little sister and my father, but I was at Three Sun's Village, stopping with my aunt. I must have been about three or four years old at that time."

"Of the people left alive out of that village," Hugh went on, "there were nearly forty who were women and little bits of children. They were turned loose on the prairie -- some of them being sick with the smallpox, you will remember -- on the twenty-third of January. Anybody who knows what winter weather is up here in Montana can tell what that means. It's a wonder that any of them lived to get to a camp where they were looked after."

Hugh's story had taken some time in the telling, and by the time he had finished it was quite dark. Jack and Joe got up and went out to where the horses were and changed them to fresh grass, and on their way back brought the beds from the wagon and threw them down close to the fire. Hugh meanwhile had put fresh wood on it and the cheerful blaze lit up the white trunks of the cottonwoods and was reflected on the leaves above. It was a beautiful night, and the three spread their beds near the fire and were soon asleep.




Chapter III

The Blackfoot Agency


The next morning they were early on their way, and by noon reached the home of a Canadian Frenchman, formerly in the service of the American Fur Company, but now living on his little ranch on the Teton with his Indian wife and a numerous brood of half-breed children.

From here they kept on up-stream, until just before night they came to another ranch, on the Pend d'Oreille coulee, where lived a man whom Hugh and Joe both addressed as Froggy, also married to an Indian woman.

Just before dark Jack was greatly interested in seeing a procession of five pin-tailed ducks walking solemnly from a little slough to the house. When they reached it the woman drove them into a little coop built of short logs, and closing the door, fastened it with a pin.

"Where did you get your ducks, Froggy?" asked Joe.

"Oh," answered Froggy, "I found a nest out on the prairie at the edge of the slough and watched it until the young ones hatched and then got them and brought them in and raised them. I did have nine, but the coyotes and foxes got away with all but these five. Now I've got 'em trained so that they come up every night, and I shut them up in the house where they'll be safe."

Shortly after they had started next morning Jack asked Hugh some questions about Froggy. It appeared that he had come into the country twelve or fifteen years before and had worked first as a laborer and afterward as a clerk for small individual traders.

"They say," put in Joe, "that he has killed two or three men for their money."

"Yes," said Hugh, "I heard something about that, but nobody that ever talked to me about it really seemed to know anything."

"No," said Joe, "I reckon they never could prove anything against him. Twice men who were traveling through the country and were supposed to have money disappeared on this road and nobody ever knew what became of them. Each time Froggy said that they stopped at his house over night and then started on in the morning, but they never were seen again."

"Well," said Hugh, "we don't know anything about that."

"Hugh," said Jack, "I've been a good deal in the Western country and I'm not a pilgrim any longer, but isn't something going to happen to Froggy some of these days?"

"Why, yes, son," said Hugh, "I reckon some day that somebody will up and kill Froggy, and then the country will be better off; but it isn't your funeral nor yet mine, and we don't want to mix up with things that don't concern us at all."

"No, Hugh, of course, you're right, but it does seem as if the world and the territory would be better off if Froggy did not live here."

"Maybe, maybe," said Hugh, "but, as I say, it isn't your business nor yet mine."

That night they camped on Dupuyer Creek, and Hugh and Joe said that to-morrow they would be at the agency.

"Well," said Jack, "I'll be glad to get there. It's queer, isn't it, the number of times I've been up here and camped with these Piegans that I've never seen their agency, the place which is really their home?"

"Well," said Hugh, "it really has not been their home very long, only since the buffalo gave out. Before that they only came in once in a while, but not long before they saw the last of the buffalo the Government sent out troops to bring them in and tell them that they must stay at the agency.

"That's one reason, I reckon, that they starved, as Joe was telling us the other night. If it hadn't been that the troops kept them there, I believe they'd all have gone up north into Canada and have tried to make the two other tribes, the Blackfeet and the Bloods, give them help. I don't know what help they could have given them, because those people up there must be just as poor as these down here. They all depended on the buffalo and they had nothing else. None of them have any idea of farming, and of course none of them have any cattle."

"But, Hugh," said Jack, "what are they going to do now? The buffalo won't come back; how are they going to live?"

"Why," said Hugh, "the only way they can live is for the Government to support them, to send them out beef and flour and bacon. They've got to be fed until they learn to do something for themselves, either to raise crops or raise cattle, or get jobs as hands on the steamboats or as hands for the ranchmen; but, of course, there are not enough ranchmen in the country to hire even a small part of the able-bodied men among the Piegans."

"Well," said Jack, "they have a pretty melancholy outlook, haven't they?"

"They have, it's true," Hugh answered. "At the same time," he went on, "some of those men are pretty industrious and have a pretty good idea of work, if they only knew how, but as yet they don't know anything. Joe says though -- you heard him the other night -- that they were trying to learn to farm, but this country up here is so cold that I don't think they can ever do anything with crops. There are a few warm spots where crops might ripen, but they are very few."

About noon the next day they drove down into the valley of a little stream running from the west, and Joe stopped his horses so that they might drink.

"Well, friend," he said to Jack, "when we cross this creek we shall be on the reservation. The Indians have their camps and their cabins up and down this stream, and from here on, wherever there is a creek, there we will see the Indians camped. It is only about eight miles from here to the Agency."

Most of the way was uphill, however, and it was well on in the afternoon before the road passed over the high bluff, and at a distance they saw the agency buildings. These looked gray and inconspicuous, set down in the midst of a wide flat, through which flowed a stream bordered by willows, with a few tall cottonwood trees. As they drew nearer, the buildings seemed to Jack to increase in size, and presently they stopped at the little one-story trading post, a hundred yards below the Agency, that now looked like rather an imposing edifice. From here Jack could see only the stockade, about sixteen feet in height and built of cottonwood logs, which concealed all the Agency buildings behind its walls.

At the store they were warmly welcomed by Joe Bruce and his assistant, Mr. McGonigle. Bruce was, and long had been, one of the characters of the upper Missouri country. He was then only about thirty-six years old, smooth-shaven, keen-eyed, thin and wiry. Hugh had often spoken to Jack about him and Jack looked at him with great interest. He was the son of James Bruce, who was an important figure in the fur trade of the Upper Missouri and long in charge of Fort Union at the junction of the Missouri and Yellowstone Rivers, and later of Fort McKenzie and Fort Brule, not far from where Fort Benton was built later.

Bruce's mother was a Mandan, and, as Jack learned a little later, lived with her son at the Piegan agency.

Mr. McGonigle was a Georgian, an old Confederate soldier who had come West "with the left wing of Price's army," as the saying used to be in Montana. Of the great number of Southerners that came into Montana in 1862 and '63 it was said in joke that when Price's army was defeated in Missouri in the early part of the war, the left wing got separated from the others and started westward, and never stopped until it reached the Rocky Mountains. Mr. McGonigle had spent some years as a prospector, but after having made and lost several small fortunes, at last became a trader's clerk, which he had now been for many years.

After a brief chat with Joe Bruce, arrangements were made to spread their beds for a night or two in one of his empty buildings, and to live at his mess until they started on their way again. Joe, whose people were camped on another creek further to the northward, was to remain at the Agency for two or three days, and then the whole party would start for St. Mary's Lakes.

While Hugh was talking with Bruce, Jack chatted for a while with Mr. McGonigle, but he was anxious to go up to the Agency and to get inside that gray barrier of logs behind which were hidden many interesting people and things.

Presently Hugh filled his pipe, and after lighting it, rose and said, "Well, son, let's go on up to the Agency and see the agent, and look around and see if we can meet any of our friends."

"All right, Hugh, come on," said Jack, and they set out.

They soon reached the stockade and entered the wide plank gate, which was still in good condition and bore signs of being frequently used. On either side of the gate there were small log buildings, each with a small window, which looked as if they had been built there for purposes of defense; probably, however, they were built only in imitation of the store and warehouse buildings that formerly flanked the gates of all old fur-trading posts. Once within the stockade, they could see the quarters for the employees, a warehouse, a schoolhouse in which were gathered ten or fifteen children, and some other buildings; while in the center of the stockade stood the house occupied by the agent.

In this house they found Major Allen, who welcomed them cordially, and in response to inquiries by Hugh told them something of the terrible conditions that he had found when he had reached there a year or more before and had first met his starving people. He talked with much feeling about their sufferings and the heroic way in which they had borne them, and while he said nothing in definite terms about his predecessor, what his words suggested made Jack's blood boil with indignation. Major Allen asked Hugh and the boys to stay at the Agency as long as they liked, and said that he would like to have them see the Indians at work.

When Hugh and Jack went up to the Agency the next morning they saw in the field just below the stockade a number of Indians standing about a team of horses, and as they drew nearer they could see that Major Allen was giving instructions in the art of plowing to some of the people. When they reached the group, they were busy for some time shaking hands with old friends, whom they had known under far different circumstances, but after the first salutations all turned to watch the work.

A half breed was driving the team hitched to a plow, and the agent was trying to teach the Indians to hold the plow so as to turn a straight furrow. It was new and not easy work for the red men. The handles of the plow jerked from side to side, the point either coming out of the ground or plunging so deeply into it that the man holding the handles was in danger of being thrown forward on his head. Then Major Allen would take the plow and holding it steadily would cut a smooth furrow of even depth.

Old White Calf, the chief, was anxious to learn plowing. He took hold of the handles and, although at first the plow wobbled from side to side and more than once one of the handles struck him viciously in the ribs, he cut a fair furrow for six or eight feet. Then, however, the point ran deep into the ground, and the old man was thrown forward and nearly fell down. Meanwhile, the Indians who were looking on were making jocular remarks and poking fun at the man who happened to be plowing, but he -- after he had performed his small stint -- had his revenge by making fun of the next victim.

After he had watched them for a little while and enjoyed the fun, Jack had a chance to look on a scene picturesque and beautiful. The wide valley stretched before him with bluffs rising in terraces one after another, the bright green of the willows and cottonwoods marking the course of the stream; to the west the mountains with their clear-cut outlines sharply defined against the blue sky; the gray stockade stood near at hand, and farther off the conical white lodges of the Piegans up and down the creek, with here and there a low log cabin. Outside the fence Indians passed to and fro, some of them on foot, others on horseback, and their bright-colored blankets, beaded belts and knife sheaths gave life and color to the picture.

For some time the work went on, and then the Major asked Hugh and Jack to come up to his house, where they talked over the Indians and the new problems which they had to face.

"It's interesting work looking after these people, but it's discouraging, too," said Major Allen. "The Indians are willing to work, but they haven't any idea how to perform the tasks we set them, so that their efforts are ineffective, and they easily become discouraged. They have never been used to handling horses hitched to wagons, and they don't know at all what horses can do. They hitch these little riding ponies of theirs to a big wagon and then pile it up with much more of a load than the horses can haul, and whip up the team, which strains and tugs along for a short distance, but presently gives out, and the wagon has to be unloaded or else another pair or two of horses must be attached to it.

"The Indians are as willing as can be and they are not afraid of work, but they don't like to keep at it for a long time. They are absolutely ignorant of all farming matters and it will take them some time to learn. Last summer some of them planted little gardens, but they treated them as children would. For example, they often dug up their potatoes to see how fast they were growing, and as soon as they grew large enough to eat they tried to sell them, although if they had left them in the ground they would have continued to grow for a month longer. Now that the Indians have teams and are beginning to learn something about how to use them, they drive up to the mountains and cut wood and haul it down, either to sell or to use themselves in winter. Some of them have built good log cabins in which they pass the winter, but of course in summer they prefer to live in their lodges."

"Well, Major," said Hugh, "you can hardly expect these Indians, who all their lives have been chasing buffalo, to take hold of work at once."

"No," said the Major, "that can't be expected, and I don't look for it. I am very well satisfied with the way they have taken hold. They're willing and they seem honest."

"Yes, I think so," said Hugh, "and from what I can hear they've had such a hard time that I think they're really in earnest in their wish to learn how to work."

"Their loyalty," said the Major, "is one of the things that has struck me the most. The policemen are absolutely faithful. When I enlist them, I make them take an oath, explaining that everybody who serves the Government has to be sworn in, and that they must do as all the other public servants. They take an oath which I like, though perhaps not a very ceremonial one; still they take it as if they meant it, and I believe they do. Have you ever heard them make this oath, Mr. Johnson?"

"No," said Hugh, "I don't reckon I have. I would like to hear it, and so would son here. What is it?"

"When they are sworn," said Major Allen, "they lift up the right hand and, stretching it toward the sky, say, 'The sun is good,' and then, 'The earth is good,' and bending down they touch the ground with the hand; and as they stand up again they say, 'I will obey the orders of my chief, that I may live long with my family.'

"Now these policemen get only eight dollars a month; they're likely to be called on at any time to ride any distance; they have to furnish their own horses, and yet they never, so far as I have heard, complain. They're a good lot of people, and I ask for nothing better than to stay here and work with them, but I hope that I shall never have as bad a time as I had when they were starving during the first two or three months that I was here."

"Yes," said Jack, "that must have been a terrible time."

As they were walking down to the trader's store, Jack, who had been much impressed by Major Allen's talk about the Indians, said to Hugh, "Now, Hugh, what do you think will become of these Indians? Of course, the buffalo never can come back, so hunting days must be nearly over. How are the people to support themselves, or are they to be looked after in future by the Government?"

"Why, son," said Hugh, "I guess that question is puzzling, and it's going to puzzle a lot of smarter men than you and I will ever be. It's a sure thing that these Indians can never make a living in this country by farming. They might make a living by cattle if they had any, or had any means of getting them, but of course the Indians have no money and no means of earning any money to buy cattle with. They certainly can't hire out to work, because there is no one in this country that will hire them and pay wages. If they had cattle and would take care of them they might do well, because this is one of the finest grazing ranges in the world, but you know very well that if the Government were to give each one of these Indians a cow to-morrow, a week hence very few of them would still have his cow. They would kill them and eat them, and then sit around and hope that the Government would give them another. They have got to have a lot of instruction before they will look out for the future."

"Well," said Jack, "you can't blame them. In the past when they wanted food they went out and killed something, and they can't be expected to understand that things are changing."

"No," said Hugh, "I don't expect it of them, but if they don't come to understand it very soon they will have to suffer again just what they suffered two years ago."

"Well," said Jack, "it's mighty hard lines; it's heartbreaking to think of."

"So it is," said Hugh. "I feel mighty badly whenever I think of it, but I reckon it's the law. I expect the white people had to go through an awful lot of suffering before they got to the point where 'most every man realized that he had to work hard for a living, and I reckon if you look around back where you live you'll find that there are a good many people in those big cities there that don't realize this yet."

"Yes," said Jack, "I suppose there are, but these Indians are so kindly and generous and hospitable that I feel a personal sympathy for each one of them that, of course, I don't feel for the inefficient people back East."

"Well," said Hugh, "that's natural, of course. You know these people and you don't know the others."

Soon after they got back to the trader's store dinner was ready, and after dinner they lounged about the store talking with Bruce.




Chapter IV

A Medicine Pipe Ceremony


Toward the middle of the afternoon a wagon drove up to the store and Bruce's wife, carrying a baby, came out and got in and said a few words to her husband. He rose and walked toward the wagon and then turned and said, "I'm just going over with the woman to Red Eagle's camp; the baby's been sick and she wants to have him doctor it. He's going to unwrap his medicine pipe. Do you men want to go along? I don't know if Jack has ever seen a medicine pipe unwrapped."

"No," said Hugh, "I reckon he hasn't. What do you say, son? Do you want to go?"

"You bet, Hugh," said Jack. "I'd be mighty glad to go. We won't be in the way, will we, Mr. Bruce?"

"No," said Bruce, "not a bit. Come along."

It was not a long drive over to Two Medicine Lodge Creek. Red Eagle was camped not far from the old piskun, where in old times the Blackfeet used to drive the buffalo over the cliff, where the fall from the great height killed or crippled many of the herd and gave the people food. As the wagon drove up to Red Eagle's lodge, it was surrounded by a pack of dogs which, with furious barkings and snappings, threatened the visitors, but when no attention was paid to them they quieted down at once, and stood about with welcoming waggings of their tails. Mrs. Bruce climbed out of the wagon and carrying her baby, some food and tobacco and a large sack of dried sarvis berries, entered the old man's lodge, while the men drove the wagon off a little distance, unhitched the horses and tied them to the wagon wheels. Returning to the lodge, Bruce looked in and said, "The old man hasn't begun to get ready yet. We may as well stop outside until he is ready to begin."

"Let's go up to the cliff, son," said Hugh, "and see where the people used to kill buffalo."

The three walked over to the almost vertical bluffs which rose sixty or eighty feet above the valley. Here the ground was strewn with weathered bones of which the soil itself seemed partly composed, for it was filled with minute fragments of the bones and teeth of buffalo.

"Now, son," said Hugh, "this is a sacred place to the Indians. They used to make medicine here and perform ceremonies to bring the buffalo up on the prairie near here, so that they could lead them over the cliff. You see that pile of horns over there?" and he pointed to a great heap of horn sheaths of the buffalo, as big as a hay-cock. There must have been more than a thousand horn sheaths in it.

Jack looked at it in astonishment, for it was something the like of which he had never seen.

"Although they have not used this place now for many years, the Indians still try to keep up that pile of horns, and whenever it is blown down or knocked over by the horses they heap it up again. In old times there were arranged in certain places on the ground a lot of horns all directed the same way, that is, with the points of the horns pointing the way they wanted the buffalo to run. Some of the horns were those of bulls and some of cows. That meant that they wanted bulls as well as cows to fall over the cliff. They used to lead the buffalo up to the cliff, and fix things so that they would be running fast when they got to the edge of the cliff. The leaders might perhaps try to stop, but they could not stop because those behind pushed them along and shoved them over. Those that were behind could not see what was in front of the leaders and kept running until they got to the edge of the cliff and then they went over. The fall killed some of the buffalo and crippled others. Besides that, there was a big pen built about the place where the buffalo fell down; a fence made of stones and logs and brush, and women and children and men were hidden all about it. As soon as the buffalo came tumbling down, these people showed themselves all around the fence, frightening the buffalo, so that those that were still able to travel, instead of trying to run on, simply ran around in a circle inside the fence. Then the men killed them with arrows, and after all were dead the women went into the pen and skinned the buffalo and took away the meat, and then the skulls and most of the big bones were carried off to a distance and the pen cleaned up for the next drive."

"Well," said Jack, "I've heard about this jumping the buffalo over the cut bank and catching them in pens, but I never supposed that I would see the place where it had been done."

"Well," said Mr. Bruce, "this is sure one of the places and you don't need anybody to tell you so, because you can look around and see the bones of the buffalo all about you."

"Yes," said Jack, "that's so; the place speaks for itself."

"There are lots of old-time things hidden in this ground that we are standing on," said Bruce; "old arrow points and knives and fleshers, and maybe other tools. Once in a while some of these things are found, but most of them are covered up by the wash that comes down from the cliff. Old Black Coming In Sight Over The Hill, who lives right above here, has found lots of arrow points. A couple of years ago he showed me a double handful that he had picked up, and also a bone flesher made from the cannon bone of a buffalo. There are a good many other places like this. One of them is up on Sun River, and from that Louis Pambrun got a knife made of that black rock that looks like glass, and a stone ax and a lot of stone flesher points and, oh, a whole mess of stuff."

"My," said Jack, "wouldn't I like to see some of those things that have come from one of these places. It surely seems as if it would make the whole business of killing buffalo in the old-time fashion mighty real to one."

"Well," said Bruce, "we'll try and look around and see if we can't get hold of something of that kind for you before you go."

After a little more examination of the bluffs, the three returned to Red Eagle's lodge. The preparations for the ceremony were not yet completed and all sat down near the lodge, and while the two elder men smoked, Jack looked about him and tried to make friends with the little children who were racing about playing their games. One little fellow only about two years of age quite won Jack's heart by his friendly smile and evident lack of fear. His clothing consisted of several strings of beads, a buckskin string about his neck, to which was attached a stone charm, and a very short shirt which came down to his lower ribs. He had been playing in the stream or in some half-dried puddle, and the lower part of his person was covered by a thick coating of mud. The little fellow marched up to Jack in a confident way, shook hands with him in a matter-of-fact fashion and clambered up on his knee, and after looking at Jack's clothing and buttons and listening to the ticking of his watch, sat perfectly still watching the doings of his fellows. The children were amusing themselves by making miserable the lives of the dogs. When they found a dog sleeping somewhere or playing near them, they would creep up to it and beat it with long twigs and pieces of wood until the dog ran away into the brush with melancholy howlings, which seemed to delight the young Indians.

At length a woman's voice called from the lodge, and Bruce and Hugh rose and passed in, Jack following. A number of Indians were seated around the fire, but Red Eagle, the principal personage, sat at the back of the lodge with the fire between himself and the door. At his left was an unoccupied space, to which the three newcomers were motioned. To the left of the doorway, in the women's place, sat several women, some of whom had babies either on their backs or between their knees. To the right of Red Eagle was his wife and assistant, the Bear Woman.

Red Eagle was a large, fine-looking man of majestic presence. His massive face, kindly and benignant in expression, was framed in long gray hair which hung down over his broad shoulders. He was one of the oldest men in the tribe, and was blind.

After Hugh and the others had seated themselves, there was a little pause, and then the Bear Woman took up a dried willow branch, which had two parallel twigs close together, serving for a pair of tongs, and lifted from the fire a live coal, which she placed on the ground before the Bear Man, who then began to sing a low, monotonous chant in a minor key, in which all the other Indians soon joined. While singing, the old man interrupted himself at intervals to exclaim ni-ai, (my shelter or covering), the other Indians keeping up the singing. After a few moments he reached his hand under the robe on which he was sitting and drew out a small pouch, which he passed to the Bear Woman. She slowly untied it and took from it a pinch of the dried needles of the sweet pine, which she held over the coal. Then the Bear Man sang four times, and as the music rose and fell the Bear Woman's hand rose and fell over the coal. At the end of the fourth song Red Eagle stretched out his hand and made a downward gesture, and the Bear Woman let fall the incense on the coal, and immediately the fragrant perfume of the burning pine needles filled the lodge. The singing continued a little longer and then stopped. Then both Red Eagle and his assistant stretched out their hands over the smoke of the burning sweet pine, rubbed them together, and then, seeming to grasp some of the smoke in their hands, rubbed it over their heads and forearms, and reaching out and grasping more of it, passed it over their heads, shoulders, and upper arms. They also seemed to take handfuls of the smoke and eat it or breathe it in, the idea being that they were purifying themselves without and within. Then presently the Bear Man turned his face toward the sun and began to pray. Some portion of what he said Jack could understand, but afterward he asked Bruce to interpret the prayer, and this is what it was:

"Hear Above People, hear Thunder, those Animals [meaning his secret helpers or medicine animals], hear. Pity us, pity us. Let us live, let us live. Give us full life. Let us grow to be old. Listen. Crow Arrow, let him live. In his wandering about let no danger befall him from bad beasts or dangers that are on the trail. Let his wife and his boy, this child with the shining hair, live to be very old and let them have plenty of everything. Let White Bull live, keep him when he is traveling, protect him from all dangers, from perils from animals, and from all dangers on the trail. Let his relations live and have abundance, and White Warrior, let him live, care for him and keep him safe from dangers, wherever he may be. All people let live. O Creator, have pity on the people so that they may live well, free from danger!"

Then he turned his face and appeared to address the bundle hung on the lodge poles behind him containing the pipe: "Oh, tell them to have pity on us. Let the young people grow, increase their flesh. Let all men, women, and children have full life. Harden the bodies of old people so that they may reach great age."

The prayer ended and all the people gave a long-drawn ah-h-h-h, meaning yes, about the equivalent of our amen.

Jack sat spellbound as he watched the old man while he prayed. Here, indeed, was a priest who really wished for what he was asking. Here was one who threw himself on the mercy of his God and would not let Him go. He implored, he urged, he insisted, and would not be denied, and as Jack saw the great beads of sweat stand out on the old man's brow his memory went back to one of his Sunday-school lessons of long ago, and he thought of a struggle told of in the Bible, when at the ford Jabbock, another patriarch, wrestled through the long night with his God and prevailed.

But Jack had little time to think about this, for now the singing was resumed; Red Eagle starting it as before, the others after a little time joining in the plaintive refrain. Again the Bear Woman sprinkled sweet pine on the coal, and again the priest and priestess purified themselves by passing the smoke over their arms, heads, and bodies. Then they seemed again to take handfuls of it and to hold the smoke under the large package tied to the lodge poles above them. Presently, as the singing continued, the Bear Woman rose to her knees and very slowly and reverently untied the package from the poles and placed it on the robe between the Bear Man and herself.

Now Red Eagle began a new song, and after he and the woman had again passed their hands through the smoke, they moved them over the bundle, raising them alternately in time to the music. At first the hands were closed, except the forefinger, which pointed straight out, and the up-and-down motions were quick and sharp, representing the dainty rise and fall of the feet of the antelope as it walks. Then, at a change in the air, the fingers were all bent, but the hand not closed, and the up-and-down motions became deliberate and heavy, representing the slow tread of a walking bear. At another change the old man raised his hands, partly closed, the forefinger extended, pointing upward and slightly bent inward, to the side of his head, and moving his face this way and that, as if looking about him, called out in a shrill voice, Hoo. The hand sign meant buffalo and the motion of the head signified looking or watching. This sign, as Bruce afterward explained to Jack, was related to the word ni-ai, so often used in the songs, meaning my shelter, my covering, my robe; for the shelter, covering, or robe of these Indians is made from the buffalo.

Again the air of the song changed, and the priest and his wife holding their hands palm downward, all the fingers extended forward, moved them up and down, making the sign for walking, which represented going to war, and the sign for danger or watchfulness, the forefingers pointed straight up and held at the side of the head, like a pricked ear, with a startled expression of countenance and a watchful look.

After this song was ended, Red Eagle began slowly and carefully to remove the wrappings from the package at his side, but he still sang, though the air was again changed to a slower, more monotonous chant. After the strings had been untied from the double-mouthed red cloth sack which formed the outer covering of the package, he drew from it a long bundle, wrapped in cloths of various colors. One by one he took off these cloths, until, after many had been removed, the medicine pipe was revealed. It was a handsome pipe stem about four feet long, wrapped for a part of its length with large showy beads and profusely ornamented with ermine skins and tails and with the feathers of eagles and other birds, which hung from it in thick bunches. Near the lower or pipe end of the stem was a separate plume made of twelve tail feathers of the war eagle, each having its extremity wrapped with red or yellow horse hair, which hung down in a long tuft. The whole stem was handsome and heavy.

After the covering had been removed, the old man bent for a moment in silence over the pipe, and then raised it slowly and tenderly to his face, making a soft, cooing, caressing sound. He pressed it to his lips and whispered to it, while he raised his sightless eyes toward the sun, as if he could look through their veil and through the lodge covering and see some being invisible to others. After a few moments' silence he again spoke to the pipe in a low voice, and passed it over his arms, shoulders, and both sides of his head. Then he began the song again, shaking the pipe in time to the music. When he had finished he again prayed, and said, "O Sun, O Moon and Stars, pity us, pity us. Look down." Then followed again the substance of the first prayer, and he ended with the petition for men who were now away on the warpath, saying, "Little Plume, let him survive. Tearing Lodge and Double Rider, let them survive and return, bringing the heads." Then turning, he passed the pipe to Hugh, who held it before his face and bent his head. Then it went to Jack, who imitated Hugh. Then Bruce took it and made a prayer, and from him it passed to an old blind warrior, who prayed long and fervently, and so it went around the circle, each one who received it making a prayer. Jack listened hard to try to hear what the different people said, but they spoke in low tones, and only now and then could he catch a word: K[)i]m'-o-k[)i]t (have pity); n[=a]'pi (old man), or na-t[=o]s' (sun). When the pipe went back around the circle to the other side of the lodge, where were the women and their little babies, the women prayed as they took it and then passed the pipe stem over the bodies and heads of their little ones, believing that the sacred influence would benefit the children.

Meanwhile, Red Eagle had taken up a medicine rattle and again began to sing, shaking the rattle in time to the music. When at length the pipe returned to him he put down his rattle, took the stem and repeated rapidly a number of times the words, "Pity us, pity us, pity us." Then, putting the stem on the robe between himself and his wife, he rose, began a new song and began to dance, first to the east, and then turning about toward the west. The people sitting in the lodge accompanied him in a melodious but plaintive minor chant. Presently he stopped dancing, faced about, and, sitting down, prayed again, concluding with these words, "Let the Sun shine upon us and our lives be without shadows." Then he made a sign that the ceremony was over, and all rose and filed out of the lodge.

Jack was mightily impressed by the ceremony that he had just witnessed, yet, though he was anxious to ask many questions, he hardly felt like doing so of Bruce, especially in the presence of his wife, whose faith in the religion of which the old man was the priest he supposed to be strong. It was not until after they had got back to the Agency, therefore, that he said very much about it.

Before supper, however, he had an opportunity to speak to Hugh, and to ask him some questions about the religion of these Indians.

"That is one of the most solemn things I ever saw, Hugh," he said, "and I want to ask some questions about it. I don't know if I ever told you how I felt that time when Last Bull gave me my name and prayed over me. Of course that was two or three years ago, and I was a good deal younger then than I am now; but I never before had had anything make me feel as solemn as that prayer did, and that's just the way I felt to-day when Red Eagle was praying. It seems to me that when these Indians pray, they pray as if they meant what they were saying. They seem to be in earnest about it. Now, when I hear a white man praying, -- that is, most white men, I don't mean to say it's the same with all, -- they don't seem to be in earnest; they seem to be going through a sort of form. Did you notice how the sweat stood out on that old man's face when he was making his prayer; how solemn he was, and how he acted just as if he were begging somebody for something?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "I noticed that, and it's so that when these Indians pray they are surely in earnest. They are not getting off something that they've learned by heart and just saying it because they have to; they mean all that they say and they are really asking favors. People say that they're nothing but poor savages and that they're pagans, and all that, but I tell you when they're talking to their God they could give points to a whole lot of white folks."

"Well," said Jack, "I've seen some Indians pray, and I've been present at some ceremonies, like the medicine lodge and like opening the beaver bundle, but I never saw anything that seemed to me as real as this that we've seen to-day."

"Well," said Hugh, "I am right glad we went, and I'm glad that you saw it. These Indians and all the other Indians that I know anything about are changing mighty fast. They're losing their old ways and picking up new ones that are not half so good. They're changing all the time, and before you are many years older you won't be able to see any of these old-time ways. There are three or four railroads now running across through the country that used to belong all to the Indians, and now that the buffalo are about gone they've got to come on to their reservations and learn to work to earn a living, and just as soon as they do that you'll see all the old customs go, and when they once go they'll very soon be forgotten."

"But what a pity it is, Hugh," said Jack, "that they've got to change! Why can't they be left out here to live their life in the old way?"

"Why, son," said Hugh, "you are talking now without thinking, talking just as I have felt a great many times; but you know and I know from what we've both seen that before very long these people are all going to be crowded out of the most of this country by the white folks. Don't you remember a couple of years ago when we came back from the coast, how the little towns were springing up all along the new railroad that they were building, and now that the railroad has been finished, all along it, east and west, there are growing up settlements of people that will soon be towns. The white people are coming in crowds, and as soon as they've taken all the best locations along the railroad they'll begin to spread out and take up other locations, and I believe that I'll live long enough to see this Montana Territory full of people. It'll be here just as I've seen it happen in the South. First the cattle will come into the country, lots of them, and for a while it will be all cows and cowboys; and then, little by little, the ranchers will come in, and they'll settle first on one creek bottom and then on another, and then maybe mines will be found in the mountains, and new railroads will be built, and at last there won't be room in the country for anybody but white folks that are working hard to make money out of the prairie and the river bottoms, and even out of the mountains. A few years ago I wouldn't have believed it, but I have seen it happen now in lots of different parts of the country, and I reckon it will happen here, just as it has in so many other places."

"Well, Hugh," said Jack, "I suppose that's so. I remember, as you say, the way the settlements were springing up along the new railroad when we came back from British Columbia, and this time, coming out, I could see the little towns starting all along the Northern Pacific, back in Minnesota and west of there, but it does seem awfully rough that these Indians should all be driven from their own land and should have to be penned up on a little reservation. And I don't see what in the world they're going to do to live unless the Government feeds them."

"Well," said Hugh, "I don't either. I suppose maybe some time they'll have to turn into cattlemen. I always had an idea they'd make good cow hands, if they could be taught to look after cattle. Certainly the Indians used to take awful good care of their ponies, and if they could be taught to take good care of cows, they could make a good living just as long as they've got the range that most any reservation will furnish. You know the Navahoes down South and some others of those Southern Indians have big herds of sheep and take pretty good care of them, but of course sheep and cattle are different things."

That evening in the store Hugh asked Bruce what he thought of the probability of the Indians taking to cattle-raising.

"Why," said Bruce, "they could make good cowmen if they'd look after the stock. This is one of the greatest cattle ranges in the whole country, and the few cattle that I own have done mighty well. I have had two Indians, my brothers-in-law, looking after the stock, and they are getting to understand how to handle cattle well. But the trouble is that the average Indian hasn't much feeling of responsibility, and instead of spending the day on his horse looking after the cattle, he's likely to get off and lie down in the sun and sleep for half a day and let the stock get away from him. They haven't yet got any idea of the importance of staying with a job. They'll work hard until they get tired of it, and then they'll stop, and you can't start them up again. You see, they've never been used to working steadily. They'd work as long as they felt like it, and then stop. That's what they've got to learn before they can accomplish anything toward making a living. They've got to learn the lesson of steady, continued effort, and it's going to be mighty hard to teach them that."

Late in the evening Hugh said to Jack, "Well, son, we've seen about all we need to around here, haven't we? What do you say to our starting out to the mountains to make our trip?"

"Why," said Jack, "I'm ready, and I don't see why we can't go off right away."

"Well," said Hugh, "the sooner we get off the better it will suit me, and if you feel like it, we'll get hold of Joe to-morrow and pack up our stuff and start. I reckon we can have a good time up at the lakes hunting around there. You see, nobody's ever been up to the heads of any of those rivers, and I'd like to go up there and see what there is, and I reckon you would, too."

"Sure, I would," said Jack.

"All right," said Hugh, "let's get hold of Joe to-morrow, and maybe we'll start the next day. I don't think there's anything to keep us here."




Chapter V

Off For The Mountains


When Joe appeared early the next morning he was at once sent off to get the horses. Jack went with him, and an hour or two later the wagon, two saddle horses, and three loose animals were standing in front of the trading store. Beds, provisions, pack saddles, and a tent were soon loaded into the wagon, and before very long the party pulled out across Badger Creek, above the stockade, and climbed the hills toward the north. Hugh and Joe rode in the wagon, while Jack drove the loose horses ahead of it. For some distance there was a road which was partly wagon road and partly old travois trail, but gradually the track became more and more dim, and soon Jack found himself riding over the unmarked prairie. Before this, however, they crossed Two Medicine Lodge River, just below Old Red Eagle's camp, and climbed the high hill on the other side and saw before them the wide, undulating prairie and pinnacled mountains to the northwest. After reaching substantially level ground Jack pulled up, and when the wagon overtook him asked Joe, "Which way do we go from here on, Joe?"

"Well," said Joe, "keep pretty well off to your left, riding pretty nearly straight for that pointed mountain that you see over there, the one away to the left of Chief Mountain."

"Oh," asked Jack, "is that Chief Mountain that we see sticking up there like a finger off to the north?"

"Yes," said Joe, "that's it, the last mountain to the right. But you want to keep off to the left, and in three or four hours you'll come to a big wide valley with a good-sized river running through it. I reckon we'd better camp there, hadn't we, White Bull?" he asked, turning to Hugh.

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's a good place. We can't get on as far as Milk River to-night; in fact, we'll do well if we get up to the head of it to-morrow."

"All right," said Jack, "I'll go on. I don't believe you will be far behind me, anyhow."

"No," said Joe, "we'll be pretty close to you. There's a big flat in the valley we're going to and some timber at the upper end, and we'll camp there. Maybe you'll see some of the people there, too. Cross Guns often camps up at the head of that flat."

For several hours Jack trotted briskly along over the prairie, keeping the horses well together ahead of him. They drove very nicely and gave him little trouble. He was surprised and pleased to find how easy riding seemed, for it was nearly a year since he had been on a horse. It was pleasant under the bright warm sun, with the fragrance of the sage brush in his nostrils, the green swells of the prairie on either side, the beautiful flowers showing everywhere, and the air full of the sweet songs of prairie birds.

As he rode over a hill about the middle of the afternoon he saw before him a wide valley, through which ran a considerable stream, with large cottonwoods and low willows marking its course at various points, and turning a little more to the left he pushed the horses down the hills, and at length came out on a wide grassy bottom. Still to the left there was a grove of tall cottonwood trees, among which shone two or three white lodges, and he rode up toward them, slackening his pace as he did so. The horses that he was driving at once began to feed, and looking back he saw the wagon coming into sight on the crest of the bluffs that he had just left. Leaving the horses to feed, he galloped to the timber where the lodges stood, and rode up to one of them.

At the fierce barkings of the dogs, a woman put her head out of a door, and when she saw Jack, put her hand quickly over her mouth in surprise, and then spoke to someone in the lodge, and a moment later Cross Guns came through the door, and walking up to Jack shook hands with him very cordially. By means of signs and broken Piegan the two held a short conversation, and then, as Cross Guns saw the wagon approaching, he signed to Jack to go and tell his friends to come up and camp here, and Jack, riding off, delivered the message to Hugh and Joe, and then brought the loose horses close to the lodge. Meanwhile Cross Guns had had one of his lodges cleared and a fire built in it, so that the three men at once moved into a house, and thus were spared the labor of putting up their tent. It was a fine, new buffalo skin lodge; perhaps the lightest, warmest, and most comfortable portable shelter ever devised by any people.

After the horses had been turned out and put in charge of Cross Guns' young nephew, who took them off and turned them out with Cross Guns' herd, the wife of their host came in and cooked supper for them, while the others lounged comfortably about on the beds with their feet toward the fire and talked.

"Who is Cross Guns, Hugh?" whispered Jack. "I know his face perfectly well, but I don't remember where I've seen him, nor who his relations are."

"Why," said Hugh, "don't you know? He's one of the sons of Old White Calf and a brother of Wolf Tail. Old White Calf is the chief now, and a good old man, always thinking about what he can do for his people."

"Of course," said Jack, "I know White Calf perfectly well, and I know what a good man he is, but I had forgotten that Cross Guns is his son."

"And this woman here," said Hugh, "do you know who she is?"

"No," said Jack, "I don't. I've seen her before, too, and she's a mighty pleasant-faced woman, but I don't know her."

"Well," said Hugh, "you wouldn't think it to look at her, but she's a granddaughter of one of the chief factors of the Hudson's Bay Company about a hundred years ago. Old James Bull came over here, I reckon, about 1775, and after working for the Hudson's Bay Company for a while he became one of the chief factors. He married a Piegan woman, and his son, Jim Bull, is living here yet. I reckon he must be about ninety years old. This woman is a daughter of Jim Bull. I reckon you never saw him. He's a queer old chap, mighty religious nowadays, but they tell great stories about him in old times, about how wild he was. They say he used to go off on the warpath with the Blackfeet and fight the white traders, run off their horses, and of course kill the men when he could. Of course I don't know whether these stories are true or not, but one of them is that one time he met a party of traders and trappers and the Blackfeet attacked them and were driven off. The fur traders were on one side of the river and the Blackfeet on the other, and after the fight was over Jim Bull, they say, came to the edge of the stream and called across to the fur traders, saying that he was a white man and wanted to make peace. He wanted to know if one of them wouldn't cross over and talk it over with him. There was some talk among the white men as to whether it would be safe to do this, but finally one of them said he'd go over, and did so. The trader went over, and he and Bull sat down and smoked and talked about making peace and what a pity it was to fight and all that sort of thing, and then presently, while they were sitting there smoking, Jim Bull pulled out a pistol and killed the white man and scalped him and gave the war-cry and went off.

"Another time, according to the story, he went into camp dressed up like a Canadian engage, that is, with a blanket coat, and so on, and told the man that was on guard over the horses that he was ordered to turn them out to feed. They were let go and scattered about feeding, and presently a party of Blackfeet that were hidden near by rounded them up and took them all off, and Bull went with them. He got to be so mean after a while that they say that one of the head men of one of these trapping outfits offered five hundred dollars for Bull's head. Of course, he's an old man now, and he gave up all these boy's tricks a good many years ago. As I say, now he's mighty religious. He had a Piegan woman and quite a number of children here in the country; pretty smart, too, all of them are."

After supper was over Hugh said to Jack, "Now, son, there are quite a lot of trout in the creek there, and if you want to help out our breakfast you might go out and try to catch some."

"A good idea, Hugh; I'll do it," and Jack jointed his rod and spent an hour or two fishing. The trout did not seem to care much for his flies, and at last he substituted for them a plain hook, which he baited with a grasshopper. With grasshoppers for bait, he caught about a dozen fish, none of them large, but enough to provide a breakfast for the party.

It was about sunset when he returned, and when Hugh saw his catch he said, "That's good; those little trout are going to taste mighty well to-morrow morning, but give them to me and I'll go out and dress them now. You know these Indians won't eat fish nor anything that lives in the water, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if Cross Guns' wife should refuse to cook them. We may have to fry them ourselves to-morrow morning."

It was full daylight before camp was astir, and the sun was sending long level beams from the eastern sky when Jack went out of the lodge and down to the stream to wash. When he returned Hugh was frying the fish, having thought that he had better get that done rather than to take the chance of Cross Guns' wife refusing to do it. A little later the horses were brought in, and, soon after, bidding their host and hostess good-by, they started on toward the mountains.

As Jack drove his horse across the different channels of the river, which here cut the bottom up into a number of small, gravelly islands, he started a mother hooded merganser and her brood of tiny young from one of the banks, and was interested to see the speed with which they swam and dived to get out of reach. The trees and the prairie were alive with birds, and in a tall cottonwood he saw a great hawk's nest, near which one of the parent birds was perched. As he rode up out of the bottom on to the higher prairie, he began to see the wall of mountains on the left, now much nearer than it had seemed when he had started the day before.

During that day's ride no large animals had been seen. Scattered over the prairie at frequent intervals were the white bones of buffalo killed long ago, but no quadruped larger than a prairie dog or a cotton-tail showed itself.

Through the day, as he rode along, the country became more and more broken; the small streams which he crossed flowed at the bottom of deep valleys walled in by high, steep bluffs, and the pines and spruces of the mountains seemed to be coming closer and closer to him. At length, after descending the long hill, he found himself in the bottom of a rather large stream, and remembering Joe's directions, turned to the left and followed it up toward the mountains. At length it forked, and at first he could not determine which branch of the stream to take, so he stopped, got off his horse, and waited for the wagon to come up.

Presently he saw it coming down the hill, driving toward him. Just before it reached him he saw, a mile or two above him on the river, several large animals hurrying down the bluff. The distance was so great that he could not tell what they were, but thought they acted like horses. After the wagon had come up and he had learned which way they were going, he mounted to go on, and just as he did so a bunch of about twenty horses, herded by two men, burst out of the brush a mile ahead of the wagon, dashed across the wide bottom and up the bluffs on the north side of the valley.

"What do you make of that, Hugh?" asked Jack.

"Well, I don't know, son," said Hugh. "It looks as if there were a couple of men there that wanted to get away and not be seen. What do you think, Joe? Are any of the people camped up in this direction?"

"I guess not," said Joe. "I think maybe those men have been stealing horses and don't want anybody to see them."

"That's the way it looks to me," said Hugh. "But where have the horses been taken from? We don't know and I reckon it's no business of ours, and we'd better go right along."

"I guess they saw us coming a long way off, Hugh," said Jack. "Only a little while ago I saw some of those horses come down the bluffs, away above where they came out of the bottom just now. The men must have seen me coming and begun to gather up their horses and then start them on to get out of the way."

"Well," said Hugh, "it's no business of ours. We'd better keep on and attend to our own affairs. Of course, if we knew who these horses had been taken from it would be different; but it isn't like it was with us that year when we came down through the Park and had to go and steal those horses from Black Jack Dowling."

Joe shook his head solemnly and said, "I don't want no more of that sort of thing," while Jack said, "That was sure a ticklish time. I'll never forget how I felt that night when we were driving those horses off."

"Very well," said Hugh, "let's go on to where those fellows came out of the brush, and see whether there's any sign there that will tell us who they are."

When they reached the trail made by the horses in crossing Jack rode up to the edge of the brush and said, "Why, I believe these people have been here some time. There's a plain trail leading into these willows."

"Hold on a minute, son," said Hugh, and he jumped down from the wagon and went over to Jack, and the two followed the trail on foot into the brush. Evidently the people had been there for some time, for the grass and weeds were worn down where they had passed to and from the stream to a little camp concealed in the thick willows. Here was a place where a fire had been built, and a little shelter of willow stems, built something like a sweat-house, in which the men had evidently slept. A little inspection of the tiny camping ground showed that the men had had no bread or coffee, for there were no coffee grounds lying about, nor was there any place on the ground where a coffee pot had stood, and no crusts or crumbs of bread. It seemed that they had been cooking their dinner when Hugh and his party had come in sight, and this was part of some small black animal, probably a dog. Bits of the hide with the hair singed off were found about the fire, and on one piece were the stumps of the ears, the tips having been burned off. In all respects, the campers seemed to have been poorly provided; but they were white men; the tracks of the shoes told that.

"Well," said Hugh, "I don't know who these men are, nor what they've been doing, but it looks to me as if they had been hiding here with a bunch of horses, maybe animals that they have stolen over in Canada. Anyhow, they haven't taken any horses of ours, and we may as well go on."

When they reported at the wagon, Joe could throw no light on the occurrence, and, giving up the riddle, they kept on up the valley. A few miles further on they turned off to the right, over some low ridges, into another valley overgrown with willows, which came directly from the mountains. Here Jack, as he drove the horses ahead of the wagon, started several sharp-tailed grouse, and at one crossing of a little stream saw a few elk tracks, but no four-footed game. Only once, toward the end of the afternoon, did he see anything larger than a bird or a ground squirrel; then a great gray wolf got up from a hill where he had been lying, five or six hundred yards away, and trotted slowly off out of sight.

They followed the valley toward the mountains until late in the afternoon, when they came to a broad, heavy trail, made, Hugh said, by the carts of the Red River halfbreeds in their journeyings north and south along the mountains. It was a rough road for a wagon and required careful driving, but they made fairly good progress.

Shortly after they had left Milk River it had grown cloudy, and now the wind blew and a storm threatened. Hugh called to Jack, who was not far ahead of the wagon, telling him to look out for a place to camp and to stop at the first one he found. A little later, a small stream appeared on the trail, and on the other side of it was a little meadow, where there would be grass for the horses.

The trail went down to the creek and plunged over a three-foot bank, and Jack held up his hand to stop the wagon, which was following close behind him. It took a little riding up and down the stream to find a place where the wagon could cross, but at length they got over and made camp. Before the horses were turned out, however, a cold rainstorm began, and by the time the tent was up and the fire started all hands were wet and uncomfortable, but the warmth of the fire soon made them feel better. After supper they sat about in the tent, chatting over the events of the day and the probabilities of the morrow. The rain still fell, though the wind had ceased, and they were warm and comfortable.

Before daylight the next morning Jack was roused by a rasping sound made by something scratching against the canvas of the tent. He raised himself on his elbow, but of course could see nothing, and was about to lie down again when Hugh spoke and said, "It's snow on the tent," and a moment later the sound was repeated, and then Jack saw that it was made by wet snow sliding down the steep roof above them. When day came he looked out of the tent door and saw that the ground was white with snow, but that it was not cold, and the rapidly falling flakes melted as they touched his clothing. Joe had gone out to look for the horses, which could be easily tracked, and presently came back driving the bunch, which he had found close at hand. They were caught and tied to the wagon, so that as soon as the storm should cease a start might be made.

Not long after breakfast it stopped snowing, and camp was quickly broken and the party moved on. After a little rough traveling, up high hills and down into deep valleys and across narrow streams, they came upon a long slope dotted here and there with young pines, and a couple of hours' drive brought them to the top of a ridge from which they looked down into the valley of the St. Mary's Lakes.

The scene was beautiful. The sky had not yet cleared and a heavy fog hung about the ridge, so that they could see only a short distance on either side; but in the valley below there was little mist, so that the lower end of the upper lake and the whole lower lake were visible. Rounded hills covered with pale green quaking aspens rose sharply from the water, and here and there a little open park where the green grass of summer showed against the silver poplars or the black pines. The mist clouds were moving and changing constantly, and the travelers could not see the mountain tops, but once, a long way up the upper lake, Jack saw, or thought he saw, the stern black faces of tremendous cliffs rising from the very edge of the water. Now and then a soft fold of mist dropped from the overhanging clouds and floated from the upper, across the lower, lake, now hiding and again revealing the beauty of the scene.

"Isn't that a wonderful scene, Hugh?" asked Jack. "This is the first time I've ever seen the upper lake, and I had no idea how beautiful it was. All I've seen before is the lower end of the lower lake and the river. There's so much more of it than I thought there was."

"Yes," said Hugh, "it's surely a pretty sight, but on a clear day it's prettier than it is now."

"Yes," said Jack, "I suppose so; but just think of the mystery of this fog. It might hide all sorts of things. Nobody can tell what there is beyond it."

For a little while they sat there, looking at the view, and then came the question of getting down the steep hills to the shores of the lake.

"How are we going to get down, Joe?" asked Hugh. "If we start down here I'm afraid this wagon will get away from us, and nobody knows where it will go to. Can't we get around to the road that goes down to the foot of the lake?"

"No," said Joe, "it's an awful long way down there; bad road, too; lots of gulches to cross, and maybe break a tongue, maybe break an axle."

"Well," said Hugh, "I don't like this a little bit, but if there's no other way, why, we'll have to try it. Luckily there's no load in the wagon, and maybe if we rough-lock the wheels and go mighty slowly we can make it; but if that wagon ever gets started with those horses ahead of it, it will sure kill the horses and smash the wagon."

Getting out their ropes and a chain that there was in the wagon, they made preparations for locking the wheels.

"But, look here," said Hugh; "locking wheels isn't going to do us much good. Don't you see that if we lock the wheels we're just turning each pair into a pair of runners, and on this snow the wagon will go faster that way than it would if the wheels were free."

Hugh got out the ax, however, and cutting a green quaking aspen stick lashed it to the wagon so that it dragged on the ground just in front of the hind wheels, and was held down by them. Then with Joe on foot, driving on the upper side of the wagon, and Hugh and Jack on foot with rope tied to the tail of the wagon, they slowly started down the hill. It was ticklish business. The slope was hard, grass-covered gravel, and on this were two or three inches of snow. Sometimes the drag held and sometimes it slid. Hugh and Jack tried hard to keep the tail of the wagon from swinging around and starting down hill backward. Gradually they worked their way down the hill, and presently, just as they were getting near a level piece of ground which promised easier going, the wagon began to slide, and for a little it looked as if it would get away from them. Joe was ready, however, and in response to Hugh's shout, guided his horses into a thicket of young aspens, where the wagon stopped, and by cutting a road through these they worked down the slope until they found better traveling and got below the snow. Then Jack climbed back up the hill, got his horses, and followed the wagon.

He found that it had stopped on the shores of a little curving bay near the head of the lake, where there was good feed for the horses and plenty of wood. A little trout brook coming down from the hills tinkled pleasantly at one end of the meadow and was shaded by half a dozen ancient cottonwood trees. Joe and Hugh were putting up the tent as he reached the camp, and as soon as he had unsaddled he helped them.

Though the sky was still overcast, the air at the level of the lake was clear, and one could see a long way. Jack looked out over the lake, now absolutely without a ripple, and saw a few ducks swimming about.

After supper, as there was still a little daylight left, he jointed his rod and began to fish, at first without any success, but casting out into the lake at the point where the brook flowed into it, he got several rises, and hooked a small trout, weighing perhaps a quarter of a pound, which he soon brought to land.

After a while Joe left camp and sauntered out to join Jack. It was the first time that he had seen a trout rod, and when he saw how slender and how limber it was he shook his head and said, "What do you expect to do with that fishing pole?"

"Why," said Jack, "I want to catch some fish, as I did the other morning."

"Did you catch them with that pole?" asked Joe.

"Yes," said Jack, "caught 'em with this, and I hope to catch some more with it."

"My!" said Joe; "what's the use of fishing with a little thing like that? You can't catch any big fish on that. It will break right off. You better let me go back into the willows and cut you a pole that you can catch fish with."

Jack laughed a little as he replied: "Hold on a bit and see. If any fish will rise I can catch them with this rod if I can catch them at all."

Joe said nothing, but waited, and presently Jack got a rise from a good trout, and, fortunately, hooked it. The fish was a strong one and darted hither and thither with splendid rushes, sometimes making the reel scream as it took the line, which Jack slowly recovered whenever he could. At times the little rod bent almost double, and more than once Joe said, "Look out, you're breaking your rod;" but when the fish yielded, the pliant bamboo sprang back and was straight again. At length, tired out, the fish turned on its side and Jack brought it close to the beach and told Joe to go and grasp it by the gills and lift it from the water. Joe did so, and the fish proved to be a splendid great trout that perhaps weighed two pounds. After the fish was saved Joe wanted to look at the rod. He went over it from butt to tip, feeling it between his fingers and muttering to himself in his astonishment that so slight an implement should have caught so big a fish.




Chapter VI

A Sheep Hunt


The sun had hardly risen the next morning before the camp was astir, and while they were breakfasting on the excellent trout which had been caught the night before, the question was discussed as to what they should do now. Immediately across the lake rose a high, castellated pile of rock, with almost vertical sides, which the boys had recognized as the mountain under which Joe had killed a mountain sheep with his arrows some years before. Both boys had spoken of this, and Hugh presently said to them, "Why don't you boys go up there to-day and get a sheep. Fish are good, of course, but we want some fresh meat, and a good fat sheep, if you can find one, will help us out amazingly. We ought to have something to eat now, because these flies here are going to drive us away from the lake and we'll have to get high up into the mountains. It's true we may find game anywhere, but it will be lots better to have some fresh meat in the pack than to go along without it, and then perhaps have storms or bad luck for two or three days and have to live on bacon. The flies don't seem very bad this morning, but it's fly time, and they may tackle us any day and be mighty troublesome to us and to the stock."

"Well," said Jack, "there's nothing I'd like better than to get up on that hill again, and if Joe feels like coming I'd like to start right off."

"I'm ready," said Joe. "Come on."

It took only a short time to bring in the saddle horses, and before long the boys were mounted and riding off over the Indian trail that led toward the inlet.

The inlet is a deep, swift river which flows through a strip of land perhaps two miles long by a mile wide, which separates the lower lake from the upper, and carries the drainage of all the great mountain region about the upper lake. The lower end of this strip of land is wooded with spruces and cottonwoods, but the upper end is a wide meadow covered with heavy grass, where, in old times, buffalo, elk, and deer often fed. The Indian trail which the boys were following was originally a game trail made by the mountain bison and the elk. It wound through the bare, rolling hills, now and then crossing some tiny stream running down from the high land, and at last plunged to the level of the inlet, where a large swift stream spread itself over a graveled bar and twisted in and out among the willows and aspens. After crossing this they reached the flat of the inlet, and presently the trail came out into the open meadow, and a mile further on they rode down into the main inlet stream. This was so deep that both the boys had to tuck their feet up behind the saddles to keep from getting wet, and in one place it looked as if the horses might have to swim. The crossing was a short one, however, and presently they emerged on the other side, and in a very few moments began to climb the hill just opposite the lower end of the lake.

The hills here, though smooth, were steep and for the most part covered with a thick growth of small aspens. Here and there along the dim trail were little open parks, in one or two of which were fresh elk tracks. As the boys climbed higher, the aspens gradually gave way to pines, and then to spruces. The way grew steeper and more difficult, and at last, when they reached the top of a high hogback, above which the bare rocks rose sharply, they left their horses and began the ascent on foot. Here the snow still lay on the ground and made the climb harder, because it was impossible to see on just what one was stepping. It was rough and difficult, and the slope was so steep that sometimes the boys had to scramble along on all fours. At first it was over smooth grass made doubly slippery by the snow which covered it; then came the piled-up rocks, which in past ages had tumbled from the face of the mountains, and here progress, though slow, was easier, because the footing was more secure. It was on this slope that they passed the last few stunted spruces, and when they reached the top, they had left all the trees behind.

Nothing was to be seen save a wide expanse of gray rock and white snow, which ran up to a cliff whose top was hidden by dense mist. All the morning the clouds had been hanging about the mountains, and now the boys were fairly among them. They could see but a short distance in any direction, and the prospects for hunting were very poor.

"What do you think, Joe?" asked Jack. "Shall we sit down and wait for it to clear, or keep on?"

"Well," said Joe, "not much use hunting when it's like this. Any animals about are sure to see you before you see them. I'd stop here and wait a little while and see what happens."

"All right," said Jack, "let's crawl in under this rock and sit there. Our eyes are not much good to us now, but anyhow we can listen and see whether we can hear anything moving around. I guess there are sheep up here all right, and if we can't get them to-day we can to-morrow."

"That's so," said Joe. "There are sure sheep here. This is a great place for them. You know Old Brockey?"

"Yes," said Jack.

"He's always told me that there are always sheep on this mountain in summer. They live around there in that valley where you and I killed one. In winter they live high up on the side toward the lake, but they are always here. The only thing is to find them."

"Yes," said Jack, "we've got to keep looking for them until we do."

The boys sat there for an hour or two, pretty uncomfortable, for both were wet up to the knees. A cool breeze was blowing along the mountainside, and the dense fog, which by this time had settled down over the hills, chilled the boys to the bone; so that after a little while they got up and began to run up and down over the small level space near the boulder which sheltered them, beating their arms against their breasts in the effort to keep warm. Presently, however, and almost without warning, the sky grew lighter, the fog lifted, and they could look out over the mountainside and down on the quiet dark green lakes, and as they looked the sun came out through the clouds, sparkled on the wet foliage below them, and changed the somber lakes into patches of brilliant blue. After a little the sun reached the boys, and it was wonderful to see how their spirits rose and how soon they got warm. At once they started on, gradually working up the rough slope until they had nearly reached the foot of the great wall of rock which overhung it. They made their way slowly around the northern point of the mountain and into the rocky valley which separates it from the next mountain to the northward, but almost as soon as they entered this valley the weather changed again. Black clouds dropped down and a fierce wind began to blow, bringing with it now and then blinding snow squalls. The fog did not descend as low as before, but every now and then a flurry of snow blotted out the whole scene.

Jack and Joe backed up against a huge boulder out of the wind and waited. As they sat there, a curious squeak, almost like that of a little child's penny trumpet, came from the rocks just below them, and both boys recognized it as the bleating cry of the little chief hare. Half a dozen small birds alighted close to the boys, as if seeking shelter from the wind, and with soft whistling twitter walked about on the stones and on the snow, apparently picking up food. They were so close that Jack could see their gray crowns and rosy breasts and backs, and he thought them about the prettiest birds he had ever seen.

"What are they, Joe?" he whispered; but Joe could give him little help. He said, "Snow birds, I guess. Anyway, they only come in cold weather. I reckon they live high up on the mountains."

Presently the little gray-crowned finches disappeared, and only a few minutes afterward they saw a white-tailed ptarmigan walking about among the rocks just below them. Then the sun came out and the wind went down and they started once more on their hunt.

They were following a sheep trail which led along the rocks when suddenly Jack, as his head arose above a rise, saw in a little meadow below him the hips and body of a feeding animal. Instantly he slowly sank out of sight, and Joe imitated him. Jack turned to Joe and made the sign for mountain sheep and pointed in the direction of the animal. Joe signed to him to go ahead, and he crept forward, and when he took another peep he saw a two-year-old ram alone, feeding in the little meadow in the valley below. The distance was a little more than a hundred yards and the shot seemed an easy one. Jack motioned Joe to come beside him and said, "You take the shot, Joe; don't you want to?"

"No," said Joe, "you shoot. I'm out here all the time. I have plenty of chances to kill animals. Now you try that sheep, and see what you can do."

"All right," said Jack, and creeping forward to where a larger piece of rock crowned the knoll, he rose to his knees behind it, and, resting his rifle against the side of it, prepared to shoot. The sheep was still feeding and had his tail toward Jack, but was considerably below the boy's position, so Jack aimed at the animal's back, just in front of the hips, and drawing a fine sight, fired. The ram fell, and the boys scrambled down to it, and found it lying dead. The shot had entered the back just to the right of the backbone and had passed forward and downward through the lungs and heart.

"Good shot," said Joe. "It's pretty hard to shoot down hill that way; 'most always shoot over."

"Yes," said Jack, "that's so; but you see I had two or three chances, because his hips were toward me and that gave me a long surface to fire at. I made up my mind that I'd shoot at the kidneys, and if I didn't hit them I had the chance of cutting his lungs and heart and also of breaking his back."

"Yes," said Joe, "that's so. He gave you good shot."

"Well," said Jack, "we've got to get this beast back to camp, or at least as much of him as we can carry, and I suppose we may as well get at it."

When their knives were out it did not take long to skin the sheep. The head was not worth taking along.

When, however, it came to carrying the animal they found it was much too heavy to be transported in one trip. As a matter of fact, neither of the boys was stout enough to take half the sheep on his back. They were obliged to quarter it.

"Tell you what," said Joe, "we don't know much."

"Well," replied Jack, "I guess that's so; but what do you mean?"

"Why," said Joe, "next time we come out hunting each one of us better take a sack and two or three strings in his pocket, and then if we kill anything we can cut the meat off the bones and put it in the sack, and that saves all the trouble of carrying the bones into camp."

"That's so," said Jack. "What a pity we didn't think of that before. But look here; hold on; why can't we make a sack out of this sheep's hide, cut the meat off the bones and put it in the hide, and then carry the hide between us on a pole all the way to the horses?"

"Well," said Joe, "maybe we could do that. That's a good idea. It's a pretty heavy load to carry that way. It's going to be hard to climb up the hill."

"Well," said Jack, "let's try it anyhow. I don't care much about making two trips from here to the horses if we can avoid it."

Accordingly the hide was spread out on the rocks, flesh side up, and the boys cut away all the meat from the sheep's skeleton. Practically the only bones they took with them were the shoulder blades, everything else being cut out and left there. This meat was carefully piled up on the sheep's hide, and this was folded over and tied with strings cut from the sheep's hide and passed through little holes made in the border of the hide.

"Jack," said Joe, "do you know that this is the way our people used to carry meat into camp, away far back, long before they had horses, and when they had only a few dogs?"

"No," said Jack, "I never heard that before. Tell me how it was."

"Not now," said Joe. "The first thing we've got to do is to see whether we can carry this load to the horses."

Going down a little way into the valley they cut a stout quaking aspen pole, trimmed off the branches and cut it off to about twelve feet in length. Then, returning to the hide, the skin of the shanks was tied about the pole so closely that the load of meat lay immediately under it and had no swing from side to side.

When Jack took his end of the pole and lifted it on his shoulder the load seemed much heavier than he had supposed. However, Joe raised his end, and the two staggered forward, at first with more or less difficulty, but more steadily as they got used to it. Presently they began to climb the steep trail which would take them over the mountain to a point above where the horses were. Every now and then they had to stop and put down their load to rest and puff for a moment or two, until they recovered their wind. After stopping two or three times, they learned to choose a place where the load could be deposited on the top of a high rock, so that it would not be necessary each time to lift it from the ground. It was slow and weary work, but some progress was made, and at last they reached the top of the shoulder, whence the way would all be over level ground or down hill. As they were sitting there, resting and not talking, Joe put out his hand and touched Jack, and pointing down the hill, showed him a marten, resplendent in his glossy brown coat, running along and whisking his black-tipped tail. The animal did not see the boys, and after he had passed out of sight, Joe said, "You bet your life that fellow will find that sheep skeleton before night and he'll have a good time there."

A little later the boys reached the top of the slope, and looking down they could see the horses tied to the trees below. They took their load off the stick, tied the strips of skin of the legs tightly together, and then rolled the bundle over the top of the ledge, watching it as it rolled and bounded down the hill, and finally stopped among the trees only a hundred yards or so from the horses. Then they began to climb down the rocks, and before long had reached their animals.

"Now, Joe," said Jack, "how are we going to carry this meat to camp?"

"I reckon we'd better pack it on my horse and I can walk," said Joe. "It isn't far."

"Well, but how are you going to get across the creek?"

"Oh, I can ride on top of the load for a little short way like that," declared Joe.

"I don't know, though," he went on, "whether these horses will pack fresh meat like this, but we'll have to try."

It was soon evident that the horses would strongly object to the load, and it was not until Joe's horse had been blinded by a coat that the boys could lift the meat across the saddle and lash it with Joe's lariat. After that had been done and the blind removed from the horse's head he showed a good deal of disposition to buck, but at last thought better of it, and when Jack led the way down the trail, Joe's horse followed very quietly.

When streams had to be crossed, Joe clambered on the load of meat, and they reached camp long before sundown without further incident.




Chapter VII

Old-Time Hunting Ways


"Well," said Hugh, when they rode up to the tent, "I'm glad you got some meat. Now, before you even unsaddle, I'm going to send one of you boys up into that cottonwood tree there. Knot a couple of those sling ropes together and let us haul that meat up above the flies if we can. It'll spoil in a day if we leave it down here close to the ground, where the blow flies can get at it."

The wisdom of this advice was recognized at once, and Jack promptly scrambled up into the cottonwood and made his way into the lower branches. Joe threw him the end of a sling rope and Jack climbed well into the tree, and then, passing the rope over a branch, the meat was hauled up and tied thirty or forty feet above the ground, out of reach of the flies and exposed to the breeze which blew almost constantly up or down the lake.

As they sat around the fire that night after supper Jack said, "Hugh, a man who was hunting sheep all the time would get to have mighty good wind, wouldn't he?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's surely so. Good wind, strong legs and a mighty steady head come to anyone who hunts sheep or goats much. You've got to be climbing up or down pretty much all the time. You must look for your game on the high peaks and ridges and along the cliffs. Of course, where sheep are plenty you can follow the sheep trails, but sometimes it's just pretty straight up and down climbing over the rocks and in places where, if a man lost his footing, he would roll a long way. I never minded climbing over the rocks, no matter how steep they were, but sometimes it's wearying work to crawl around over the shale, that yields and slips under your feet, and where for every foot you go up you slip back nine inches; and of course, when the mountains are covered with snow and ice it's harder yet, because you never can be quite sure of your foothold."

"Well," said Jack, "there are some Indians that hunt sheep almost altogether, aren't there?"

"Yes," replied Hugh, "the Sheep Eaters get their name from the fact that they used to make their main living by hunting sheep."

"I've heard of the Sheep Eaters," said Jack, "but I've forgotten who they are and where they lived. Tell me what you know about them, won't you?"

"Well," said Hugh, "they live south of here and their main range used to be somewhere near that country that we went through two or three years ago, where those hot springs and spouting geysers are. Sheep Eaters, as I understand it, are a band of the Bannocks, and the Bannocks are relations to the Snakes.

"In old times they say that these Sheep Eaters used to make drives of sheep. They would build a lot of blinds, and hide along the trails where the sheep were accustomed to go up and down the mountains, and then they'd send men around and scare the sheep, and when they came down near the blinds the Indians hidden there would shoot them. Then, of course, they used to still-hunt them with bows and arrows. I've heard that the men who were hunting sheep used to carry a head and skin and cover themselves with it in part, and disguised in that way, used to get up within arrow shot of the game. The man's legs were rubbed with white or gray clay, and if he went along in a stooping posture, with his body covered with the animal's skin and the head, it's easy to see how he might get up pretty close to the game. I read a book once written by John Franklin, that man, you know, that was lost up in the Arctic a good many years ago and about whom there was a great deal of excitement at the time, in which he told how the Huskies up north used to hunt caribou something the same way, only in this case there were two men, one walking behind the other, both stooping down and the man in the lead carrying a caribou's head. The book said that the rear man carried the two guns, and that the man in front, who carried the head, imitated the deer so well that sometimes they could walk right up to the edge of the herd. Seems to me I've heard something of the same sort about Indians using the antelope head in hunting antelope."

"Well," said Jack, "that's seems queer. I don't believe you could do that with any game in these days." "No," said Hugh, "maybe not, but you must remember in those old times game was plenty; it never was scared by noises, because then they didn't have any guns, and the people in any range of mountain country were not many and were not often seen by the game. Speaking of this way of using game heads makes me think of a story that Wolf Voice told me about something that his grandfather saw a great many years ago. You don't know Wolf Voice, of course, but he's a young fellow -- not so very young either, come to think about it; he must be a middle-aged man by this time. He's half Cheyenne and half Minitari, and he did some considerable scouting for General Miles a few years ago. This is what he told me that his grandfather saw: He was one of a war party of Cheyennes that had gone off to try and take horses from the Snakes. One morning they were traveling along through the mountains, fifteen or sixteen of them, walking through a deep canyon. Presently one of them saw on a ledge of the canyon far above them, the head and shoulders of a big mountain sheep, which seemed to be looking out over the valley. The man pointed it out to the other members of the war party, and they watched it as they went along. After a while it drew back from the ledge, and a little later they saw it again, further along the canyon, and it stood there right at the edge of the precipice and seemed to be looking up and down the valley. The Cheyennes kept watching it as they went along, and presently they saw a mountain lion jump on the sheep's back from another ledge above it and both animals fell over the cliff, a long way before they struck the rocks below. The Cheyennes, feeling sure that the sheep had been killed either by the fall or by the lion, ran to the place to get the meat. When they got there, the lion was trying to get away on three legs and one of the Indians shot it with an arrow. Then they went to the sheep, and when they started to skin it they saw that it wasn't a sheep, but a man wearing the skin and head of a sheep. He had been hunting, and his bow and arrows were wrapped in the skin and lay against his breast. The fall had killed him. They could tell from the way his hair was dressed and from his moccasins that he was a Bannock."

"Well," said Jack, "that's an interesting story, and that brings the fashion these people had right home to us, doesn't it?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "I guess there's no doubt but that they made these disguises and used them. Why, Joe here will tell you what he's heard from his grandfathers about the way the men used to dress up and lead the buffalo into the piskuns."

"Yes, I think I've heard about that. They used to wear a kind of buffalo skin dress, didn't they, Joe?"

"Yes," said Joe, "sometimes they wore a kind of a cap and coat made of buffalo skins, and sometimes they just carried their robes. Of course, they didn't show themselves close to and in plain sight of the buffalo. They just showed themselves enough to make the buffalo wonder what they were, and follow 'em to try to find out. The Indians think that it was the power of the buffalo rock that used to make the buffalo come, but I guess it was just nothing but curiosity. Everybody has seen antelope get scared and run away, and then if a man dodges out of sight very likely they'll turn around and run back and close up to him, to try to find out what it was they got scared at."

"Sure, that's so," said Hugh, "and it isn't antelope or buffalo alone. You'll see elk and black-tailed deer do the same thing. They'll stand and look and look, and often you can fire three or four shots at them before they'll start to run away. In the same way if a bear sees something that he don't understand, why, he gets up on his hind legs and looks as hard as he can. Of course, all these animals would rather smell than look; their noses tell them the truth and they don't have to smell a second time to find out whether it's an enemy or not, but often they have to look half a dozen times. Animals are mighty inquisitive creatures. If they see something they don't understand they want to find out about it."

"Why, Hugh," said Jack, "it isn't animals alone. Birds do the same thing. I've never seen this myself, but the books tell about it and I talked with one man, a friend of my uncle's, who had seen it himself. In the winter when the ducks are down South and in big flocks they used to have a way of shooting them that they called toling. The way they did it was this: If a lot of ducks were sitting on the water too far off from the shore to be shot at, the gunners would go down and hide close to the shore and then they would send out a little dog that was trained to run up and down and play about so as to attract the attention of the ducks. The ducks might be sitting far off in a big raft or flock, many of them perhaps asleep; but when they saw the little dog playing, some of them would lift their heads and swim in toward the shore to find out what he was doing. Gradually more and more ducks would lift their heads and swim in, until, finally, the whole flock would be coming. As they got nearer, the dog, which of course was watching them, would make himself smaller and smaller, until finally he just crawled along the shore on his belly and perhaps gradually worked away from the beach and into the grass, but those fool ducks would keep swimming in, trying to see him, until at last they would get within gunshot, and the people hidden there would give them one barrel on the water, and then one as they rose, and sometimes kill twenty-five or thirty of them."

"Well," said Hugh, "that's one on me. I never heard of that before, but since we're branching off onto ducks, I'll tell you what I have heard of and know of its being done, too, though I never did see it done. In spring and fall, in ponds where the wild rice grows, over, say, in Minnesota, there used to be terrible lots of ducks and geese stopping in spring and fall to feed, on their way north and south. The Indians, the Sioux anyhow, and likely Chippewas or Saulteaux, when they found a place where these ducks were right plenty, used to strip off and make a kind of a little hat or cap of grass that they'd put on their heads, and then they'd wade in the water and move along very slowly so that this cap would look either like a little floating trash or a little group of grass stems projecting above the water, and then they'd work up close to the ducks and catch them by the feet and pull them under and then wring their necks."

"Yes," said Jack, "I guess that's all right, for I've heard of East Indian people doing the same thing, only they fitted a kind of a gourd over their heads and walked around with that, so that it just looked like a gourd floating in the water. Don't the Blackfeet do anything like this, Joe?"

"I guess not," said Joe; "I never heard anything like it. They say in old times, long before the white people came, the Piegans used to go to the shallow prairie lakes where ducks and geese bred, at the time of the year when they can't fly, and then the dogs and young men would go into the pond on one side and drive out all the birds on the other and there the women and children would kill them with sticks. In the early spring, too, when the birds had their nests, they used to go to these lakes and get plenty of eggs. I bet you never heard the way they used to cook them."

"I don't know," said Jack, "I reckon I never did."

"Why," said Joe, "they used to dig a hole in the ground, a pretty deep hole, and then put some water in it, and right over the water they'd build a little platform of twigs and put on that platform as many eggs as it would hold, and above that they'd build another platform and put eggs on that and so on to the top, maybe have three or four of these little platforms built of willows to hold the eggs up. Then from the top of the ground they dug out a little slanting hole to the bottom of the first hole. Then they covered the big hole with twigs and put grass on that and dirt on the grass. Then they built a fire close to the hole and heated rocks and rolled them down the little side hole, so that they would go into the water at the bottom of the big hole. They would keep rolling these hot rocks in until the water got very hot and made plenty of steam. The steam couldn't get out of the big hole and it just stayed there hot and cooked the eggs. Then when they thought the eggs were cooked they uncovered the big hole and took them from the platforms and there they were all cooked."

"That was ingenious, wasn't it, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Yes, so it was," said Hugh, "but then these people were mighty ingenious in many ways. Just think of the way they used to cook in a buffalo hide, or in the paunch of an animal. You and I would eat raw meat all our lives before we could get up such a scheme as that."

"Yes, that's so," replied Jack. "It's about the last thing I should think of. Practically all their boiling had to be done by means of hot stones put into the water, for, of course, they never had any vessels that could be set over a fire until they got pottery. I don't suppose anybody knows when they first invented it, but it may have been a long time ago."

"Well," said Hugh, "don't be too sure about their not having anything to put over a fire to boil. I never saw it myself, but I've been told by people that I believe, that these Saulteaux up North used to boil water in their birch bark dishes. They say that they could hang a birch bark kettle over the fire and boil water in it, and that the birch bark wouldn't take fire while the water was in the kettle."

"Well," said Jack, "I certainly would like to see that done. I suppose it's so, if you've been told so by people that you believe, but it seems to me that's one of the hardest stories that's been told me since I've been out in this country."




Chapter VIII

A Big Bear Hide


The next morning while the party were cooking and eating breakfast, a swarm of mosquitoes settled upon the camp in great numbers. Not only did they trouble the men, but the horses were greatly annoyed by them; so much as that they stopped feeding and began to wander off, seeking the thickets of quaking aspen and willow, through which they walked in order to brush off the insects. Besides the mosquitoes, the green head flies -- bulldogs, Hugh called them -- were very troublesome. Before breakfast was over Hugh said, "Look here, boys, we can't stay here. The flies are too bad. We must pack up and go on and get somewhere higher up, or else to a place where the wind is blowing. Unless we do that we are likely to lose our horses. They'll run away on us."

"Yes," said Jack, "we've either got to get high up on the hills or else go out on the prairie. Here the flies are too bad."

"Well," said Hugh, "you two boys build two or three small fires and throw some grass or wet bark on them so as to make plenty of smoke, and then go out and round up the horses and bring them in, so that they can stand in the smoke. Then we'll cache the wagon here in the brush somewhere, and pack up and go on up the river and see if we can't find some place where the flies are not so thick."

It took the boys but a short time to build a line of small fires at right angles to the lake, down which a gentle breeze was blowing, and then, pulling some green grass and stripping the wet bark off an old rotting cottonwood log, they soon had a line of smokes too strong for any insect. Then, going a little way down the lake, they found the horses and drove them back to leeward of the fire, where they stopped in apparently great contentment, with only their heads visible above the smoke.

Meanwhile Hugh had been unloading the wagon, getting out the pack saddles with their riggings and making up the packs. A portion of the provisions he left in the wagon, but the flour and the bacon he tied with extra ropes and, when the boys had finished with the horses, he had one of them climb into a tree and hang the food where it could not be reached by mice or ground squirrels. The sheep meat was lowered and found to be perfectly good and so dried on the outside that the flies would not trouble it. It was put in an old flour sack to go on one of the packs.

Long before noon matters were so far advanced that the horses were saddled and, after three of the animals had been packed and led back again into the smoke, the three riding horses were saddled, and presently the little train set off up the lake over the trail followed by Jack and Joe the day before. While they were crossing the inlet, and for the first mile or two up the trail on the other side of the upper lake, the flies were very bad, but presently, when they emerged from the growth of young quaking aspens they met a strong breeze blowing down the lake, which made things better.

Hugh had sent Jack ahead, telling him to follow the trail that led up the lake to an old Indian camping ground six or seven miles above the outlet. The trail was plain and it was impossible to lose it, and Jack plodded along fighting mosquitoes and watching the splendid mountains which rose on either side of the lake. As he passed over a little ridge between two of the many streams that ran down from the mountains, he suddenly saw ahead of him and a little to his right, a huge brown bear, apparently looking not at him, but at something behind him on the trail. The bear stood on the hillside at a little distance above the trail, and a rise of the ground had hidden Jack from view. It was a splendid-looking animal, its coat bright and glossy, and Jack could see the long fur ripple as the breeze struck it.

All this Jack's eye took in at a glance, and instantly he had slipped out of his saddle and stepped around his horse's head, holding the reins over his left arm. He pitched his gun to his shoulder, aimed at the bear just behind the foreleg and low down and fired. Then, turning, he sprang into his seat almost without touching the saddle.

At the shot the horse had stepped quickly to one side, but had not pulled back, so that Jack had no trouble in remounting, while the bear had given a loud bawl, and had fallen to the ground, turning its head to bite the wound, and then had rolled over two or three times down the steep hillside.

Jack whirled his horse and spurred up the hill, wishing to be above the bear rather than below it. At the same time he waved his arm to Hugh, who was now in sight, motioning to him to go up the hill. By this time the bear had gained his feet and was coming back along the trail as hard as he could. His head hung low, his ears were laid back and his long tongue lolled from his mouth. The noise of the shot had put every one on the alert, and it made Jack laugh a little to look back and see his two companions and all the pack horses scramble up the hill as hard as they could. The bear covered forty or fifty yards, running fast and strong, and then, seeming to notice the people on the hill above it, turned and rushed toward Jack, but before it had got anywhere near him, it began to go more and more slowly and to stagger a little and presently fell, rolled over backwards two or three times and then lay still. The three men with their pack horses came together on the hill, well above the bear, and Hugh said, "Well, son, what's the matter with you? Do you want to stampede this outfit? Looks to me like you've got quite a bear there."

"Why, yes, Hugh, he's about the prettiest bear I ever saw. He looked so handsome standing there on the hillside that I couldn't help taking a shot at him. I think he has a good hide, too, but maybe I oughtn't to have fired, for it will take us some time to skin him and while we're doing that the flies will be getting in their work."

"That's so," said Hugh, "but now that he's dead, we've got to take his coat off. I'll tell you what we'd better do. You and Joe go on to that little point that you see sticking out there, just this side of where that big creek comes down, and make camp there. Get as far out toward the water as you can. I think maybe the breeze will keep the flies down, and we can stop there with comfort. I'll stay here and start in to skin the bear, and after you've made camp you come back with a pack horse and we'll take the hide into camp."

"Hold on, Hugh," said Jack. "That's a kind of a low-down trick for me to kill this bear, and then leave you here to skin it and fight flies. Let me stop here with you now and take the skin off and let Joe go on and make camp. If the flies are not bad he can do it alone just about as well as we could together, and if they are, he'll have to make a smoke for the stock and unpack, and when you and I get back with this hide, it won't take long to put up the tent."

"Well," said Hugh, "maybe that is better. It'll shorten up the work to skin now."

Hugh explained again to Joe where it was that he wanted to camp, and Joe went on with the pack horses. Hugh and Jack sat down by the bear and began to skin it.

"Now, I want you to take notice, son," said Hugh. "Here it is July and this bear hasn't begun to shed out a bit yet nor even to get sunburned, and yet maybe he's been out of his den now for two months or more. He isn't fat; he's lost considerable flesh since he's come out, but his coat is just as good as it was the day he left his den."

"I've always heard, Hugh," said Jack, "that bears, when they come out of their dens, are just as fat as when they go into them."

"That's what everybody says," said Hugh, "and I reckon it's true. I never happened to kill a bear right fresh from its den, but I've killed them in May and found them very fat. I've a kind of an idea that they lose their fat slowly. Most people say that when they come out and start wandering about looking for food they keep going all the time and get poor right away. I don't quite believe that is so. I'm pretty sure they don't get much to eat at first, and I've a notion that if they lost their fat right away some of them would starve to death before food got plenty. When we get this fellow's skin off, I'm going to look into his stomach and see what he's had to eat in the last twenty-four hours."

"That'll be good," said Jack. "I'd like to see, too."

For some time the skinning went on in silence and the hide began to drop from both sides of the great carcass.

"I tell you, Hugh," said Jack, "this skin beats any one of those that we got last summer down in North Park. I think it's fully as big as the biggest one that we got then, and it seems to me that the hair is twice as long and twice as silky."

"Yes," said Hugh, "it's an awful good hide. I don't know when I've seen one that was much better. You must remember that those we killed last summer were not in good order; the winter coat had only just begun to grow. This hide will make a fine robe if we can get anybody to tan it."

"How do you mean, Hugh?" said Jack. "Won't any woman tan this hide if we pay her for it?"

"Why, no, son, you know a great deal better than that. Haven't I told you a good many times that lots of Blackfeet women won't touch a bear hide on any terms? You know the Blackfeet, anyhow, are afraid of bears and think they're powerful medicine. A good many of them won't call a bear by his name. They call him Sticky Mouth. Most of them won't sit on a bear robe. There are some medicine men or priests that can wear a kind of cap made of a strip of bearskin on the head, but it's hard to find a woman that has the power to tan a bear hide. They are afraid of the spirit of the bear; afraid that it will bring them bad luck."

"Now, Hugh," said Jack, "I don't remember that you ever told me about that before. I know that the Indians think that a bear is mighty smart and has great power, and I know that the Eastern Indians when they killed a bear used to smoke to the head and make the head presents of tobacco, but I didn't know that they wouldn't touch a bear hide."

"Well," said Hugh, "you know it now. There's only now and then one of these Piegan women that would dare to dress a bear hide. We may find such a woman in camp when we go back, but the chances are against it. However, I reckon we'll manage somehow to get the hide tanned."

While they were talking thus, both workers were plying the knife vigorously and in a little while the hide was free all around and the carcass was slipped off it. Then Hugh, cutting into the bear's stomach, turned out its contents on the ground. It was almost empty, containing nothing but two or three wads of grass and a single ground squirrel, which had been swallowed whole.

"You see," said Hugh, "this fellow hasn't had much to eat, and you see, too, that he's got quite a little fat left on his carcass. I reckon maybe he's been down along the shore of the lake to see if he couldn't pick up a fish or two that had drifted ashore, and not having found anything there, he was going back up onto the mountain to try to dig out a gopher, or a woodchuck, or one of those little rock rabbits."

They now folded the bear hide, and while Jack held his horse, Hugh tried to tie on the hide behind the saddle, but the horse would have none of it. He struggled and pulled back, and it was only by blinding him with a coat -- an operation which took some time and involved some trouble because both men were covered with bear's grease, the scent of which frightened the horse -- that they could get him blindfolded and the hide firmly lashed in position.

"Now, Hugh," said Jack, "I'm not proposing to get onto that horse on this side hill. The chances are that he'd buck and very likely drop me off on a rock. I'll walk and lead him until he's a little more used to his load."

"Well," said Hugh, "that's pretty sensible. You go ahead and lead him and I'll follow, and if he pulls away from you, why I'll drive him along the trail."

Jack took the blind from the horse's head and taking up his gun went down toward the trail. The horse, however, was afraid of his load and bucked pretty savagely. They had, however, taken the precaution to cinch the saddle tightly, and the lashing held, so that, at length, the badly frightened horse followed more or less uneasily along the trail, Hugh riding behind him and having some trouble in controlling his own animal, into whose nostrils the scent of the bear hide was constantly blown. Their progress toward camp was slow, but an hour after they started they reached it and found the horses feeding near it not greatly troubled by the flies, for a strong wind was now blowing down the lake.

During the afternoon, while Hugh was getting the camp in shape and cooking supper, the two boys stretched the bear hide and went over it with a knife, scraping from it all possible grease. After supper and just before sundown, Jack, casting at the mouth of the turbulent mountain stream which here poured itself into the lake, caught a dozen splendid trout, some of which gave him fine sport.

After nightfall, the breeze which swept down from the mountains was so cool that the mosquitoes ceased to be troublesome, and they sat about the camp fire enjoying its grateful warmth. Presently Joe broke out and said, "Where are we going, White Bull? I never came into the mountains so far as this, and I don't know this country."

"Well," said Hugh, "I ain't much surprised at that, for the Piegans don't go much into the mountains. They are afraid of the bears and of the bad ghosts that live there."

"Yes," said Joe, "that is true. The Piegans like the open prairie, where there is always plenty of light and where you can see a long way. The only people here that go much into the mountains are the Kootenays and the Stonies. Sometimes the Bloods go in a little way to hunt or trap beaver, but not far. Plenty of men in my tribe would stop right here; they would not go any further. Up above here, on this lake, I see that the mountains come close together, and there is only just room enough for the water to get through. We don't know what there is beyond there and we do not want to go to meet the dangers that may be there."

"Why," said Jack, "you don't feel that way, do you, Joe? You've been pretty nearly raised among white people. You are not afraid of the mountains, are you?"

"No," replied Joe, "I'm not much afraid of them. I'm a little afraid, but I don't know what there is up behind these rocks that we see ahead of us. Only to-day we saw this awful big bear that you killed. Maybe up in the mountains there are more bears and bigger ones and worse. I would like to see what there is up there, but then I know that it may be very dangerous to go there."

"Well," said Hugh, with a smile, "we haven't talked much about it, but I thought we'd just go up here along the lake and get to the head of it and then follow up the river that comes into it and keep on climbing until we got to the head of that river. Somewhere, not very far away, it must begin, and must come falling down from these high peaks, because not very far beyond here there are other rivers running the other way, so that we are here somewhere near the backbone of this country.

"Well," said Joe, "I'd like to see it. In old times you know the Piegans were not afraid of the mountains as they are now. In old times they used to cross over these mountains and go beyond, into the country of the Snakes and the Kootenays and the River people,[A] and used to take horses from them and drive them back through the mountains; also, they used to go through the mountains and make long journeys to war to the southwest, and if they found little parties of white men who were trapping or trading, they would try and take their horses and a scalp or two, if they could. I have heard old people tell about how their fathers used to go on these war journeys and used to fight everyone that they met, white people or Indians."

[A] The Kalespelms, more commonly called Flathead Indians, who dwell on and near Lake Pend d'Oreille.

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's so. In the early days before my time the Blackfeet were thought to be a terrible people."

"Yes, indeed," said Jack, "I've read some of the old books about the early trappers and they are always talking about the danger from the Blackfeet, and how they would lie in wait for the trappers, as they went along the streams gathering their fur in the morning, and kill them, or how they would try to run off their horses. Sometimes they would have big battles with them. The trappers, I think, were mostly at peace with the Snakes and perhaps with other tribes, and often camped with them, and when the Blackfeet were troublesome, if the trappers had Indian allies, they often used to follow up the Blackfeet, and punish them pretty severely for the raids they had made on them."

"Well," said Hugh, "as I was saying, we haven't talked much about this and none of us here know much about the country ahead of us. I came up once, trapping, as far as the head of the lake. I got a few beaver, and once I killed an elk just above the head of the lake, but beyond there I have not been. Still, I guess we'll be able to find our way. The valley is narrow and the mountains high on either side, and we cannot very well get out of that trough, but, on the other hand, it may be pretty bad going there. The whole valley may be a swamp or a succession of little lakes and it's possible that we can't find a way to the head of it at all. The only way to learn about it is to try. Anyhow, it's new country. I never heard of anybody going up on the river above the lake, except one man, old man Ellis. He told me once about going up there and said that he got across to the other side of the range, but he said it was pretty hard traveling for the animals, and that in one place they had to lower their horses by ropes over some bad places."

"Do you mean to say, Hugh, that no white men have been up here, except that one?"

"He's the only one I ever heard about," replied Hugh. "And I never felt quite sure that he got as far as he thought he did. At all events it won't be a bad trip to make, unless the flies are too awful bothersome, and by the way, son, to-morrow morning before we start, we'd better get out that strip of mosquito bar that you put in. If the mosquitoes are bad we'll need it before very long."

"I'll do that, Hugh," said Jack. "But what do you suppose we'll find up there at the head of the river?"

"It's pretty hard to say," Hugh answered. "I expect we'll find lots of rocks and stone and ice, probably lots of game, and we'll surely see some mighty pretty scenery; high peaks and big snow fields. There sure ought to be lots of sheep and goats up there, some elk, maybe a moose or two, and of course some bears, but that doesn't mean that we're going to get all this game. It only means maybe that we'll see some of it; perhaps only some signs of it. Just how far we can take the horses, of course, I don't know. We'll have to try and do the best we can. Likely enough, we'll know a lot more about it three or four days from now."

"Well," said Jack, "I'll be mighty glad to get up there and see what there is."

"Yes," agreed Joe, "that will be good. I shall have plenty of things to tell the people when I get back to the camp after this trip."




Chapter IX

A Blackfoot Legend


For a time all sat silent, and then Joe asked, "White Bull, did you ever hear that the people once lived on the other side of the mountains; that there is where they came from?"

"No," said Hugh, "I don't know as I have. I seem to remember something about such a story, but I can't remember what it is."

"Tell it to us, Joe," said Jack.

"Well," said Joe, "it's a story I heard my uncle tell a good many years ago, when I was a little fellow, but I don't believe it's true. He didn't know whether it was true or not. It was just something that he had heard from some older person. You know the Piegans believe that they used to live far up northeast, in the timber by some big lake, and that they came this way looking for some place where life was easier, where there was more game and it was easier to get close to the animals. I guess that is true, because there are old people still living whose fathers and grandfathers can remember old Piegans, who said that they had made that journey. This other story is about some of the people having lived across the mountains. It's a long story, but I'll tell it to you if you want me to."

"Go ahead," said Hugh.

"Well," Joe went on, "the story tells that a long time ago the people lived west of the mountains and in a hot country away to the south. A season came when all animals were scarce and hard to find and the people got hungry. In the camp was an old man and his family, three sons, young men grown up. Now, at last, when there was no food to be had, this old man said, 'Why should I stay here where there is no food? I shall go away with my children and we will try to find a place where there are animals and where food can be had. I will travel toward the rising sun, even to the mountains, to the country where no one has ever been, to a land no one has looked on.'

"They started; the old man and his wife, and the three sons and their wives and children. They did not know the mountains, and supposed that as soon as they had gone over the nearest one they would pass down on the other side to the plain, but they found that this was not so. Beyond the first mountain rose another, and beyond this another. They traveled on, day after day, and climbed ridges and went down into valleys and always in front of them they saw other ridges or other valleys, always steeper, higher and harder to cross. The road was rough, thick timber kept them back, sharp stones cut their feet, wide rivers stopped them. They found no game, except now and then some birds, and soon they grew tired, hungry, footsore and discouraged. At last they had almost made up their minds to stop looking for what they could not find, and to turn about and try to return to their own country and their own people; but one night, as they talked about this, the old man said to them, 'Come, let us take courage, let us keep on a little longer and try to find that country. The road has been long and hard, and we are almost tired out, but let us go on a little further. It may be that we have almost arrived. To-day you saw that high mountain beyond, toward which we are traveling; let us climb over that and if beyond that we see nothing except more mountains, then we will turn about and go back to the place we came from.' The sons said it was good, and the next day they traveled on.

"At length they reached the top of the high peak, and when they looked down on the land below they saw before them a wide prairie. It looked beautiful to these people, who were tired of the lonely, rough, dark mountains. On the plain they could see herds of big brown animals, larger than any that they had ever seen before, animals with curly hair and short black horns. There, too, were yellow antelope, and in the valleys, deer, and on the ridges of the mountain were many elk. Fresh streams ran to the prairie, and the sight was one that made their hearts glad.

"'Ah,' said the old man, 'now it is good.'

"They all stopped, and he sat down and smoked to the sun and said, 'Listen, O Sun, now you have taken pity on us. We believed that we were going to die among these rocks, but you have taken care of us and have brought us safely out of them. Now we can see the things that we may live by.' So he prayed for help, and for plenty to eat and for long life, and when he had finished his prayer and his smoking, they made a present to the sun. Then they went slowly down the mountainside and toward night camped on a stream.

"The next day they hunted, but they could kill no game. They had no arrows, for they had used them all up in crossing the mountains, and the buffalo would not let them get too close to them, so they were still without food and hungry.

"Then the old man saw that something must be done, and he made strong medicine, a black medicine, which he rubbed on the feet of his oldest son, and after this had been put on his feet, the young man became so swift that he could at once run up alongside the fastest cows and kill them with his knife. This made the young man feel good, and he said to his brothers, 'Now and from this time forth I and my children are S[)i]ks' [)i] k[=a].[B] This shall be our name.'

[B] Black his foot.

"When the other two sons saw that their elder brother could do so much through the medicine their father had made and that they could do nothing, they felt badly. They went to the old man and said, 'Why do you treat our brother so much better than you treat us? You have made him a swift runner, so that he can overtake the game, while we can kill nothing, and our wives and children have to eat what he gives us. What have we done that you have forgotten us? Come, now, make us also swift runners, so that we, too, can have enough to eat and can have names.'

"The old man answered them and said, 'Why do you do nothing except sit about the fire and eat food which your brother has killed? If you wish names go to war, and when you come back, if you have done well and killed enemies and counted coups, you, too, shall have names.'

"So the young men went back to the lodge, and each asked his wife to make him some moccasins and a war sack, and they made themselves some war arrows and started.

"They were gone a long time. S[)i]ks' [)i] k[=a] killed many buffalo, and the women dried the meat and tanned the hides. The berries grew ripe, and the women cut down the sarvice bushes and beat off the fruit over a robe spread on the ground and dried the berries. Then the tops of the mountains became white with snow, the leaves fell. From the north came the wild fowl, the swans, geese and ducks, and their numbers covered the surface of the prairie lakes, while their cries were heard night and day through the air. Then the wild fowl passed on, the snow fell and melted and fell again, and it was winter. After a long time black winds began to blow from the west and the snow disappeared. Then again the wild fowl were seen. Then the Thunder shouted, bringing the rain, so that the berries might grow large and sweet. Then the grass began to spring, the prairie to turn green, and soon it was summer.

"One night, a year after the young men had gone away, as they sat about the fire in the lodge, they heard the dogs bark and presently the door was lifted and the second son stepped in and sat down. His robe was thin and all his clothing worn by long travel, but his body was lean and hard. The women hurried and set food before him, and while he ate they sang songs about him, telling how brave he was and how he had traveled far to strike his enemies. After he had eaten the old man filled the pipe and smoked and passed it to his son, who spoke, and told of his journeyings to far-off lands and among strange people, and how he had struck his enemies and all that he had done.

"After he had finished the old man said to him, 'My son, you have done well and since you have killed many chiefs, let that be your name, Ah' k[=a]i n[=a]h' (many chiefs). So after that the second son and his children and their children were called Ah' k[=a]i n[=a]h, but now they call them K[=a]i'n[=a]h.

"Another season passed, the berries ripened, the leaves fell, the water fowl came and went; it was winter. Then again the Thunder spoke, and again the grass grew. The wife of the third son thought much about her husband, fearing that she would not see him again. She used to talk of him to her children, telling them that they ought to be brave like their father.

"One night in summer, when all in the lodge were asleep, the dogs barked loudly, the lodge door was lifted and a person entered and sat down by the fire. 'Who is there?' said the old man. There was no answer. Then the wife of the third son rose from her bed and spread grass on the fire, and soon it blazed up and she saw sitting there her husband. Glad then was her heart, and quickly she built the fire and gave him food, and as he ate, she looked at him and saw that his clothing was torn and ragged, his face thin and his arms and breast scarred, but from his quiver hung scalps, and on the ground beside him was a bundle. Then she began to sing about him and the others in the lodge arose and sat by the fire while he ate. After he had eaten and smoked, he said to the old man, 'I have traveled far and I have seen many people. Look at these scalps,' and he showed them the scalps and the bundle of strange clothing that he had taken from enemies far to the south. He told them all that he had seen and done, and after he had finished speaking his father said to him, 'Because you have taken this strange clothing you shall be called P[=i] k[)u]n' ni' (garments), so since that time he and his children's children have been called P[=i] k[)u]n' ni."

"That's a bully story, Joe," exclaimed Jack, after the tale was ended, and Hugh joined in and said, "So it is, a mighty good story, but I reckon it's just a story and nothing else. I've always heard, like Joe said a little while ago, that the people came from up north and I've always believed that they were relations of the Crees. I've often wondered, though, about how the tribes got their names. There are lots of stories, but none of them seem to ring true. Now this word P[=i] k[)u]n' ni for Piegans, I've always believed came from Ap' [)i] k[)u]n n[)i], which means a badly tanned robe, one with white spots on it. Isn't that so, Joe?"

"Yes," said Joe, "that's so all right, and you know Ap' k[)u]n n[)i] is a common name in the tribe to-day. There are two or three Indians and one white man that have that name. This story says that Ah' k[=a]i n[=a]h has been shortened to Kainah, and if that is so why shouldn't Ap' [)i] k[)u]n n[)i] have been shortened to Pi kun ni. Then the name of my tribe would mean a robe with hard white spots in it."

"Of course it would," said Hugh, "and I believe that's what it does mean, but I don't know that we'll ever find out for sure.

"Well, boys," he went on, "let's turn in. Get out early to-morrow morning and bring in your horses. I want to start before it gets warm, so as to get rid of the flies. We may have quite a ways to go to-morrow."




Chapter X

The Source Of An Unknown River


Early next morning the tent was down, the beds rolled and the horses brought in, saddled, and tied to the trees. As soon as breakfast was over the packing began and fortunately was soon completed, for before the party started the mosquitoes and flies had begun to be very troublesome. As soon as the last lash rope was tied and the hackamore shanks were looped around the animals' necks, Hugh mounted and rode through the narrow strip of cottonwood timber, plunged down into the bed of the creek, and then up on the other side and in a few moments reached the foot of a high point of rocks jutting out from Goat Mountain into the lake and began to climb the steep trail that zigzags up its side.

The way was rough and rocky and sometimes so very steep that Jack, hanging to the mane of his horse, threw one foot out of the stirrup in order to be ready to jump in case the horse should fall over backward. The climb was not long, however, and after one or two pauses to breathe the horses, the party emerged on the level top of the point, where the rocks were overgrown with green moss and dotted here and there with young pine trees. Jack had no idea as to where they should go, but Hugh's more practiced eye made out a dim game trail, which he followed for some distance through the timber, and which at last came out on the slide rock, fallen from the side of the mountain far above. Here there was a plain trail made in times past by the mountain bison and the elk which passed up and down from the plains to the recesses of the high mountains. Sometimes the slide rock was bare of vegetation; again there would be half a mile where the soil had slid down from the mountainside and supported a growth of willows or alders. Sometimes the climb was very steep, again it was level, and at last the trail passed around the head of a deep ravine, and after a climb of a few feet, led out on to grassy ledges.

They were riding quietly along here, when Hugh turned and waved his hand toward the rocks that towered far above them, and Jack, following the motion, saw three white goats feeding two or three hundred yards above them. Involuntarily he checked his horses, intending to take a shot at them, but seeing that Hugh had not paused, Jack thought better of it and rode on. After all, there was no special reason for killing them, as the meat was not needed.

As they went on along the side of the steep mountain toward the head of the lake, they saw goats several times, usually merely white dots on the high rocks. These alpine animals seem to suffer greatly from the heat, and even in very cold weather often seek a shaded spot to get out of the sun.

Near the head of the lake the travelers crossed a large stream, which came from a basin running far back into the mountains, where they could see great fields of snow and ice. Then there was a long ride through the green timber, during which they passed the head of the lake.

They were evidently following the river valley, for, off on the left, they could hear the roar of cascades and falls, and once, through the open stems of some tall aspens, Jack thought he saw spray rising from a cataract. Hugh kept steadily onward, though so far as Jack and Joe could see all sign of a trail had now vanished.

At length they came to the edge of a swollen river, on the brink of which Hugh paused, and after looking at it for awhile, shook his head, turned his horse and followed up its bank. Now the going was harder, and through tangled brush, interrupted now and then by deep muddy holes, where springs or small brooklets came down from the hillsides above them. The mosquitoes and flies were very bad, and each member of the party wore gloves and had a handkerchief tied about his neck and turned up under his hat to protect the back of the neck and head. Hugh smoked constantly, but even so, was obliged to use his hands continually to drive away the insects.

They had just wallowed through a particularly deep mud hole in which one of the pack horses had nearly mired down, when Hugh stopped, dismounted and went back to tighten a cinch, while Jack got off to help him. They were pulling on the ropes, and Joe was trying to hold the other horses to keep them from breaking away, when, suddenly, on the hillside above, they heard a crashing of sticks and, looking up, saw a huge black moose trotting along, crossing fallen logs and rocks in his stride, until he finally disappeared in the timber. The moose had been so close that they could plainly see his large horns, still soft, more or less shapeless and velvet covered, but of course they had no opportunity of shooting at him.

"A good big fellow, wasn't he, son?" said Hugh, and Jack assented.

"That's the first moose I've seen, Hugh, since we came down from the Yellowstone Park. Do you remember we killed one there?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "I remember, and I remember, too, that we got a bear or two close to him."

"So we did," assented Jack.

"There," said Hugh, as he knotted the lash rope, "let's go on. The flies make these horses crazy."

All day long they continued on the rough road, through underbrush, over rocks and around enormous boulders that had fallen from the precipice above. About three o'clock they reached a large stream coming from the right, which evidently joined the river that they had been following a little further down. Here it took some time to find a place where the river was fordable. The current was swift and the water looked deep.

No one wished to have the packs thrown down in the stream, for this would wet everything and might even result in the loss of a horse. By following up the stream a few hundred yards, however, they found a riffle, across which stretched a gravel bar, and here they made a crossing in water no deeper than to the horses' knees. Not far above this stream was a wide alder swamp, which gave them much trouble. A little farther on they came to a small stream flowing down the valley, along which ran an old game trail, and following this, they emerged just before sunset on a little round meadow, at the head of which was a lake a mile long and a quarter of a mile broad. About this, on every side except the lower, rose vertical walls of rock, now black in the shadow of the high mountains to the west.

"I tell you, Joe," said Jack, "this is a curious place, isn't it? Cold and gloomy enough."

"Yes," said Joe, "I don't like this much. You can't see far. I don't wonder that my people would rather stay out on the prairie."

"What shall we do with the horses, Hugh?" asked Jack. "Tie 'em up, or let them loose?"

"Well," said Hugh, "you may as well let 'em feed and drag their ropes until it gets dark. They are pretty tired, and the feed is fairly good here. They won't go far, and before it gets dark we'll tie them up."

Away to the left they could see a deep valley running up to enormously high mountains. Snow lay everywhere on their crests, and even in the valley, down to within a few hundred feet of the level of the little lake beside which they camped.

At supper Jack asked Hugh's opinion where they were and whither they were going.

"Well," said Hugh, "it's a pretty sure thing that we can't go any farther up this stream. There's a wall a thousand feet high in front of us and on both sides, but I guess we can get up here to the left by climbing that point of rocks. When we do that we'll get into the snow banks right off, and I don't know that there's much profit for us in that. However, we can try it. I believe that if we get up there, on or close to the snow, we'll have the everlasting bulge on the flies, for I don't think they'll follow us there."

There was plenty of wood here, and that night they sat about a good camp fire. The horses had been picketed where they could feed and yet would not interfere with each other. Night had settled down cold and frosty and the mosquitoes had ceased to trouble them.

"To-morrow or next day," said Hugh, "I'd like to see where that big river comes from that we followed up all to-day. I expect it comes down out of that valley and from the big snow, and I reckon we lost it by keeping away to the right. It's a good thing that we didn't have to cross it, for if we had I think we'd have all been swimming. There's a terrible lot of water coming down from these mountains, and this valley drains a big lot of them."

"And of course, it all goes into the lakes, doesn't it, Hugh?" asked Jack.

"Sure," said Hugh, "that's the only place it can go."

"Well," said Jack, "I'd rather travel through a lot of brush than try to get across a big swift river like that."

"Yes," said Hugh, "you're right about that. It's mean to be caught in a stream, especially when you're not fixed for it. I remember, years ago, trying to take some cattle across the Running Water and being carried down. My horse got scared and commenced to flounder and I rolled off to help. It was in winter, and I had an old-fashioned army overcoat on and got kind of rolled up in it, and I reckon I would have drowned if the cape of the coat hadn't caught on a limb of a dead tree that was sticking out over the water and held me there until some of the boys came along and pulled me out."

"That must have been a close call, White Bull," said Joe.

"Yes," answered Hugh, "it was close enough. I don't want one any closer."

"Now, White Bull," Joe went on, "can we climb this point of the mountain over here? If we do we'll go up pretty near to the head of that big river you speak of and cross it where it is only a little small stream."

"I don't know yet whether we can get up here or not. We'll tell in the morning," Hugh replied, "but if we can, I think we'll find good traveling right up over the snow banks and we may find a place up there where we can camp. I don't feel any way sure that we'll find a place where we can get feed for the horses. We'll know more about that when we get up there. If we can't find feed, why, then we'll have to come back and camp here or else find another trail down into the valley of the main river, and take the horses down there over night."

When Jack went down to the shore of the lake the next morning, he was interested to see a pair of little harlequin ducks swimming close to the beach. He recognized them from colored pictures that he had seen of the species, and felt sure that the birds must be breeding somewhere about. Looking at them a second time, however, he saw that both birds were males. They made him think of the time of the year, and he realized that now, of course, the females would be sitting on their eggs, while the males would be enjoying a bachelor existence and getting ready to shed their winter plumage and to put on their brief summer dress.

As Jack squatted on a rock, rubbing his hands, face and head with the icy water, his eyes were busy searching the mountainside for signs of living creatures. With the naked eye he could see no game high up on the mountain, but just as he was about to turn from the shore, he happened to look up the lake and there, lying in a sort of cave in the rocks, only a short distance away, was a white goat. The same impulse to shoot that he had felt yesterday assailed him, but he did not yield to it. Instead, he felt rather ashamed of his desire to kill.

At breakfast he told Hugh about the goat, and his friend rather laughed at him and said, "Wait until you have been out a few weeks and then you won't be so anxious to kill things, unless you need to. I have seen that every time you go back East you catch a little of the pilgrim fever, and you have to be out here for a week or two before you can shake off the disease."

"Maybe you're right, Hugh," said Jack. "It does seem pretty silly to want to kill every wild thing I see."

"Well, yes," rejoined Hugh, "there's no reason for killing anything without you've got some use for it. If you need a shirt or a pair of buckskin pants, kill what hides you need and have your clothing made, or if you need food, kill what you want to eat, but don't shoot at things just to see whether you can hit them or not. That's just a pilgrim trick, and you've been out here too long to be guilty of things like that."

"Now, I tell you what, boys," said Hugh, after breakfast was over, stooping over the fire to pick up a brand with which to light his pipe, "we don't know what there is up above us here. We don't even know that we can climb this hill. Now, what do you say to leaving the pack horses here and taking the saddle horses and going off to prospect? It isn't very far, and if we can find a good camping place we can come back here and get the horses and take them up there."

"Why," said Jack, "that seems to me the best thing to do. We don't want to pack up and take a train up there and then find that we've got to drive back and unpack and camp here again."

"No," said Hugh, "we don't, and I believe we might as well go up first and find out where we're going. There's one thing, though, that we'd better do," he went on, "I've an idea that there's some bears up here, and likely bears that haven't been hunted much. I believe that it would be a good idea for us to hoist up the main part of our grub into one of these trees and tie it there, so that if a bear should come into camp he won't tear it all to pieces. Suppose you boys get a couple of sling ropes and we'll take our flour and bacon and coffee and sugar and put it in a safe place."

The boys brought the sling ropes and before long two stout young pine trees were each decorated with a couple of large bundles. Then they saddled and Jack said to Joe, "If any bears should come prowling around here, Joe, won't they stampede the horses, and make trouble for us?"

"I guess they might," said Joe. "We ought to tie 'em up tight."

Joe took the ax, and going a few steps down the creek, cut some stout alder stems from which he manufactured half a dozen strong picket pins, then going out to where the horses were, they drove a second pin close to each picket pin that stood in the ground, so that the heads of the two pins crossed and supported each other.

"Now," said Joe, "take a half hitch around these two pins with the lariat and I'll bet the pack horses can't get away."

Hugh, who saw what they were doing, nodded approval, and presently they all climbed into the saddles, and Hugh leading the way, they crossed the little brook which flowed out from the lake and headed toward the point of the mountain which they hoped to climb. Before they had reached it Hugh found a game trail and followed it, for he knew, as all mountain men do, that game always selects the easiest road across natural obstacles. The climb was neither steep nor long, though it was a little slippery, for the upper end of the trail was wet with snow that had just melted. When they emerged on top of the shoulder, they could see extending up the valley before them a long level snow bank, while to the right the steep slope was everywhere strewn with huge boulders and rock fragments that had rolled down from the mountainside; some in past ages and some very recently.

Hugh paused until the two boys came up and then said, "We may as well keep up here along the main valley and see how far we can go and what we can find. We could not take the horses along the mountainside to the west. If we go that way we'll have to go on foot. I'd like to see what there is on the other side of that high wall. I believe it's Pacific Coast water."

"Yes, Hugh," said Jack, "let's go on up the valley and maybe we can cross over to those pine trees on the other side. It looks as if there might be a good camping place there, though I don't see any feed for the horses."

"Come on then," said Hugh.

For a mile or more they rode slowly on over the hard snow field, into which the horses hoofs did not sink at all. On the right rose first a steep slope covered with huge angular rock fragments, and then above that successive walls of vertical cliff, in each recess and crevice of which there was a drift of snow. To the left, the snow field sloped gradually to an almost flat surface of rock, over which flowed a hundred little trickles of water. There was, here and there, a little soil, green with springing grass or weed blades and in many places spangled with beautiful alpine flowers of variegated colors.

At one place Jack dismounted and gathered a handful of these plants, which he looked at as they rode along. Many of them were much like the dog-tooth violet found in the woods in the East in the early spring, others looked something like dandelions, but had tall, straight stems; still others were like the columbine of early summer, but instead of being red were blue and white. All were beautiful and fresh, and all were growing within a short distance of the edge of the snow banks and were watered by the cold trickle from the melting snow.

As they went on the travelers could see at the end of the valley, now close to them, a great wall of rock over which plunged cataracts of white water, while from the mountains on the right came sharp gray lines, which as they drew near them, Jack recognized as moraines -- the soil and gravel pushed to one side by the progress of a glacier. He felt sure that this valley along which they were traveling, and perhaps also the narrow valley in which lay the river and the great lakes, had ages ago been carved out of the solid mountains by some vast glacier, such as he had seen two years before on the British Columbia coast and the work of which Mr. Fannin had more than once clearly explained to him.

They were riding quietly along, looking at the mountains, the snow fields and the flower beds when, almost from beneath the feet of Hugh's horse, a bird spotted white and brown rose from the ground and, with a loud cackle, scaled off ahead of them and alighting on a rock, stood with head and tail up, still uttering a sharp cry. Jack recognized it at once as a ptarmigan and reached for his rifle to see whether he could kill it, but Hugh, who had looked around, called back to him, "I wouldn't shoot at it, son. You see these birds have their nests now, and if you kill the old birds that means that the young ones will not be hatched. Besides that, the old ones are not fit to eat now."

"That's so, Hugh, I have got to teach myself not to want to kill everything that I see. I'm a regular pilgrim about that, and you'll have to watch me, and I'll watch myself, too."

A little farther along they left the snow bank and pushed on over bare rounded stones, some of them of great size. On the mountain above him Jack saw two great moraines, gradually approaching one another, one coming down from the right and one from the left, but with a wide space between their lower ends. He was looking at this, when, without warning, he heard all about him the rustle of wings and sweet chirping whistles, and suddenly a large flock of gray-crowned finches alighted on the ground and on the stones about him. They walked busily hither and thither picking up something, though he could not see what, and it seemed impossible that there could be seeds or any other vegetable food on the bare rocks. The birds were absolutely tame and paid no attention to the animals, except when they walked close to them; then a few wing beats would take the threatened bird out of the horse's way, and it would alight and again begin to feed. The ashy crown of the head, the brown body and the rosy tinge of the upper and lower parts were plainly to be seen, and Jack thought again that he had never known such beautiful little birds, or any that seemed so tame or confiding.

By this time the precipice at the head of the valley was close to them and they were obliged to turn to the left and cross the stream, which, though wide and turbulent, was not deep. On the east side the land rose sharply in one or two terraces, and then the travelers found themselves on another snow bank, just beyond which rose some stunted pine timber.

At the edge of this they halted to take a look back over the valley, and when they did so, Hugh said, "Well, I reckon we are smart hunters; look over there."

The boys looked, and not half a mile below where they had passed along, but hidden from them during their passage by several rocky elevations, were seen three bears, one large and two very small ones. They were working along the hillside, apparently looking for insects, for the largest was busily employed in turning over stones, and the little ones were imitating her in so far as their strength permitted, and, at the same time, keeping pretty close to her, and every few minutes rushing to her head and putting their noses down to the ground as if eating.

Hugh took out his glasses and looked at the bears for a long time. "It's an old one and a couple of cubs," he remarked at last, "and I don't believe they've been out very long. They're working hard over there and of course, if we had known they were there, it would be easy enough to get them all as we came along. I don't really know that we need them, except that I suppose we'd all be glad to take in some good bear hides, and hides seem to be prime now. Then, too, those little fellows would be good eating, I reckon, though they are pretty small. Not much bigger, I should think, than young shotes."

"Well, but, Hugh," said Jack, "oughtn't we to have seen them as we came along?"

"No," said Hugh, "I don't see how we could have done so. Of course, if we'd been hunting, we'd have taken a good many looks over into that valley, but as we weren't hunting, we just rode along and, of course, those shelves of rock that you see there hid the bears from us just as they hid us from the bears. Of course, it's possible that they may be there when we go back to-night, and if they are, why you and Joe can maybe get a shot at them."

"Well," said Jack, "it's too late now for us to do anything. Let's see what there is beyond this timber."

In the timber which grew on a little crest running parallel with the axis of the valley, there was no snow and a good camping place, but on the other side of the little stream, though the ground was bare and some flowers were springing, there was no grass, nor indeed, wherever they went during the day, could they find anything that looked like feed enough to support their horses, if they should bring them over.

"This would be a mighty handy place to camp, Jack," said Joe, "but I don't see anything here for the horses to eat."

"No," said Hugh, "there's no feed over here at all, except those weeds that we passed this morning on the other side of the valley. Maybe there's feed enough there to keep the horses for a day or two, but no more. We'd be a lot better off if we were camped over here; that is, provided we wanted to hunt here or climb the mountains, but we've got to have grass for our horses to eat, and I reckon we'll have to leave them where they are and ride three or four miles every morning, before we begin to prospect around these mountains and the valleys between them."

"Well," said Jack, "there doesn't seem to be any feed here, and I don't see any other way than to do as you say."

"Let's ride up this valley here to the eastward," said Hugh. "There may be some sheltered warm spot up there where the snow will be gone, though it's no ways likely the grass has started yet."

They crossed the stream and pushed up through the snow which lay among the pine timber. It was not deep nor crusted and the going was easy, and after the first steep ascent they found themselves in an open smooth valley, which sloped very gradually upward between two tall peaks. Here the snow was disappearing and, as they ascended, they presently found the ground bare, but as Hugh had said, the grass had not yet started. There were a few tufts of brown dried-up herbage, but nothing that could be called feed, even for so small a pack train as theirs. In the soft earth at the margin of a little lake that lay near the head of this valley, Hugh pointed out the tracks of several sheep, among them two old rams of great size, and a well-worn sheep trail led back from this lake up over the rocks to high pinnacles behind.

"I reckon there are lots of sheep here, son," said Hugh, "but it isn't time to kill them now and we'll have to be satisfied with a young ram now and then. I hope they won't be very strong of garlic."

"I hope not," said Jack.

A little later they turned about to return to camp, following the same trail by which they had come up. As they were going down through the timber, Hugh drew up his horse and pointed out to Jack a porcupine waddling slowly over the snow. "There is some game for you, son, if you want it," he said, "but I wouldn't waste a cartridge on it. If you want to kill it, knock it on the head with a club. Porcupine is pretty good meat -- for those that like it. The Northern Indians, those that live in the timber at least, eat them whenever they can get hold of them."

Jack dismounted, and getting a long stick, ran after the porcupine and poked it and the beast stopped, put its nose on the ground between its forepaws, erected its quills in all directions, and stood there thrashing with its great tail as if quite prepared for war. Jack gave it a poke or two and then examined some of the quills, which had been thrust into the end of the stick, and then returning to his horse, remounted and rode up beside the others.

"What," said Hugh, "aren't you going to take it along with you?"

"No," said Jack, "I guess not. We've plenty of food in camp and this time I'll keep myself from killing, instead of having you warn me."

By the time they had started back, the sun had fallen behind the great peak that overhung their road, the air was cold, and the melting of the snow field had stopped. Here in these high mountains winter lingers long, and though in the middle of the day it may be warm, it is cold at night.

When they reached the point in the trail opposite where they had seen the bears earlier in the day, Jack and Joe dismounted and went to look down in the valley to see if they could discover them, but as they saw nothing, they went on.

When they came in sight of camp, however, it became evident that there was some excitement there. The horses were frightened and were running to and fro, apparently trying to pull up their picket pins; but what first attracted the attention of the men was the appearance of their tent, which seemed to have been taken down and transformed into a white bundle, moving a little now and then, but for the most part quite still.

Hugh looked for a moment and then said, "Come on, there is trouble down there, and I'm afraid some of those horses will get hurt if we don't hurry." He put spurs to his horse and galloped down the steep descent as if it had been a bit of level prairie. Jack and Joe, though both suspecting what had taken place, said nothing, but followed, and when they had crossed the little river and rode over the level meadow toward camp, Hugh was sitting on his horse by the tent, with as broad a smile on his face as Jack had ever seen. The tent, converted into a small bundle of less size than a barrel, though somewhat longer, was shivering and shaking, and from it came groans, growls and moans, which sounded mysterious but funny.

"That's a comical thing," said Hugh. "That's one of the funniest things I ever saw. Do you know what's inside that tent, son?" he added.

"No," said Jack, "I don't know, but I guess likely it's a bear."

"Right you are," said Hugh, "and I reckon we'll have to bloody up the tent a little to get him out. Take a shot at it and try to kill the beast."

"All right," said Jack, as he loaded his rifle, while Joe called out, "White Bull, do you see the cubs in the trees?"

Hugh and Jack both turned, and there, perched high up in the stunted pine trees, were two little cubs, each about as large as a small setter dog, though of course not standing nearly so high.

"Well, I swan," said Hugh, "if that old bear and her family didn't come down here to make us grief. Jack, you kill the old one in the tent, and Joe and I will settle these cubs. We'll have some meat to eat now."

Jack fired a shot through the tent and a squawl of rage and pain was followed by a series of struggles, but at last the tent lay still, and below the point where Jack's ball had entered, a little red stain began to appear on the canvas. Hugh and Joe shot the cubs in the trees. The tent was unrolled and the old bear extracted from it. It was evident that she had entered it to investigate its contents and in overhauling things had knocked down the poles. Her struggles had wrapped her so tightly in the canvas that she could not use her legs or paws to tear her way out, and she had lain there firmly bound in the stout duck, until vengeance, in the shape of Jack, descended on her from the hillside above.

The evening and a part of the next morning were spent in skinning the bears, and stretching their hides; and many were the jokes that the hunters made over this curious capture.




Chapter XI

The Retreat


It was noon the next day before the various chores about camp were done. The dishes and some small packages of food that had been left in the tent were badly mixed up and a number of packages torn open and their contents ruined. Hugh, fortunately, had put most of the coffee in one of the caches in the trees, but that which had been left in the tent had been scattered and trodden into the ground, so that only two or three cupfuls of the berries could be picked up and used.

"I tell you, Hugh," said Jack, "it was mighty lucky that you put that food in the trees. If it hadn't been for that I expect we should have had to go back to the Agency to get more grub."

"Yes," replied Hugh, "I reckon we would, but I knew there were bears around here, and you never can tell just what a bear will do when it comes to a camp. Sometimes they are so shy that they will run away as soon as they smell the camp, at others they will prowl around it for a day without touching anything, or again, maybe they'll go right into the tent and destroy everything that is there. I remember, one time down in Colorado, a bear came into camp while we were out prospecting and tore up and scattered around everything that we had; he even tore our blankets to pieces. We had to start into the settlements at once for a new outfit. Of course, we followed up the bear and killed him, but that wasn't much satisfaction.

"We are mighty lucky that some of these horses did not break their necks, or get away and get lost in this brush. Of course, the chances are we could have trailed them and found them, but on the other hand if a snow had come before we did find them, we might have lost them for good. They'd have been likely to get tied up in the brush with their ropes and to have starved to death."

"Yes," said Joe, "we came out of it mighty lucky, but I never expect to understand how that bear wrapped herself up in that tent so that she couldn't move."

"No," said Hugh, "that's a mighty curious performance, and the queer part of it is that the tent is just as good as ever it was, except for the bullet holes and the blood on it. She didn't tear it a mite, and that, of course, shows that somehow she must have got wrapped up in it just as the tent fell. If she'd had a chance to use her arms at all she would have torn the canvas to ribbons and we would never have got her.

"Well," he continued, "it's too late to start out prospecting now, and I reckon I'll stay in camp the rest of the day and maybe clean the blood off this tent and generally get things in shape. What do you boys mean to do?"

"Why," said Jack, "I don't know. I believe I'd like to go up around this lake and follow up the valley until I come to that wall of rock at the head. I expect that must be the divide, isn't it?"

"I reckon so," said Hugh. "I believe if we get up on top of this next ridge ahead of us, we'll see the waters running the other way and down into Flat Head Lake and so on into the Columbia and the Pacific Ocean."

The boys started and proceeded up the valley. Close to the margin of the lake was a thick growth of alders, but these extended only a few yards back, and between them and the sharp slope of the mountain there was a level space thickly covered with huge rock fragments, among which they picked their way without much difficulty.

The day was bright and still, but the air so keen that the mosquitoes and flies were not troublesome.

Part way up the lake, Jack, who had been watching something on a great rock which rose above the water's surface, reached out his hand and motioned to Joe not to move, and then, taking out his glasses, looked at the moving object, which proved to be two tiny harlequin ducks busily engaged in dressing their feathers.

The boys approached them slowly and carefully, stopping whenever the ducks ceased the operations to look about them, and then going on when the birds were busy, and at last they had come to within thirty or forty yards of them, and through the glasses could see them almost as plainly as if they had been within arm's length.

They were beautiful birds and their curiously variegated colors stood out plainly. The deep rich blue of the body, spotted here and there with white and rich brown and black, and their trim smooth appearance made them very pretty objects. During one of Jack's inspections, Joe, whose eyes were wandering about up the valley and over the mountainside, touched Jack's arm, and said, "I think I see a goat."

"Where?" asked Jack, without moving.

"Look up the valley down close to the grass on that red cliff. There's something white lying against it. I thought I saw it move just now."

Jack turned his glasses in the direction in which Joe pointed, and after a little search, discovered a goat lying in what looked like a sort of cave in the rock. "Sure enough," he said, "it's a goat, Joe, but how can we get at it? It will surely see us before we can reach any cover."

"Yes," said Joe, "pretty sure to see us, of course; nothing to hide behind at all."

"I don't see how to get at it, except to crawl up to the edge of the hill and there maybe we'll find rocks to get behind. Let's try it anyway," said Jack.

They started, Joe in the lead, and crept slowly toward the edge of the valley, but before they had reached it the goat slowly rose to its feet, and immediately the two boys sank to the ground and waited, without moving. The goat did not seem to be alarmed. It took a long look down the valley and then looked up at the mountainside opposite. Then it turned and very slowly walked away from the cave by which it had been lying, and, turning, began to ascend what looked to the boys like an absolutely perpendicular cliff. The animal did not hurry, but walked along in deliberate fashion, sometimes stopping and lowering its head, as if to take a bite of grass, and again, turning and looking back over the way it had come or out over the valley. Still its advance was steady, and presently it walked behind a projection of rock and was not seen again.

"Well," said Jack, "did you ever see anything like that? That beast just walked right straight up the face of that cliff as a fly would walk up the wall of a room."

"It's queer," answered Joe; "I could hardly believe that I saw what I saw. Those goats must have powerful medicine to be able to do things like that."

"It sure looks so," replied Jack, "but I tell you what I want to do. Let's notice just where that goat was lying and where it went, and let's go over there and see if the rock is right up and down, as it looks. I'd like to see whether a man could go up where that goat went."

"Yes," said Joe, "so would I."

Rising, the boys walked over to the place and had no great difficulty in scrambling up to where the goat had been lying. The tracks which they saw before they got there told them that during the night the goat had been down in the valley feeding, and had gone up to this cave to rest, in the heat of the day. The goat's bed had been stamped out among the shale where a trickle of water came down from the slate above, and this accounted for a dark patch on the goat's side that both boys had noticed. It had been lying in the mud.

Then they followed where the goat had gone after leaving its bed. A shelf of rock about a foot wide led along the face of the precipice for thirty or forty yards and was evidently a much-used goat trail. It was pretty narrow for the boys, but by going very gingerly, holding themselves as close as possible to the rocks, they got to the point where the animals had turned off up the hill. Here the water had worn a little course by following a crack in the shale, and there was a ravine, if it could be called that, a foot or two deep and as wide at the top. Moreover, the face of the precipice, instead of being vertical, leaned back a little from the valley. In the ravine and on both sides of it the rocks were much worn by the passage of animals, and to both the boys it seemed clear that this was the regular trail followed by the goats.

"What do you think, Jack?" said Joe. "Could a man climb up there?"

"Well, I tell you what," said Jack. "If you will hold my gun I'm going to try. I believe anybody can climb up there, but, of course, he wouldn't want to do it with much of a load on his back."

"I'll take the guns," said Joe, "but don't you climb too far, and look out that you don't slip and fall. A man might bump himself pretty badly rolling down here, and it's quite a drop down to the rocks below."

"All right," said Jack, "I'll look out."

He gave Joe the gun and started to climb. It was slow work, for in many places the rock was very smooth, and in others, where there was a little knob or protuberance on which to rest hand or foot, it was rotten and broke under his weight. On the whole, however, the going was easier than he had thought, and he went thirty or forty yards to a point where the climbing became easy, and then determined to return. Going back was harder than coming up, for he could not see where to put his feet and was obliged to feel around blindly for footholds. Sometimes, when he had found one and tested it by resting his weight on it, it broke and gave him a little start, but, on the whole, he had little difficulty in getting down to Joe, and together they retraced their steps to the valley.

"Well," said Joe, "I reckon you had quite a time finding places for your fingers. You cut 'em up considerably."

Then for the first time Jack looked at his hands and found that, in half a dozen places, his fingers were lacerated by the sharp slate fragments to which he had clung.

The boys went on up the valley and, presently, found themselves under the tremendous wall of its head. There was no water falling over here now, but it was evident that in times past there had been a great rush of water at the very head of the valley, for the ground was strewn with water-worn pebbles and fine gravel, among which grew grass and other vegetation. The valley here was rather larger than at the lake below, and there was a wide, level amphitheater, walled in on three sides by the great cliff and by mountainsides that were almost as steep as the cliff.

Sitting down here, the boys studied the sides of the mountains with the glasses and soon made out a number of goats lying in the shade or feeding. In one group there were fifteen and, on the side of the tall mountain to the north, they counted forty-two white spots, most of which they felt sure were goats, though some of the spots showed no motion.

It was the middle of the afternoon and they were talking of going back to camp. Jack was taking a last look with his glasses at the goats on the mountainside, when, suddenly, Joe's gun sounded immediately behind him. Jack dropped his glasses and reached for his gun, asking, "Joe, what is it?"

"I think it was a skunk bear," said Joe, "what you call wolverine. It just came up on top of that rock over there, about a hundred yards off, and I shot at it. I knew if I moved or spoke to you, it would jump down and be out of sight in a second."

"Did you get it?" said Jack.

"I don't know," was the reply. "Let's go up there and see. If I didn't hit it, we'll never see it again. These rocks are full of holes and hiding places, and if it's only wounded it will sure get away."

They hurried up to the rock, which Joe pointed out again as they approached it, and walking around on the other side saw a great splash of blood on the stones below and a moment later, behind a small stone, they found a splendid wolverine, kicking in his last gasp. The ball had passed through both shoulders, making the fore-legs useless. If it had not been for that they would, very likely, not have found the animal, although its wound was mortal. Jack shook hands with Joe and said, "That was a good shot, Joe, and mighty lucky, too. This is a splendid hide. I'd have given a good deal for such a chance as that."

"Well," said Joe, "I'd have spoken to you if there'd be any chance that you would have got the shot, but, as I said before, if the beast had seen me move or heard me speak, he would have dodged out of sight and you wouldn't have seen him again."

"Nonsense," said Jack, "there's no reason why you should have given me the shot. You saw him, and he was yours if you could kill him. It would have been throwing away the chance, if you had tried to get me to see him. Of course, he would not have stayed for me to shoot at. Now, what shall we do; skin him here or take him into camp?"

"Well," said Joe, "I'd rather skin him here, only I don't know much about skinning a wolverine. I don't know whether it ought to be cased or split."

"Neither do I," said Jack; "but I reckon we'll be safe if we case it. Then if it ought to be split we can do that afterward, can't we?"

"Maybe," said Joe. "I don't know. Let's case it, anyhow, and save ourselves the trouble of lugging the carcass back."

The boys' knives were sharp and the skinning did not take them long. It was an admirable fur, and as they worked, Jack did not tire of admiring it.

Soon the job was completed and they started for camp.

Hugh looked at them with some curiosity, as they approached the tent, and was much interested to see the wolverine's skin.

"Who killed it?" he asked, finally.

"Joe," said Jack. "He made a mighty good shot from about a hundred yards off and broke both shoulders. The animal was just dying when we got up to it and had gone hardly any distance."

"You were lucky to kill it, Joe," said Hugh. "It isn't often one gets a chance at one of these fellows, and up here in the mountains -- or for the matter of that anywhere else -- if you wound one, that's the end of it. You can never find him."

"We didn't know how to skin it, White Bull," said Joe, "and we didn't want to pack it into camp, so, finally, we cased it. Ought we to have split it?"

"Why," said Hugh, "it don't make much difference. I've seen plenty of wolverine cased, and plenty stretched flat. In old times they used to stretch 'em flat, but I never heard they were worth more one way than another. Nice piece of fur, ain't it?" he said, as he ran his fingers through it. "Up here in the high mountains they haven't begun to shed yet and he's just as smooth and glossy as a beaver."

That night, while they were sitting around the fire after supper, Hugh said, "Now, boys, I don't know whether you've noticed it, but feed is getting mighty short here. We've only got a few head of horses, but the grass is only just started and in about one day more they will be gnawing up its roots on this little flat. We didn't find any feed up the valley, though a couple of weeks later, when the snow has melted and the ground has warmed up, there'll be grass growing everywhere. We came in here a little too early. None of us could have known that, because none of us have ever been up here before. It looks to me as if it was a long time since anybody had been here; I don't see any signs of camps, or horses, or chopping. I think we've got to get out of this and do it pretty quick. If we don't, our horses will begin to get poor."

"That's so, White Bull," said Joe. "I noticed to-day that the feed was getting powerful short, and I don't know where we can go except down the valley toward the prairie, where the weather is warm and the grass has started."

"Well," said Jack, "I suppose that's so, but just think how bad the flies will be down there."

"They will," said Hugh, "surely. But we've got to stand them if we're going to be in the mountains for the next month. It's better to be ate up by flies than to have the horses get poor."

"Well, Hugh," said Jack, "isn't there any place we can go, up here in the high mountains, where there will be feed? We crossed a big stream a little lower down. How would it be up on the head of that?"

"I don't know, son," said Hugh. "You know just as much about this country here as I do. It's new to both of us. If you like, we can take a day off to-morrow and prospect a little more. If we could get up to the top of this high mountain on the north side of the valley, we might be able to see something, but, at a distance, it's pretty hard to tell whether ground where there isn't any snow is covered with grass, or weeds, or willows. If you feel like it, we all can make a climb to-morrow, and see if we can get up to the top of this mountain and look over. If we do, I expect we'll find on the other side some valleys and flats, but it's mighty doubtful if there will be any place where there's feed for the animals. I think the best thing we can do is to go on back and maybe camp on those high ledges we passed over coming up. There's some feed there and then we can climb up to the top of Goat Mountain and see whether from there we can see any country that is without snow. There must be quite a basin in back of Goat Mountain, where that big stream that we camped on the other night comes out. It must be a cold place there with big mountains all around it, but we can take a look into it, and, anyhow, at our camp the horses will be able to find something to eat."

"I guess that is so, White Bull," said Joe. "That's the best thing to do."

"Well," said Jack, "I suppose it is. I hate to leave here when there's so much new country to be seen, but we can't stay without feed for the horses."

Early next morning the tent was pulled down and, while Hugh cooked the breakfast, the beds were rolled, the packs made up and the horses saddled. A little later, while Hugh was washing his dishes and putting his kitchen together, ready for packing, the boys loaded the beds, tent and provisions on two of the horses and, as soon as the third was packed, the train moved off down the valley.

The journey down stream seemed much shorter than the ascent had been. The big river which came in from the north was passed without difficulty, and two or three hours later all the snow had been left behind, and they were traveling in the warm sun, over the grassy ledges of Goat Mountain. Here, on a level spot, camp was made, several of the horses staked out in a place where they could not get cast on the hillside, and Joe and Jack set out to try to reach the crest of the mountain.

It was a long, hard climb, breasting the steep shale slopes and then clambering up narrow ravines worn by water falling for ages down the red cliffs. The boys moved along slowly, for neither was in good condition for mountain-climbing, yet their progress was steady, for though they frequently stopped to catch their breath, these pauses were not long. At last they reached the mountain's crest and, standing upon it, looked over into the valley.

A few stunted wind-swept pines crowned the ridge and under them the snow lay deep, while on the north fall of the ridge, the white slope, dotted here and there with black pines or broken by projecting rock points, stretched down into the basin, in which rose the stream on which they had camped a few nights before.

The basin looked dreary, cold and lifeless. No bare ground was to be seen, only the snow, now and then broken by the fresh tracks of goats which seemed to have been crossing the slope.

Jack and Joe followed the crest of the ridge for some distance, and then turned down the hill toward camp, walking among the scattered, stunted pines, over the steeply inclined slide rock. Gradually they worked down the hill, but, at length, Joe made a little sign, at which Jack stopped and looked in the direction in which Joe was pointing. Sure enough, there, a long way off, was a white spot lying at the foot of one of the red cliffs, and the glasses showed it to be a goat.

The boys set out to stalk it, passing very carefully from tree to tree, until, at length, a point of rock hid the animal from sight. Then they hurried forward, but when they peered carefully over the last point of rocks, behind which the goat should have been, they could not see it. It did not seem possible that they could have frightened it. The wind was right, and while they had been within sight, the animal had made no movement.

After a little looking over the ground, they decided that they had mistaken the place which they were now looking at for the one where the goat had been, and that the right place must be beyond one of two points just before them.

On rounding the first of these, they saw no signs of the animal, but on looking beyond the second, there was the goat, on the little shelf, where he had first been seen. He was just a fair rifle shot from them, and Jack drew back, telling Joe to go ahead and take a shot. Jack had killed a number of goats, but Joe had still his first to shoot at.

The Indian boy crept forward and, resting his gun against a rock, took careful aim and fired. The goat sprang to its feet and, as it rushed across the narrow shelf where it had been lying, the boys could see its fore-leg swinging as if it had been broken high up. The animal had been lying a little quartering toward the gun, and the ball that had broken its shoulder must have passed through the heart or lungs. The goat ran to the edge of the shelf, as if to leap off, but the plunge of sixty feet was too much for it. It turned and ran back toward the crevice down which it had come and reared against the rocks as if to ascend, but Jack fired a hasty shot, which struck the rocks in front of it, and made it run back to the edge of the shelf. Just as it reached the brink its knees gave way and it pitched forward, whirled over and over, struck a ledge, bounded out again, and rolled, an inert mass, down the mountainside and out of sight.

"Hurrah, Joe!" shouted Jack, "you got him, all right."

"Maybe so," said Joe, "I don't want to be too sure, for I have heard that these animals are hard to kill."

Without waste of time Joe started down the mountainside after the animal, springing from rock to rock, almost like a goat or sheep.

"Look out, Joe," called Jack, "you'll break your neck."

But Joe kept on. Where the goat had tumbled into the ravine the rocks were smeared with blood, and fifty or sixty yards further down, at the foot of a steep cliff, the animal lay dead.

It took some time to drag the carcass to a place convenient for working on it and to get it in shape to carry down the mountain. The sun was getting low, and as they worked the sky became overcast. After they had partly skinned the goat, Joe wrapped the hide around the shoulders and put it on his back, while Jack followed with the hams. They traveled as fast as possible, but it was dusk before they reached the ledge on which the camp was located.

"Well, boys," said Hugh, who was sitting by the fire and had supper ready, "what did you find and what have you got? I heard you shoot a couple of times."

"Joe killed a fat nanny-goat," replied Jack, "and we brought in the meat and the hide. The hide, of course, doesn't amount to anything, because there isn't much hair on it, but the meat ought to be good."

"Well," said Hugh, "we'll try it. I am no great hand to eat goat meat, but that sheep that we got down on the lower lake is about all gone and it's time we had some fresh meat. What did you see on the other side of the mountain? Is there any feed there? Any show at all for the stock?"

"No," replied Jack, "nothing there but snow and rocks. A goat might live there, but a horse would quickly starve."

"Well, then," said Hugh, "there's nothing left for us to do but to get down toward the prairie. Maybe we've got to go away from the hills to where the grass is good and the flies won't bother much, or else, on a pinch, we can go up Swift Current. There's likely to be feed all the way up there until we get into the right high mountains."

"I've heard a lot about Swift Current, Hugh," said Jack. "What is there up there?"

"Why," Hugh answered, "I don't rightly know. I've only been up it a few miles and hunted in some of the hills there. There's plenty of game, I reckon; moose and elk and bear and sheep and goats, and perhaps a few deer. It's not a long stream and there's a good trail up to the falls; a trail that's traveled by the Indians every year, for the Kootenays or Stonies or Bloods generally make a hunting camp there for some weeks in the fall. There are some beaver there, too, I think, though not as many as there used to be before the Indians took to trapping them. I expect we'll find the flies pretty bad, but we'll sure find feed for the horses, and there's some high mountains that are mighty sightly."

"Well," said Jack, "I'd like to go up and look round, since we can't do anything at the head of the river until the grass starts, and, if you and Joe think best, I say Swift Current."

"Swift Current will suit me," assented Joe, and Hugh added, "It's a go."

Accordingly the next morning the train continued on down the lakes, and about the middle of the afternoon they camped at the foot of the lower lake. Just as they were about to ford the river, a man on horseback appeared on top of a hill behind them. Hugh happened to look back and saw him signal to call a companion to him by riding in a circle, on the top of the hill where he could be seen by anyone at a distance.

A little later, the man with his companion rode down to the river, crossed it and came to their camp. He was a Kootenay Indian, who could talk some Piegan and some Chinook, and it soon appeared that he was camped with fifteen lodges of his people under the chief Back In Sight, not far off on Swift Current Creek.




Chapter XII

The Ways Of Beaver


The next morning Hugh and the boys made an early start, and crossing the wide flat below the lake, entered the valley of the Swift Current River. They passed close to the Kootenay camp, where the women were at work dressing hides and occupied with other tasks, while the children played among the lodges.

The valley of Swift Current is narrow and flanked on either side by high hills which, though at first rounded and grass-covered, grow steeper and nourish a growth of pines and aspens as one ascends the stream. The trail climbs steeply and, before long, splendid snow-capped mountain peaks cut off the view to the southwest. From time to time the stream enlarges into a series of lakes, in and about which Hugh detected much beaver sign. Trees and bushes had been felled and, floating in the water or lying on the bank, were many lengths of aspen and willow branches, stripped of their bark by the beaver.

"I reckon, son," said Hugh, as the three paused to look at these signs, "that the Kootenays have trapped all along this creek and have got out a good many of the beaver. Nevertheless, there are lots of them left, I expect; and I wouldn't be surprised if a man could make good wages all winter trapping right here. There are some marten in these hills, and now and then an otter and some fisher. It wouldn't be a bad thing to have out a line of traps here."

"No," said Jack, "it wouldn't. I shouldn't mind wintering here a bit. I believe there would be a lot of bears in early spring, to say nothing of the fur that you would get through the winter."

"Yes," said Hugh, "it's a pretty good trapping ground, and I don't believe that it's ever been systematically gone over in winter. A man could live pretty well here, too, for there's lots of sheep and elk, and some deer and moose, to say nothing of the birds and a heap of fish in the lakes and streams."

"I'm afraid I'll never get a chance to winter in this country, Hugh," said Jack. "It seems that I must spend my winters back East."

"Well," said Hugh, "that's right enough, too. The day of the hunter and the trapper has gone by in this country, and now we can only do for sport what we used to do for a living."

All through the morning and until well after noon, the party traveled up the beautiful valley, constantly drawing nearer to the great mountains which towered before them.

Early in the afternoon they came to a wide meadow, bordered by green timber, through which ran the river, flanked on either hand by the towering cliffs of two great mountains. Here Hugh decided to camp, and before long the tent was put up and a smoke built for the benefit of horses and men alike, for the flies were very bad.

After dinner, Jack got from the pack some mosquito netting and, working for a short time with a needle and some thread, and, helped by Joe, made three bags of the netting wide enough to slip over the head and come down to shoulders and breast. When one put on his coat and buttoned it over the net, his head and neck were protected from the mosquitoes. This work done, Jack put together his fishing rod and, drawing on his gloves, went over to the stream to fish for trout, which Hugh said were plenty in the river.

Not far above the camp was a considerable fall, where the water from a lake tumbled thirty feet over the rocks into a deep pool below, in which Jack was interested to see a great school of fish. He drew back and made a number of casts, but the fish paid no attention to his flies, and after he had faithfully whipped the pool for some time, he made up his mind that the fish would not bite. Lying on the rocks, with his face close to the water, he looked down upon the hundreds of them holding themselves in place, head against the current, apparently without moving a fin. As he studied them, he made up his mind that they were not trout, and his disappointment at not catching them was considerably modified.

While he was there, his attention was attracted by a dipper flying across the water and, presently, he saw that on a little shelf of rock, almost directly below the falls, the bird had a nest formed of green moss. There was a little hole in the bundle of moss, at the mouth of which the bird alighted and seemed to pass in food. No doubt his mate was sitting on her eggs, which a little later would hatch into hungry young, to satisfy whose appetites would tax the efforts of both parents, no matter how hard they might work.

But Jack was hungry for fish and soon started down the stream. At first it was so overgrown by willows and spruces that he could not fish, but not far beyond this the trees stood farther back from it and he began to cast. Before he had gone far he had a rise and caught a nice ten-inch trout. Just below was a dark pool, from which he took four large fish, the largest weighing perhaps two pounds. His third fish was different from any of those he had taken before, and so was the fourth. Instead of being spotted with black, these two had red spots on them and heads larger and more clumsy than the black-spotted trout. They were not like the brook trout of the East and Jack was puzzled to know what they were, but felt sure that Hugh would tell him.

Keeping on down stream, he soon had ten fish strung on a willow twig, and the load was so heavy that he turned from the river and, passing through a fringe of timber, found himself near camp.

Joe was sitting not far from the fire half in the smoke, and was rubbing a lot of green leaves between his palms and then passing his hands over his face, neck and arms. Hugh, not so near the fire, was smoking vigorously, but seemed to be little troubled by the mosquitoes. The horses were still standing together, crowded into the smoke.

"Well, son," said Hugh, "that's a nice string of fish you've got. You've done well. That ought to last us for a couple of meals. Did you find the fish plenty?"

"Yes," replied Jack, "there are lots of them, and I want to ask you some questions about them. In the first place that pool right under the falls there is just full of fish, and yet not one of them would rise to my flies. I looked at them pretty carefully and I don't believe they're trout. Do you know what they are?"

"Peamouths, I reckon," answered Hugh.

"Peamouths?" said Jack. "I think I've heard that name, but I don't know what it means."

"Why," replied Hugh, "it's a kind of a brook white fish, I reckon. They're quite a little like the white fish that we catch in the lake here, and yet they're different, smaller, different in color and the mouth is some different, too. Some people call them stone rollers. I don't know just why, unless, perhaps, they turn over the stones at the bottom of the stream when they're looking for food; but that's just my guess from the name."

"Well," said Jack, "if we get a chance I'd like to catch one and see it, so that I'll know it again.

"And now, Hugh," he went on, "what kind of a trout is that?" and he pointed to one of the red-spotted fish on his string.

"That's a bull trout," answered Hugh.

"Well," said Jack, "there's another new fish. I never heard of bull trout before, and I don't know what it is."

"I don't either," said Hugh, "except that I know that it's a trout that we have in these Northern waters and that I never saw in the Rocky Mountains, south of here. I never saw one south of Milk River ridge, I think."

"When I first got hold of it," explained Jack, "I thought for a minute that maybe it was the Eastern brook trout, but it's a very different fish."

"They are mighty good eating," declared Hugh, "but I don't know that they are any better than the regular trout, that fellow with black spots."

"All trout are good enough," said Jack.

Presently Jack went over to Joe, who had finished his operations with the leaves, and asked him what it was that he had been doing, and why he did not wear his net.

"Trying to keep the flies off," said Joe. "There's a kind of a weed that grows in the wet places and I've heard that it's good medicine against flies, so I gathered a lot of the leaves and rubbed them up and then rubbed them over my skin, and it seems to me that the flies don't bother me as much now. That net I don't like. I can't see when I wear it."

"That's so," said Jack. "It does seem mighty warm and sort of takes my breath away, but it isn't as bad as the mosquitoes. What's the weed you've got?"

Joe showed him the plant, but Jack did not know it.

As they sat about the fire that evening after supper, the insects no longer troubled them, for it was very cold; almost freezing. They had had a hearty meal and were feeling as lazy and comfortable as could be. Not much was said, but once in a while some one would make a remark which required no reply.

Presently Jack said, "Hugh, I've been thinking about that beaver work that we saw down the creek to-day and I want to ask you some more questions about beaver. You told me a great deal last year, of course, but I still don't feel that I know much about them. I suppose I do know more than a good many other people, but I don't know much. I'd like to have you tell me something more about them."

"That's so, son, we did talk a whole lot about beaver last year, when we were trapping, and, of course, you saw something about their ways while we were catching them; but you're dead right, you don't know much about them. For the matter of that, though, nobody does. I expect I know a lot more than you, but I've got a whole lot to learn. They're a mighty curious animal."

"Well, Hugh," replied Jack, "of course, it's hard to find out much about animals that spend a good deal more than half their lives out of sight and that one only sees now and then.

"There's one thing," he went on, "that I never thought of while we were trapping, but that I did think of last winter, and it's puzzled me a whole lot. There are the beavers' houses built out in deep water and yet there is a passage from under the water up into the house. I don't understand how that passage is made. Is it possible that the beavers build the house so carefully that a tunnel is left leading from the bottom of the water up into the middle of the house, and then build about a room at the end of that tunnel? That doesn't seem possible, and if they do, how do they get the first sticks to stop at the bottom of the water. Why don't the sticks rise up and float away? I've been puzzling my head over that for some months now, and have wanted to ask you about it. I thought it would be a long story, and so it would not be worth while writing you about it."

"Well," said Hugh, "I ought to have told you about that last year. I don't wonder that it puzzled you. It's enough, it seems to me, to puzzle anybody. But now suppose I go ahead and try to explain it to you the way I understand it. Whatever I have learned comes, of course, from what I've seen a beaver do, but more than anything from the few houses that I have had occasion to tear down."

"Well, I wish you would explain, Hugh," said Jack, "for I want to understand about this."

"Well, now," Hugh went on, "let's suppose you've got a little creek coming down from the mountains where no beaver have ever been, and a couple that have left some colony where they belonged go off and find this little creek, and think it's a pretty good place to stop. Maybe the creek is shallow, and, if it is, about the first thing they do is to build two or three low dams across it, so as to give them deep water for safety. Then from one of these little ponds where the water is deep, they'll dig a tunnel off at right angles to the stream, pretty well under the ground, about on a level, and when they get thirty or forty feet from the creek they'll enlarge it and make a room, and there is where they'll live for a little while. In the bottom of the tunnel there is water for quite a little way, but when they have dug up and made a room it's pretty dry there, except for the water that they pack in on their fur. Maybe they'll stay there for quite a while, but after a little while they dig upward and come out to daylight -- on top of the ground in the stream bottom, I mean.

"Now, like enough they go off and begin to cut willows or cottonwood or aspen and bring it down close to the hole that they have in the ground, and very likely they'll pile sticks over that hole, possibly, at first, with the idea of hiding it. They drag down more and more sticks and make the hole from the tunnel bigger, and, presently, they begin to cut out the sticks that were first piled on top of the hole, so that, finally, they have their nest in the lower portion of this pile of sticks. Meantime, very likely, they have been working, more or less, on the dam on the creek below the house, and have raised the water still more, so that perhaps the tunnel is now full of water, and then, instead of using this tunnel to get out of, they'll gnaw a hole through the sticks of the house, making a passage-way from the room they occupy down to beneath the surface of the water. They still keep working at the dam, raising it and making it level, so that the pond gets bigger and bigger all the time.

"Perhaps the water is raised, so that it begins to come into the room in the house that they occupy; the place is getting too wet for them. Then it's quite possible that they will start down at the very edge of the water and gnaw a tunnel upward, in a slanting direction, perhaps quite close to the covering of the house, and, finally, when they get up near the top of the house, they'll gnaw out another room, almost above the two they had occupied before. All this time they're working at the dam and raising the water, and all this time, too, they are packing sticks up on top of the house, raising it higher and higher, and perhaps bringing mud, which they get along the bank, and putting this among the sticks on top of the house so as to bind the whole together and make it tight and warm for winter. If you study some old beaver pond, as I have, you will find that all along the edge of the pond, under the bank, but above the water, but, of course, below the grass-roots, the beaver have tunneled out roads partly hidden by the overhanging sod and grass. They take this mud, as I have told you, and use it on the houses and on the dams, and these hidden ways under the bank enable them to go quietly from one place in the pond to another without ever being seen."

"Well," said Jack, "that gives me a whole lot of new ideas. I never thought of that way of making the passageways or the rooms. I knew that there must be some way, but what it was I couldn't tell, though I figured over it a whole lot."

"Yes," answered Hugh, "that's the way they do it. Now, you've never seen the inside of a beaver house, but I have told you how the floor is pretty level and not very far above the water, and I've told you also that often they have benches all around the room on which they lie when they are in the house. Now, these benches are made in just the same way that the room is made, that is to say, they are gnawed out of the solid sticks that the house is made of. First, perhaps, one old beaver will gnaw out a kind of a hollow in the wall of the room, with a flat level floor just about big enough for her to lie on, and then, perhaps, her mate will gnaw out another place like this, next to her, and perhaps a place will be gnawed out for the young ones, so that all the beaver that live in the house will have benches to rest on, which, I suppose, are drier, or, at all events, more comfortable, than the floor of the house would be."

"I think I understand, Hugh," said Jack. "Anybody that has seen a beaver's teeth, and the work that they do, the trees that they cut down, and knows the short time that it takes them to do this, can understand easily enough how it's perfectly possible for them to gnaw their way through a lot of small sticks, such as the houses are made of."

"Yes," said Hugh, "it's simple enough, of course, to know how beaver could chew through anything made of wood.

"I've told you," he went on, "about the open canals that the beaver dig to get near where they are gathering their food, so as to get that food to their houses and so as to have refuge in case an enemy should get after them, but I don't believe I thought to tell you about the underground tunnels that they dig, like those we've just been talking about. Of course, after a while, when the water has been raised, these underground tunnels are all covered up. The beaver no longer use them and they are very likely to fall in. Then if you are riding or wading in a beaver pond, you may suddenly step into a ditch that is a foot and a half or two feet deeper than the rest of the pond. Very likely if you are on horseback, the horse will fall down. A beaver pond or a beaver meadow is likely to be full of traps for anyone who goes through it.

"There's another thing," he continued. "Sometimes, if there is a little pond or lake not far off from a creek where the beaver have made a pond they will dig a channel to that. They are more likely to do that if the water in the pond toward which they are digging stands higher than the water in their own pond. They can travel through this channel up to the other pond, and, perhaps, there get a lot of food which they can float down through this channel. I remember once seeing such a place, where the channel had evidently been used to float down the food, but when I saw the place, the water was low in the creek and in the pond, and in many places the channel between the two was nearly dry. At one point the beaver had run up against a big boulder which lay in the channel that they were digging, and they had had to go around it. They had cut a big cottonwood stick in the upper pond, perhaps eight inches through and four or five feet long, and had started to float it down the canal. Then the water seemed to have given out on them, and there was this big stick stranded on the boulder, where, of course, it had to wait until the water was high next spring, when it would be floated down to the place they wanted to get it to."

Jack had been listening eagerly to this account, and when Hugh stopped speaking, said, "Dear me, Hugh, how much you know about this country and the animals that live in it. I wonder if anyone else knows as much. I made a point this winter of reading two or three books on beaver and trying to find out everything that I could about the animal, but none of these books said one word about what you have been telling me; they just said that the beaver built dams and houses and kept talking about how smart he was, but really they didn't know anything about the animal. They were just guessing all the time. There wasn't a word said about how the beaver got into their houses, nor how they made the passage or the rooms. They didn't explain a bit, and yet, from the way they wrote, you'd suppose they knew it all."

"Well," answered Hugh, with a smile, "when they came to a place where they did not understand how the beaver did anything, I suppose they didn't have anybody to go to and ask, and so they had to just keep on writing and pretending that it was all simple enough to them, even if they didn't explain how it was to the people that read the books."

"Well," said Jack, "I think they're frauds; regular frauds. If a man is pretending to tell about anything, and comes to a place where he doesn't know any more, he ought to stop writing there, and then go on and write about something that he does know about."

"Well, now," said Hugh, "ain't you a little mite hard on these fellows that write books? I expect that they don't like to say that they don't know. Of course, a man that don't know oughtn't to be telling people about the things he don't know about."

"No," said Jack, "you bet he oughtn't to, and that's what I'm kicking about."

"Well, son, your kicking may give you some satisfaction, but it won't hurt the men that are writing the books."

"No," said Jack, "I guess not, but it's a fraud all the same."

"Well," said Hugh, "it's about time for us to turn in. Suppose you boys go out and catch two of the riding horses and picket them strongly, and I guess the others will stay with them until morning."

The boys did this, and when they returned to camp all hands turned in for the night.




Chapter XIII

The Forks Of Swift Current


Daylight was slow in breaking the next morning, and when the earliest riser came out of the tent he saw that the valley was filled with mist which hid the mountain peaks. It was fairly cold, and all hands were glad to wear their coats.

Hugh kindled the fire and began to get breakfast, while the boys went out and turned loose the picketed horses, finding all the animals together.

"No mosquitoes this morning, Jack," said Joe, as they walked back to camp.

"No, indeed," replied Jack. "Any mosquito that came out this morning would be likely to have his wings and beak frozen off. My, but it's cold!" and he crowded close to the fire, stretching out his stiff wet hands to try to get some warmth into them.

"Yes," said Hugh, "it's pretty cold up here in the mountains. Ten miles down the creek, on the prairie, I bet the sun is shining hot."

"Isn't it queer what a difference there is between the mountains and the prairie?" said Jack.

"Yes," said Hugh, "there's lots of difference, but this place up here is the coldest, stormiest country that I know anything about. It seems to me that all these blizzards that we hear about that sweep over Eastern Montana and Dakota and so on, toward the States, get their start right up here. I've been right on top of the mountains along here where the weather would be warm and fine as could be, but a little way down on the eastern slope it would be raining and blowing like fury, and how far the wind and storm reached, I never could find out. Of course, there are lots of bad storms that start up here that never do get as far as the prairie, but there are lots of others that get such a start here that they keep going until they get a long way east.

"Well," Hugh went on, "the grub is about ready and we may as well sit down and eat. I believe this fog is going to lift in a while and we can keep on up the valley and see how far we can go before the mountains stop us. By rights, we ought to wait here until the sun comes out and dries off the ropes and blankets, but I don't believe we've got much further to go, not more than six or seven miles anyhow, before we'll either get to the foot of the mountains or well up on them."

A little while after breakfast the fog seemed to be growing thin and, presently, the sun broke through. From that time the mist gradually disappeared, but before it had wholly vanished from the mountainsides, the packs were on the horses and the train was stringing out up the trail. There was a short, steep climb about opposite the falls, where Jack had tried to fish the day before, and then a stretch of level land, the trail passing through scattered timber close to the shores of a rather large lake. When they had reached the upper end of this, Hugh stopped, and, turning to Jack, said, "Now, which way do you want to go? This valley seems to have three forks, one short one in the middle, and a longer one on either side. The short one is right ahead of us and the easiest, but the longest one is up here, to the right. If we want to find out what there is here, we may as well take them in order."

"Then," said Jack, "what's the matter with taking the right-hand one first? What do you think, Joe?"

Joe signified that he was doubtful which to take, and as he, apparently, didn't care much, Hugh said, "Well, come on then, we'll see if we can find some sort of a trail through the timber up here to the right."

A dim trail, which seemed to Jack like a disused game trail, led through the timber and the road was fairly easy. Before they had gone far, both boys could see that people had traveled up it in previous years, for in a number of places the bark was knocked from the trees, where packs had hit against them and, in one or two places, they saw a thread of red or white worsted clinging to a tree in a narrow place in the trail, showing where a rider's leg had rubbed against the bark and a shred had been torn from his leggings or blanket. Once or twice they saw a tuft of goat hair caught on a branch.

For some hours they wound through the forest, but at length the trees grew smaller and they passed through some open timber into a little park.

The mountains rose high on every side, but there was plenty of grass, a good-sized stream, and abundant wood. At the head of the park, two streams came from narrow valleys, one to the west and one to the east, and immediately before the travelers rose a very sharp mountain slope, terminating in a long high wall or precipice crowned by jagged finger-like rocks.

"Well," said Hugh, as they got to the upper end of the park, "I reckon we've got to stop here. Of course, it may be that we could take the horses higher up, but I don't feel any way sure about it and, if we should take them, we'd probably find the ground covered with snow. Let's make camp, and tie up the pack horses, and then we'll ride farther on and see what there is. It looks to me like there ought to be lots of sheep and goats up here, and we may as well find out."

It was nearly noon before the packs were off and the tent up, and then it was time to cook and eat, so that it was one o'clock before they mounted again and rode off. Hugh followed the westerly branch of the stream and, after a little search, found a game trail which led up the steep bank and brought them to the level of the valley, above the forty-foot precipice over which the stream poured. Here the ground was level and timber-covered, but they soon came out on rolling land which rose steadily toward the mountain and was dotted with clumps of trees.

The stream, which they had been following, came from a beautiful lake of clear, green water, in which two or three harlequin ducks were swimming, among little fragments of ice floating in the water.

The three travelers dismounted and, sitting down beneath a pine tree, looked over the lake and scanned the rocks above it.

Presently Hugh said, "Boys, do you want to see some goats?"

"Yes," replied Jack, "I've been looking for them, but I don't see any."

"Well," said Hugh, "I'll tell you why. You're looking too high up in the air. Look down here in the valley, just below the edge of the snow, and see what you can see."

The boys looked, and there, to their astonishment, saw several herds of goats feeding on the young grass that grew on the slopes of the mountains.

"Plenty of goats," said Joe.

"You bet, they're plenty," agreed Jack. "Let's count them." They did so and found that there were no less than forty-three goats in sight and none of them at a level higher than they were.

"Quite a show, isn't it?" said Hugh. "I don't remember that I ever saw so many goats at one view, as we're looking at now. It wouldn't be much of a trick to get goat meat here, if we wanted it."

"No," answered Jack, "I should think not, but, as you say, we don't want it particularly. I'd rather have some sheep or even an elk. I expect there are some elk here, aren't there? I saw some sign of them, as I thought, coming up."

"Yes," said Hugh, "I reckon there are elk here; not very many, but some. Maybe we can get to kill one before long."

It was pleasant sitting there in the sun and watching the feeding goats, unsuspicious of danger. Suddenly, however, there was a movement in the group nearest the head of the valley and the animals began to walk quickly toward the heights and were soon climbing up over the snowbanks.

"There!" exclaimed Hugh, "I reckon some eddy of wind from us must have crept around and they have smelt us. Just see how they climb."

"Yes," said Jack, "and look at that little kid following its mother. It can't go very fast and see how she stops and turns, and looks, and waits for it. That's mighty pretty, I think."

"Yes," said Joe, "that's nice. That's the way the old ones always do unless they're too badly scared. There, you see the little one has caught up, and now the mother goes on again."

The disturbance among the first group of goats had started the others along the mountainside, and now all were clambering toward the high rocks. The men watched them, until they had passed over the snowbanks and reached the precipice, along which they ran, like flies on a wall, though of course the boys knew that there must be shelves wide enough for them to walk on. Soon, however, the sun sank behind the towering peak to the westward and the air grew chilly, and remounting their horses the travelers returned to camp.

"No mosquitoes to-night, Hugh," said Jack.

"No," answered Hugh, "I guess we're safe."

"White Bull," said Joe, as they were sitting before the fire, "have you ever been up here before?"

"No," said Hugh, "I never have and I never heard of anybody else that has been up here. Of course, we know that the Kootenays and Stonies come up here and sometimes maybe a little party of hunting Crees, but no white men, as far as I ever heard. Along back, fifteen or twenty years ago, there was a party of white men camped below here, on Kennedy's Creek. They were looking for gold. They found a few colors, but nothing that paid at all and, after a little while, they gave up looking for gold, and broke up into little parties, some of them going back to Benton and some hunting along the flanks of the mountains, but I don't believe they or any other party of white men have ever been up here before."

"Well," said Joe, "then, of course, you don't know what there is up this other creek that comes from the east."

"No, I don't," said Hugh. "It can't be very long, because Kennedy's Creek must be pretty close to us, on the other side of the mountains."

"Say, Jack," said Joe. "Let's take our guns and go up this creek afoot to-morrow, and see what there is there. We might see some game and, anyhow, we'll find out where the stream come from. What do you think, White Bull, is it good?"

"Good," said Hugh, "go on up there and see what you can find. I think maybe I'll stop around the camp or perhaps climb up to the top of these rocks right in front of us, and see what stream it is that is on the other side. It looks like a pretty straight up and down wall in front of us, but, often, when you get close to a place like that you find that you can climb it."

"What do you expect to see on the other side, Hugh?" asked Jack.

"I don't know," said Hugh, "but I reckon I'll see more mountains. Those seem to be mostly what grows in this part of the world, but I shouldn't be much surprised if right on the other side of that wall I saw a narrow valley, through which runs one of the forks of Belly River."

"Won't you find lots of snow going up there, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Some, I guess," was the reply, "but you see this is the south face of the wall and the sun is pretty strong now and hits the rocks up there, so that I reckon most of the snow will be melted."

"Well," said Jack, "that will be bully. We will send out two exploring parties from the camp, and then at night both will report."

It was long after daylight the next morning when Jack and Joe set out, but the mountains on either side of the little valley were so high that the sun had not yet melted the frost on the grass. The first mile of their journey was spent in clambering up a series of moss-covered ledges, very steep, but not at all difficult to climb. Then they found themselves at the bottom of a talus, a sharp slope of rock fragments, that had fallen from the cliffs above, and they followed this around point after point, until the narrow valley of the stream opened before them.

This valley was nearly straight and only three or four miles in length, walled in on the west and north by a vertical precipice, not very high, but terminating in the same jagged rock pinnacles that crowned the wall to the north of the camp, and beyond which Hugh thought he might see the valley of Belly River. There was no timber growing at the foot of this rock wall nor on the steep mountainside that lay to the east, but at one time the actual valley where the stream ran and where grass and underbrush now grew, had supported a growth of large timber. All these trees, however, had been broken off twelve or fifteen feet above the ground and their trunks lay piled one upon another among the growing vegetation like a great heap of giant jack-straws.

"Now, what do you suppose broke off all those trees at just that height, Joe?" asked Jack.

Joe looked for a long time before he answered, and then he said, "Snowslide, I reckon."

"By Jove," said Jack, "that's what it is, sure enough. You can see the track of it coming down that mountainside, can't you? What an immense mass of snow it must have been, and what a force it must have had to break off those great, thick trees. Some of them look eighteen inches through. I wonder how long ago it took place."

"Yes," said Joe, "it sure must have come down fast and hit those trees hard, and when it got down here into the valley, it must have just piled up. It couldn't get out anywhere, for big and swift as it was, it could not knock down this wall."

All along the mountainside opposite to them were to be seen places where deep and wide grooves had been cut in the soil and, as they looked more closely, they could see the stumps of many trees that had been cut down by the slide.

"Well," said Jack, "that certainly was a big avalanche."

"Avalanche," said Joe, "what's that?"

"Why," said Jack, "it's just another name for snowslide. That's what they call a snowslide in Switzerland, I believe. A man once wrote a piece of poetry about a fellow that was climbing the mountains in Switzerland, and one of the people that he passed said to him, 'Beware, the awful avalanche.' That meant watch out close for snowslides."

"Well," said Joe, "I've never been much in the mountains and I've never seen a snowslide, but I have heard old people talk about them, and from what they say, they are things to be scared of."

Presently, the boys set out toward the head of the valley, following the lower border of the talus, where the walking was fairly easy. They hardly expected to see any game, yet both kept their eyes open for anything that might turn up. Presently, immediately in front of them were seen tracks where animals had been running back and forth, and a little examination showed that a small band of mountain sheep had come down from the rocks and had been playing about, no longer ago than this morning.

"If we'd been a little earlier, Joe," said Jack, "we might have got a shot at those fellows."

"We may do it yet," replied Joe, "and if we don't do it to-day, perhaps we can find them to-morrow. Very likely they live right here somewhere, and I don't believe they're a bit scary, so that if we look for them carefully we may be able to get a shot."

They could see where the sheep had come down to the edge of the valley, perhaps to get a bite of green grass, perhaps to drink, though probably not for water, since the melting snow all over the hillsides would have given them many drinking places.

They kept on slowly up the valley, stopping often to look about and, more than once, sitting down and scanning the rocks about, beyond them, and across the valley for game. By this time the sun had climbed over the mountains and was shining down into the valley with a pleasant warmth and, with the rising sun, rose swarms of mosquitoes, which bothered the boys not a little. As they were walking along, Jack slightly in the lead, a brown and white bird suddenly rose from the ground, almost at his feet, and then fell again, and tumbling over and over, fluttered off for a little way, as if desperately hurt, and then lay on the ground, with outspread, quivering wings, and open beak, as if unable to go further.

"Ah," said Jack, "there's a ptarmigan, and there must be a nest right here."

Sure enough, a few minutes' search revealed a nest just in front of Jack. It was a mere hollow scratched in the ground and had no lining, except a few blades of grass, and two or three feathers that had dropped from the bird's breast. In the nest were six beautiful eggs almost covered with purplish spots, mottlings and cloudings, and so nearly the color of many of the stones that lay on the slope that Jack's eye had passed over them two or three times without seeing that they were eggs and not stones.

"Oh, aren't they pretty!" said Jack. "Wouldn't I like to have them safely back East and a picture of the place where we found them, and of the mother bird."

By this time the mother had risen from the ground where she lay and had walked back, close to the boys, and, with bristling feathers and angry cluckings, stalked so close to them that they could have touched her with their outstretched hands.

"Certainly, that's one of the prettiest things I ever saw," said Jack, "and I'm mighty glad to have seen the eggs because I've seen the young ones. Don't you remember, Joe, the little one that we caught three or four years ago, the first time that you and I ever hunted together on the mountains?"

"Sure," said Joe, "I remember. That was the time we got the sheep, just before we went off to Grassy Lakes, where you counted your coup on the Assinaboine."

"Yes," said Jack, "that was the time. I tell you, Joe, you and I have had some pretty good times together, haven't we?"

"You bet," replied Joe, "and two or three times I've been pretty badly scared when I've been with you, but we always came out all right."

"Well," said Jack, "I've been scared, too, but I suppose we didn't either of us show it."

"No," answered Joe, "I suppose we didn't. I hope not, anyhow. I don't mind being scared, if I can only keep it to myself, but I don't like to have people laugh at me.

"Well," he went on, "let's go ahead, and leave this old mother to get on her eggs again."

The boys kept on towards the head of the valley and at last could see that the stream that they had been following had its origin in a tiny, deep, green lake, lying at the very head of the valley and close under the rock wall and the high mountains to the east. When they reached this lake, Jack said, "What do you say, Joe? Shall we cross over and try to get down to camp on the other side of the valley? I don't know whether we can find good walking there or not, but I guess we can, and I'd like to go over new ground if I could."

"I say let's try it," replied Joe. "If we find we can't get down that way, we can come back and go home the way we came."

"Come on then," said Jack, and the two started across the valley, walking on the beach of the little lake. The outlet was very narrow, and the boys jumped across it and then set out directly toward the mountainside. The going was not good, for the soil was full of water and overgrown by thick moss, above which stood a tangle of small shrubs and underbrush. However, the distance was not great, and before long they had made their way over to the mountainside, and there found a talus of slide-rock, much like that along which they passed on the other side. Here the walking was not as good as on the other side of the stream, because springs and trickles of water were constantly coming down from the mountainside.

A couple of miles this side of camp the slope of the mountain grew easier and scattered trees began to clothe its side. They crossed a long, low point of timber and from here there was a gentle descent toward camp, through a dry open forest. They were almost within sight of camp when Jack heard a sound, stopped, and raised his gun, and then a stick cracked in the timber not far off. Jack threw his gun to his shoulder and fired, and in a moment the timber before them seemed filled with animals, which disappeared almost at once, and the noise of their footsteps and of the sticks which they broke in their flight, grew fainter and fainter.

The boys had glimpses of elk running in all directions, but had no chance to shoot again.

"Well," said Jack, "I don't know very certainly what I shot at, but I think it was a young bull elk. Let's go over and see if we can find anything."

Stepping briskly forward, the boys were soon near the point where the animal had stood at which Jack fired. After looking about for a moment or two, Joe said, "You hit him;" and pointed to a dark spot on a weathered tree trunk, which Jack could see was blood.

The boys circled about, looking carefully at the ground, the trunks of the trees, and the leaves of the low-growing plants, and presently Jack saw that Joe had found the trail, which he was following, slowly at first, because the sign was hard to see, and then more rapidly.

Jack walked after him and together they followed the trail which led down toward the camp. The sign was, at first, slight, but after they had gone some distance they could see a good deal of blood on the ground on both sides of the tracks, and from this Joe declared that the animal was hit in the lungs and would not go far. He was right; a hundred yards further on the graceful form of a young bull elk was stretched on the ground. It was a yearling, of course with its horns in the velvet and as yet quite soft.

The boys dressed the animal and then, walking down to the camp, caught and saddled a pack horse and, bringing it up into the timber, quartered the elk, packed it on the horse and returned to camp, where they unloaded their meat at the foot of a tree and, getting a couple of sling ropes, managed with some labor to haul the quarters into the branches well above the ground.

"Now," said Joe, "when White Bull comes in we'll see what he says and, if he thinks best, we'll cut out and dry a lot of that elk meat, and take it along with us. We can't be sure at this time of the year, that we're going to kill something every day."

All through the afternoon they lounged about the fire, and the sun was still two or three hours high when Jack, who for some time had been watching the mountainsides to the north, saw Hugh coming down the slope a long way off toward the camp.

"Hurrah, Joe!" said Jack, "there's Hugh. Pretty soon we'll find out what he's seen and tell him what we have done."

A little later Hugh reached the camp and, after putting his rifle inside the tent, said, "Well, boys, I see you've got some fresh meat, and I'm mighty glad of it. I've had quite a walk and am feeling pretty wolfish. Let's get supper and then, after we've eaten, we'll have a whole lot of time to talk."




Chapter XIV

A Lynx Visits Camp


"Well, son," said Hugh, as the two pulled on their shoes in the gray light of the next morning, "I slept mighty well last night and I reckon your conscience didn't trouble you much, did it?"

"No," said Jack, "I didn't know what was going on two minutes after I rolled my blanket about me."

"It's mighty dark this morning," said Hugh. "Either we got up early, or else there's a big fog;" and when they put their heads out of the tent, sure enough, the mountains were covered with mist and a few flakes of snow were falling.

"Well," said Hugh, "it's no time to climb the mountains to-day, unless the weather clears, and it seems to me that it's mighty cold. Maybe we're going to get snowed in here."

"That wouldn't be very nice," said Jack. "I hope we won't have a big snowstorm."

"Well," said Hugh, "you boys go out and look after the horses. We've got to keep our eyes on them; it would be pretty bad to be left afoot and, if it does snow, the horses will be wanting to get down to the prairie again."

The boys went and did as they were told, and changed the two horses that were picketed to fresh grass, saw that the others were all near at hand, and then returned to the fire.

Meanwhile, the snow began to fall more and more thickly and, after breakfast, Hugh said, "Now, boys, I believe we're going to have a real snowstorm. Let's get these ropes, blankets and saddles covered up as well as we can, and then we'll go down to the point where we came out of the timber and build some sort of a fence there, so as to keep the horses from going back to the prairie. We'll have to picket them all to-day and they're not likely to pull up their pins, but we'll make it as hard for them to get away as we can."

The riding saddles and pack riggings were soon piled under a tree, where they would be protected from the snow and covered with blankets and mantas, and then Hugh began to cut and sharpen a number of pins, while the boys collected lash ropes and lariats enough to tie all the horses. After the animals had been securely picketed, the three men went down to the end of the valley and, after Hugh had cut some tall, but slender, dead pine and spruce trees, the boys dragged them out of the timber and made a fence, which sufficiently barricaded the trail and one or two open places, where the horses might have gone into the forest.

By this time the light snow was two or three inches deep and, when they returned to camp, they found that all the horses were busily at work pawing away the snow, in order to get at the grass beneath it.

"There," said Hugh, "I guess they're all right, and this thing is just a flurry. As soon as the sun comes out again, this snow will all melt."

Joe went into the tent, and covering himself with his blankets, went to sleep, but Jack wanted to be doing something, yet there was not much that he could do, unless he went out to hunt, and, as all the foliage was covered with snow, he could not hunt without also getting wet.

Now and then he would walk out and look at the horses, which could not be seen from the camp. They were all standing with their tails to the storm, each with a crest of wet snow on his mane, a patch on the upper hairs of his tail and, most of them, with a line of white running down the backbone. They looked quite as miserable as Jack felt.

On one of Jack's returns to the fire, Hugh looked up and said smilingly, "You're getting pretty tired of doing nothing, son?"

"Yes," said Jack, "it's pretty slow business, I confess. I've been trying to think if there was anything that I could do and I can't think of anything, unless I go over and take down some of that meat and cut it up for drying."

"Well," said Hugh, "that's certainly not a bad idea. What do you say if we go over there and get a quarter and work on it under a tree where the snow doesn't fall thick?"

"I'd like to, Hugh," said Jack. "Of course, nothing would dry to-day and maybe not to-morrow, but if we could have two or three days of bright weather we could get it so it would keep."

"We sure could," said Hugh; "and even if we don't have bright weather, we can rig up some kind of a scaffold and half dry and half smoke it with the fire. Come on, I'll go with you and we'll get down a piece of meat and go to work on it."

It was but a short distance to where the meat hung, and, before long, one of the hind quarters of the elk was on the ground. Hugh stopped in front of it and said, "Now, son, take hold of it and, when I get up, raise it, and we'll pack it into camp."

The load was too heavy for an ordinary man to carry a great distance, but this did not seem to trouble Hugh. He threw down the ham under a spreading pine tree, that stood not far from the tent, and then Jack and he removed the skin, and began the work of cutting the flesh into thin flakes, which they piled up on the flesh side of the hide that had been taken off the elk. They worked at this for some hours and before supper time had cut out all the meat of the elk.

"Now, son," said Hugh, "go and get me a sling-rope and we'll hoist this meat off the ground. If we leave it here, likely some animal will come around to-night and want to carry it off."

"Well, Hugh, I don't believe I can climb the tree," said Jack; for the trunk was very large and without branches for twenty-five or thirty feet above his head.

"No," said Hugh, "I don't believe you can and, what's more, we haven't got any sling-rope that will reach from the ground to that lowest branch and back again. We'll tie it up to that little tree that stands close to the tent. Of course, it won't be safe there, but I reckon anything can't get at it without our hearing it."

He made a bundle of the meat, lashing it with a sling-rope.

"There," he said, "that's all right for the present, and we'll put it up here in this spruce tree. Nothing can knock it down without its hitting the tent and waking us, but if we should want to dry it to-morrow, someone will have to stop here and look after it, if the others go off on the mountains. Now let's have supper."

Hugh and Jack washed their hands in the snow, built up the fire, and presently commenced to cook supper. After things were going well, Jack called out, "Get up, Joe, you've been asleep all day, while other people have been working. Supper is nearly ready."

Joe grunted sleepily in response and, presently, his black shock of hair was seen poking out of the tent door.

"I must have been asleep," he said.

"Asleep?" said Jack "I should say so. It's five or six hours since you turned in and here Hugh and I have been working all that time to support you."

Joe was not wide enough awake to appreciate Jack's joke, but after he had walked a little way from the fire and given his face and hands a good scrubbing with snow, he brightened up a good deal and seemed to watch the progress of the meal with interest.

"I tell you what," said Hugh, as they were eating, "let's turn back the flaps of the tent and build a small fire right close in front of it. Of course, we'll have to watch it pretty carefully and put it out when we want to go to bed, but it will seem a heap more comfortable than to be standing about the fire out here."

"Good," said Jack, "let's do it. If you'll wash the dishes I'll cut some small wood and we'll get something as near like a lodge as we can."

When the fire was built and when the three were sitting on their soft blankets under the shelter of the tent, it seemed very comfortable.

"There," said Hugh, "this is lots better than standing out there, boys, ain't it?"

"Yes," said Joe, "it is."

"Bully," said Jack. "We couldn't be more comfortable than this, unless we had a lodge, and this is plenty good enough."

"Yes," said Hugh, "I would like to have brought a small lodge, but then I knew we were coming into a stormy country and very likely often would have to camp high up where we couldn't get lodge poles, and so I thought it was better to bring this little tent with the folding poles. Of course, sleeping out on the prairie in this weather one doesn't need a tent, but in the mountains here, where you're likely to have ten rain or snow storms in a day, it's good to keep your blankets dry."

While he was speaking, Hugh was cutting tobacco, and when he had a pipeful, after grinding it up between his palms, he filled the bowl of the pipe and reaching out took a brand from the fire and lighting his pipe sat there in great comfort, drawing in deep breaths of the fragrant smoke.

"Well," he remarked, when his pipe was going well, "I never would advise a young man to begin to smoke, but I don't know of anything in this world that has given me more comfort than tobacco, and that is one thing that the world has got to thank the Indians for."

"Well, pretty nearly everybody smokes," said Jack, "and I've often thought that maybe I'd like to, especially when I see you sitting there as you do now, Hugh. You seem to take such solid comfort in your pipe."

"Yes," assented Hugh, "I do; but then, suppose I'd never learned to smoke; don't you suppose I'd be just as comfortable as I am now? A man don't miss the things that he's never enjoyed."

"No, of course not," replied Jack.

For a long time the three sat there, gazing at the little fire that flickered before them, Joe occasionally reaching over and carefully laying on it a stick of wood so that it constantly burned bright and warm.

At length Jack spoke up again and said, "Hugh, where were you in 1876, when the Custer massacre took place?"

"I was up camping with the Piegans, not far from the Sweet Grass Hills. I had been trading the year before with the Piegans, and instead of going into Benton and lying around there during the summer, I just stayed out in camp with the people. But look here, son," he went on, "don't make the mistake that pilgrims do and call that the Custer massacre; call it if you like the Custer fight or the Custer battle. It wasn't what I understand a massacre to be; it was just a fair up-and-down fight, and the white men got licked and all of them got killed off. The white men went into that fight with their eyes wide open and knew what they were doing. They just tackled a job that was too big for them, that's all. Now, you might call the Baker fight that I was telling you about a few days ago a massacre, because it was a surprise and because the troops attacked the camp, and killed off mostly women and children and old men. That's my idea of a massacre, but the Custer fight was just a fight, and nothing else."

"That's so, Hugh," said Jack, "I oughtn't to have called it a massacre, but that's what a good many people do call it, you know."

"I know they do," said Hugh, "but it's a wrong name to give it, at least according to my idea."

"Did you ever know General Custer?" asked Jack.

"Yes," said Hugh, "I knew him some. I worked for him part of one summer out from Lincoln; I was one of the scouts on the Yellowstone expedition in '73 and again in '74, when he made his trip to the Black Hills."

"What sort of a man was he?" asked Jack.

"Well," said Hugh, "he was a nice man. Of course, I never knew him, except in what you may call a business way, to take orders from him and to report. He was always right pleasant, and his wife was an awful nice lady. He was a good soldier, General Custer was, and a great hunter. He was just crazy to be hunting all the time. He treated his men well, too; worked them awful hard, breaking camp early in the morning and sometimes marching away into the night, but they thought a heap of him. I remember one time, going into the Black Hills, two of the men were caught stealing canned goods out of one of the wagons. We camped early the afternoon they were caught, and he had them each ride a cannon from the time we went into camp until after dark. Then he had 'em cut loose and brought to his tent, and he gave them a good talking to, and a day or two afterward he appointed one of them, an old soldier and a pretty good man, too, his orderly. The other man he gave permission to go hunting the next day. He was pretty savage with his men when they did wrong, but after he'd punished a man, he always did something to him to make him feel that he did not hold the offense up against him. That made the men have confidence in him, and it made a good many of them careful about how they did anything wrong.

"I haven't told you, have I," he went on, "that Jackson, Billy Jackson, you know, was along with that outfit in 1874."

"Yes," said Jack, "I think you told me that."

"I didn't know him then," said Hugh. "He was just a schoolboy. We had quite a bunch of schoolboys along. They were called scouts, and maybe they thought they were scouts, but, of course, they were just boys out of the Indian schools without experience, and not knowing anything. They were mostly Santee Sioux."

"Well," said Jack, "but Billy is a Piegan, isn't he?"

"Yes, a Piegan," replied Hugh, "a grandson of old Hugh Monroe's and on his mother's side a grandson of a great chief that died before my time with the tribe, a man called Lone Walker. They said he was a great man. An awful big man, brave and rich. He had nineteen wives, and old man Monroe has told me that when he first came with the tribe -- that must be nearly seventy-five years ago -- Lone Walker had two grizzly bears that he used to keep tied up, one on either side of the door of his lodge. The old man said that the first time he ever went into the lodge, both bears got up and growled and started to attack him. He said he was scared pretty near to death, but Lone Walker spoke to them and they became quiet and went and lay down again. Old man Monroe lived in Lone Walker's lodge for two or three years after that and, of course, the bears got used to him right away and never bothered him; in fact, I believe it wasn't very long after that before the bears ran away and were never seen again."

"But, Hugh, were they tame bears?" asked Jack.

"I don't rightly know," responded Hugh. "They were tame to the man that owned them, I expect, and they say that during the day when the camp was moving, the bears used to travel with it, walking along with the dogs. They didn't bother anybody or anything and nothing bothered them; but, finally, I believe, they ran off, and although Lone Walker looked for them he could not find them."

"Well," said Jack, "those seem to me like queer pets for a man to have, but after all I don't know that they are any queerer than poor old Swift Foot that I used to have."

"No," said Hugh, "any tame wild animal may seem strange to a person who never has seen a tame one before, but any wild animal can be tamed, and if he's taken young enough he won't have any fear of man. The trouble is, though, to make him stay tame. He's naturally shy, and while he may be all right when his owner's around, if he gets among strange people, the natural fear that he's inherited from his ancestors will come back to him, and he'll run."

"That's what happened to poor old Swift Foot, I am afraid," said Jack.

"What Swift Foot?" said Joe. "I never heard about that."

"Why, haven't I ever told you about him, Joe?" said Jack. "Four or five years ago, the first year I was in the West, we dug out a den of wolves and kept the puppies, and some of them became very tame. I took one back East with me and had him two or three years. He was just like a dog with me and felt at home with all the other people in the house, but I never dared let him loose on the streets, for fear he would get lost. In the country, when I went there, I'd turn him loose and he would run -- Great Scott! you never saw anything so wild to run as he was. Then, when I'd bring him back to the city again I'd have to keep him chained and give him what little exercise I could on a chain. Of course, he grew awfully fat, and I think if I'd had him much longer he'd have gotten cross, too; but finally, one unlucky day, I took him out walking, and over near Third Avenue, a crowded street where there is a great deal of noise and the elevated railroad trains are running all the time, something frightened him and he dodged behind me and gave a pull on the chain, and it pulled loose from his collar, and before I could grab him he got frightened and ran. He ran like a deer, dodging among the trucks and horses and cars, and though I called and whistled he never stopped, and I never saw him again. Father advertised, and we tried our best to hear something of him, but it was no use."

"I don't wonder he got scared," said Joe. "I guess I'd be scared a whole lot with so many people round me, and no place to get away."

"You're right," said Hugh, "so would I. It must be something terrible in those big cities."

"Well," said Jack, "it is terrible the way the people crowd about. Of course, those who live there are used to it and don't pay any attention, but people that haven't been used to hearing the noises and seeing the crowds, could easily enough get scared."

A little later Hugh rose to his feet and stepped out of the tent, saying as he did so, "Boys, I believe we're going to have a nice day to-morrow. It's stopped snowing, all the stars are out and the moon is just rising. It feels mighty warm, too. Likely enough to-morrow the sun will come out hot and take off the heft of this snow. Then we can get round a bit and can dry this meat."

"Well," said Jack, "I'd like to be able to dry our meat. Of course, there's no trouble killing meat here, but one doesn't want to kill a big animal for a single meal."

"No," said Hugh, "you're right about that. Meat is plenty here, but that's no reason why we should waste it. Now, let's put this fire out and cover it up with snow, so that there'll be no danger of the tent's catching fire, and then we'll go to bed. What do you say?"

At once the boys were on their feet, pulling the fire to pieces and extinguishing the burning brands, by throwing them into the snow, and then bringing a few double handfuls of snow they threw them on to the ashes of the fire, and with much smoke and steam the last sparks were extinguished. A little later the regular breathing of the three men in the tent showed that all were asleep.

It must have been in the middle of the night or perhaps toward morning, when Jack was half awakened by hearing a noise, something like scratching, which he did not recognize, but a moment later he was thoroughly aroused by hearing a loud thump on the ground just outside the tent and then the sound of something galloping. His first thought was that one of the horses had come up close to the tent and knocked something down, but almost at once he recognized that this could not have been the cause of the sound, because the footfalls were not heavy enough to have been made by a horse. Rising on his elbow, he looked about. It was quite light in the tent, for a brilliant moon was shining, and he could plainly see Hugh get up, walk to the door and look out.

"What is it, Hugh?" asked Jack.

For a moment Hugh did not answer, and then said, "Why, something has carried off that bundle of meat. No, he hasn't either. Here's the meat lying in the snow and there is the thing that knocked it down over there under the pine tree, where we were cutting up the elk. I can see it plain in the snow, but I can't make out what it is. It's some animal, because it's moving."

By this time Jack was on his feet and had his head out of the tent door. He could plainly see some not very large animal crouched in the snow and could hear faintly the scratching, tearing sound of an animal gnawing a bone, and at once said, "Why, Hugh, whatever it is, he's gnawing on the bones of that elk we left over there."

"So he is," said Hugh. "Let's see what it is," and, reaching down, he took his rifle and, stepping outside of the tent door, fired at the creature. It paid no attention whatever, but went on eating. Then Hugh fired another shot and then another, and after the fourth shot, the animal sprang into the air and, turning about, bounded off into the shadow and was not seen again. Hugh picked up the bundle of elk meat and put it in among the branches of the tree, and then he and Jack went back into the tent.

"What was it, Hugh?" asked Jack.

"Well," said Hugh, "I don't know. It was either a mountain lion or a lynx or a bob-cat, but whatever it was, it wasn't a bit afraid."

"No," said Jack, "I could see that. We ought to be glad that it didn't come into the tent with us."

"Well," said Hugh, "we'll know what it is in the morning, when it gets light."

For the remainder of the night their rest was undisturbed. They rose early, and while breakfast was being cooked Hugh walked over to where the animal had been, and after looking about, came back and told the boys that the disturber of their rest had not been a mountain lion.

"I wish after we get breakfast you would show me how you know that, Hugh," said Jack.

"I will," said Hugh, "but I can tell you now. The place where it was lying is too small for a mountain lion. There is no mark anywhere on the snow of a long tail, such as a lion would have, and then out there I picked up this," and he took from his pocket a little tuft of hair, gray, mixed with reddish. "Do you recognize that fur?" he said, as Jack took it in his hand and looked at it.

"No," said Jack, "I don't. But then you know I don't know many of the mountain animals."

"No," said Hugh, "you don't, and I don't think Joe does, either. But unless I'm mightily mistaken that came from a lynx, one of those big animals like a bob-cat, only a good deal bigger, and gray instead of red. They've got black tips to their ears and a kind of whiskers around their necks, and they look awful fierce and savage, but it's all looks. Though they seem to be so big, a man can kill one with a stick and not a very big stick, either."

"Well," said Jack, "let's go over there as soon as we've eaten."

After breakfast Hugh and Jack took their rifles and went over to the place where the animal had been sitting, and Hugh pointed out the animal's tracks, which looked very large.

"Now, in this soft snow," observed Hugh, "I can't tell, and I don't believe anybody else can, whether this is a lynx's track or a mountain lion's, but if it was a mountain lion's, every little while as you followed it you'd see some place where the lion's tail had made a mark in the snow. We don't find anything of that sort here. Now, what do you say to following up these tracks, and seeing where the critter's gone?"

"Let's do it," said Jack, eagerly.

Quietly and slowly they followed the trail, which was very plain, and found that only about twenty or thirty steps from the place where the animal had been shot at, it had stopped and lain in the snow for some time, and that in this bed was a drop or two of blood. Apparently one of the shots that Hugh fired had grazed the skin somewhere.

"Well, Hugh," said Jack, "that beast isn't much frightened and it may be anywhere about here. Let's go ahead, as carefully and quietly as we can."

From here the trail led into thick willows, where it wound about, and where, owing to the closeness of the willow stems, it was not easy to go quietly. Every few moments Hugh stopped and looked carefully about, and then went on a little farther. When he had followed the trail for a little more than a hundred yards, the tracks turned sharply to the right, and just as they turned to follow them, Hugh made a motion with his hand and stopped. Jack looked under Hugh's arm, and there, not twenty yards away, saw the animal. A large spruce tree grew among the willows and at its foot was a little open place. The lynx, for such it was, was lying in the sun at the foot of this tree, and only its hips were visible.

Hugh motioned to Jack to shoot, but before the lad could do so, he was obliged to creep several yards to the left under the low-spreading branches of a willow. At last he got far enough to one side to see the animal's body almost to the shoulders, and then fired, trying to send his ball as close to the tree as possible. At the report the animal gave a spring, and, falling back, stretched itself out in the snow. When Hugh and Jack went up to it they could see that it was a Canada lynx of the largest size, and as it lay there, its thick legs, and huge paws, armed with long, strong claws, gave it a more ferocious appearance than it was really entitled to.

Those paws were a marvel to Jack on account of their size, and the way in which they were armed, but when he took hold of the animal to lift it, he appreciated what Hugh had told him about its really small size, and realized that a great deal of its bulk was due to its long, loose fur.

Hugh took the lynx by the back of the neck and a few minutes brought them to the camp.

Joe was delighted with their capture, and confessed that he had never before seen an animal like this.

"Now, Hugh," said Jack, "I want to skin this beast, that is, if you will give me the skin."

"Sure," replied Hugh, "I'll give you my share in the skin. You killed it, and it seems to me it's yours."

"Yes," said Jack, "I killed it, of course, since you gave me the shot, but by hunter's law the skin belongs to you. Isn't it true that the first shot that draws blood is entitled to half the meat and the hide?"

"That's so," said Hugh, "that's the old-time law that I used to hear down in Kentucky, before I got big enough to pack a gun. That's what they always said down there and I reckon that's been the custom ever since this country was a country. But you can have the hide and all the meat. I'll give 'em both to you. Keep them always."

"Well," said Jack, "I'm mightily obliged to you for the hide, but I don't feel as if I could rob you of the meat."

"Well," replied Hugh, "maybe you don't know what you're refusing. I never did happen to eat bob-cat myself, but I've eaten mountain lion, and that's pretty good meat. A little dry maybe, and tastes a little too much like dry roast pork to suit me, but it's good all the same."

"Well," said Jack, "I'll skin this bob-cat now, I think. How shall I do it, Hugh, split it, or shall I case it?"

"Why," said Hugh, "if I were you I'd case it. That's the regular way to skin a bob-cat, and while you're skinning it, suppose Joe and I go down and see how the horses are and look after our fence. I reckon we don't want to stay here much longer, but while we do stay we must watch the horses."

"Well," said Jack, "that's for you to say. I'm ready to stay or I'm ready to go. I'd like to have a chance to climb up where you went the other day to look down into Belly River. Maybe I can do that to-day or, at least, this afternoon, if I start as soon as I get through my job of skinning."

"Yes," said Hugh, "I reckon you could. Go ahead at it now, and Joe and me will go and look at the horses."




Chapter XV

Lone Wolf's Bay Pony


It did not take Jack long to skin the lynx, but before he had finished stretching it, Hugh and Joe came back and reported that the horses were all right.

By this time the sun had come out and was shining hot, and the snow melting rapidly. A warm breeze blew down the valley from the westward, and as they watched the mountainsides above them, the boys thought that they could see the dark patches not covered by snow increase in size as they looked at them.

"Well, boys," said Hugh, "if you want to climb up and look over into Belly River, go ahead and do it, and get back as early as you can. This spot here is mighty pretty, but I reckon we've seen about all of it that we want to, and unless you've got some special chore that you want to attend to, we might as well pack up and go up one of the other forks. I don't see any special reason for stopping here. We've got what meat we need, and what we want to see is new country."

"That's so, Hugh," said Jack; "we'll go up to the top of the mountain and then come back and move down to the forks as soon as you like."

"And look here, son," said Hugh, "why don't you go up there alone, and while you are gone, Joe and I will start in to dry this meat we've got cut out."

"All right," said Jack. "I'll do that, or if you like, I'll not go up there, but stay here and fix the meat."

"No," said Hugh, "you go on and make your climb, and Joe and I'll fix the meat, and if you get back in time maybe we can move camp down below this afternoon, or if not we can start the first thing in the morning."

"All right," said Jack; and he took up his rifle and started up the mountainside.

It was a long, slow climb. For the first half, the way was over steep open mountainside, dotted here and there with small spruces and cedars, and the soil was now wet with the melting snow, and often slippery. Still he made good time. The side of the mountain was seamed with ravines, and broken here and there by low rock ledges; and two or three times as he went on he found himself within easy shot of little bunches of goats. When Jack saw these, if he could do it without losing time, he crept as close to them as possible, and then showing himself, hurried on. Some of the goats seemed quite shy and ran off, while others looked at him for a long time until he got quite close to them, and then turned and paced slowly off along the hillside.

When he reached the rocks, he found, as Hugh had told him, a break in the wall, cut by falling water, and entering this, began to climb among the steep rocks and ledges, which it often required some care to surmount, but which were not difficult nor at all dangerous.

An hour and a half of climbing of this sort brought him to the crest of the wall, and creeping upon this he hung over and looked down into a wonderfully deep and dark canyon beyond. From the other side of the canyon a great mountain rose sharply, and its summit was covered with a vast snowbank which lay upon a great mass of ice. Evidently, thought Jack, here is a glacier. The mass of ice was apparently moving toward the valley and would break off over this cliff and then fall a thousand feet into the valley below.

It was a wonderfully impressive sight, yet Jack stayed but a little time. He was wet with perspiration, and up here the breeze blew strong and cold. Besides, he thought of his friends in camp, and was anxious to get back to them and help them with their work. So after some minutes' study of the scene, during which he tried to impress all its features upon his memory, he turned about and slipping off the crest of the rock wall, picked his way down the ravine.

The journey to camp seemed much shorter than the climb, and when Jack strode up to the fire warm and muddy and wet up to the knees, the afternoon had not half gone.

Hugh and Joe had built a large platform of poles supported on four crotched sticks. Under this they had kindled a slow smoky fire, and on the poles rested flakes of elk meat, which were being dried by the sun above and the fire and smoke beneath. A part of the meat had evidently been already partially dried and was hanging in bundles from the branches of one of the trees.

"Well, son," remarked Hugh, "you've got back, have you? Quite a climb, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Jack, "it was quite a climb, but I think it was worth it. That's a mighty pretty view from the top of that ridge, and I'm glad I saw it. You're getting on pretty well with your meat, I see."

"Yes," said Hugh, "we've given it all a little touch of the sun and smoke, and I don't believe the flies will get at it right away."

"What are you going to do?" asked Jack. "Wait here and finish with the meat, or go on down and camp at that lake we passed?"

"Why," said Hugh, "I believe we might as well get up the horses and ride down to the lake. It won't take us more than a couple of hours, and we can stop there to-morrow and put this meat out again, go up that short fork that lies in the middle, and then the next day poke over and see if we can get up the other fork that lies beyond the lake."

"All right," said Jack. "Shall I go out and bring in the horses?"

"Say you do," said Hugh. "Joe and me'll pull down the tent and make up the packs, and it'll take us a mighty short time to get started."

The snow had disappeared from the valley. The horses were in sight and Jack got around them and brought them in. Joe helped him catch and saddle them, and by the time this was done, the tent was down and Hugh's packs were mostly made up. The work of packing was speedily finished, and a little later the three were following back their trail of a few days before.

Instead of stopping by the lake, where there was but little feed and not a very good camping place, Hugh went on to their old camp, where the tent was pitched and the scaffold erected and covered with meat. A good breeze was blowing, and Hugh declared that if they stayed here one day more, the meat would be in shape to pack.

By the time the camp was made, the sun was touching the western mountains, and it was too late to do anything that day.

"If we had a little more daylight, son," said Hugh, "I'd send you out with that fishing rod of yours to catch some trout, but it's too late for that. Now, I'll just get supper, and we'll have a good long night and to-morrow morning we can all go up the middle fork of this creek, and see what there is there."

The wind fell with the sun, and after supper they sat around the fire, resting. Toward the mountains they could hear the never-ceasing rumble of the falls from the river, and now and then this sound would be drowned by a thunderous roar from the mountains, ending in a long, hissing sound. After the boys had listened to these noises for some time, Joe said to Hugh, "What is this we hear, White Bull? It sounds like the Thunder Bird flapping his wings at first, and then kind of dies off into a smaller noise."

"Why," said Hugh, "those are snowslides coming down from the mountains here and there. You see to-day has been pretty warm, and the sun has shone hot and heated up the rocks, and in lots of places the snow has melted so much that it lets go its hold on the steep slopes and rushes down the mountainside. You boys have never been in the mountains at this time of the year, but you'll find that when the snow is melting in spring, it's always sliding down the mountains. It's a mighty dangerous time to be in the high hills, because a man can never tell when one of these snowslides is going to start, and when it does, it gets going so fast there's no chance for a man to dodge it. Lots of men have been killed by being covered up by such slides, and often they are so big and come so hard that they smash everything that gets in their way."

"Yes, White Bull, that's so," said Joe. "Jack and I saw two places near where we were camped yesterday where the snow had come down and broken off big strong trees, trees bigger around than your body."

"Yes," said Hugh. "There are lots of such places in the mountains, and we're likely to see more of them before we get out. These mountains," he went on, "are a great place to see what wind and water can do. There's no place that I know of where the wind can blow so hard; there's no place where the snow is worse, and there's no place where the floods are more powerful. Of course, none of those things lasts very long, but any one of them can do a heap of damage in a mighty short time. Down in the high mountains of Colorado I have seen some bad snowslides, and I knew a little fellow down there that used to carry the mail over the range that got caught in a snowslide once. Luckily, he only got caught on the edge of it and it didn't kill him. It just carried him along a little ways, rolling him over and over, and fetched him out on a point of solid rock that he managed to hang on to, but although he wasn't in the snow more than a minute or two, he was all bruised up and felt for a good many days afterward as if he'd been beaten with a club.

"Joe Bruce, too," he continued, "got caught in a snowslide once when he was crossing the mountains, and came pretty near being killed; but he, too, only got caught on the edge and got thrown around some and came out with his life."

"Well," said Joe, "I never heard him speak about that."

"No," said Hugh, "I reckon not. You know Bruce ain't no great talker; he ain't much of a hand to tell about things that have happened to himself. And that reminds me, did I ever tell you about the way Bruce got back a horse that was stolen once from Carroll & Steele, when they ran a trading-post down in Benton in the early days? That's a pretty good story, but it's better to hear Joe Bruce tell it than anybody else. Still, maybe I can give you an idea of what happened."

"That's bully, Hugh," said Jack, "I love to hear your stories."

"I've forgotten," went on Hugh, "what year it was, but it was in the early '60's that Matt Carroll and George Steele were running their trading-post in Benton. Both Carroll and Steele had been working for the American Fur Company in years gone by, but now they had formed a partnership, and were trading on their own account. The country was full of buffalo and there was a big trade in robes. Of course the Piegans did all their trading at Benton, and every now and then a party of Bloods and Blackfeet would bring in a lot of robes from the north. These Indians were masters of the whole country then, and they were pretty independent. They were fighting all their enemies and now and then they killed a white man, when they got a good chance. Of course, they were not openly at war, but any Indian who saw a white man that had something that he wanted was liable to kill him if he got a good chance. Now, at this time in one of the Piegan camps close to Benton there was a young fellow named Lone Wolf, who did his trading with Carroll & Steele, and one day George Steele bought a horse from him, a bay pony, that Lone Wolf said was an awful good horse and a good buffalo runner. After Lone Wolf had sold the horse he got sorry that he had done so, and he used to come to the store and sit around looking sullen and sad; his heart was pretty bad.

"Bruce, who was then only a boy, noticed that Lone Wolf was sulky, but he did not know what the matter was. He had charge of the horses, and, of course, fed and watered those that were kept in the barn, a big log-stable with a padlock and chain on the door.

"One morning as he was coming back from watering the horses and drove them into the stable, he saw Lone Wolf sitting on the ground not far off. Bruce followed the horses into the stable, tied them in their stalls and fed them, but before he had finished, someone called to him, and he went out of the barn to find out what was wanted.

"He wasn't gone more than a few minutes, and when he came back and went into the stable he saw in a moment that the bay horse was missing. He ran to the door and looked out. Lone Wolf was gone, too; up and down the flat and along the bluffs he could see no sign of the Indian nor of the horse, nor was there any dust rising to show where they had gone.

"Bruce went into the store and told Steele, and Steele blew him up for his carelessness. Of course, there was nothing to be done, but Steele told him that he must look out and not lose any more horses.

"It made the boy feel pretty badly to have had the horse taken right under his nose, and to have had an Indian play such a trick on him. Bruce made up his mind that he would try to get the horse back, but he knew that this was going to be quite a job.

"For some time after that Lone Wolf was not seen in Benton. If he wanted anything at the store, he sent in for it by his wife or some other Indian and did not send to Carroll & Steele's, but to the other trading-store.

"Old Four Bears -- the same one that you boys know -- used to come into town every day to Carroll & Steele's and tell Bruce about the good luck that Lone Wolf was having chasing buffalo with his fast horse. Every day or two he'd come in and report that Lone Wolf had killed six buffalo or four buffalo or eight buffalo or eleven, and when Four Bears made these reports, why, he used to laugh over them as if they were the best jokes in the world, but you can imagine that they didn't seem very funny to Bruce.

"Every day, when he went out to ride a horse, Bruce would go off toward the Piegan camp, and hide in the brush or on top of some hill, and watch the camp with a field glass, so as to find out how they were treating the stolen horse, in the hope that some day he would have a chance to steal it back again. There didn't seem to be much likelihood that this would happen, because the camp was a big one, and when the horses were sent out they were almost always herded by one or two boys. Besides that, Bruce found that they had tried to change the looks of the pony. His ears were tied back so that he looked crop-eared, and they had painted him with white clay in spots, so that at a distance he looked like a pinto. However, after a while Bruce found out which horse it was and then discovered that he was always necked to another horse.

"After a while, the camp that Lone Wolf lived in moved further away from Benton, so that when Bruce wanted to go to it he had about a thirteen-mile ride to make. It seemed that his chances of getting the horse were growing smaller. However, one afternoon he started out feeling pretty desperate and made his ride and got as close as he could toward the Indian lodges, and commenced to watch again. At length he saw a boy drive the horses to water, and keeping behind some hills and timber he managed to ride within two hundred yards of the place where the horses were drinking, and stopped there, hidden behind some brush. Presently, he saw the boy who was herding them go into a lodge, and in a moment he rushed out, dashed between the horses and the lodges and started the band off toward the prairie. As soon as he got them going he rode through them, roped the bay pony, cut it loose from its mate, and shortening up his lariat and sticking the spurs into his own mount, he started off over the bad land bluffs.

"As he looked back he saw the Indians rushing out of the lodges and looking after him, shading their eyes from the sun. Then they rushed back to get their guns, and the boys brought in the horses.

"It was not long before a string of Indians were riding hot after Bruce. His horse was grain-fed and strong and tough and better able to run for a long time than the Indian ponies, which, of course, had been fed on grass. The captured pony could go fast enough, as he had no load to carry, so Bruce commenced to ride across the roughest country that he could find, down the side of one clay bluff and up the next, following a road that was heartbreaking to a rider. More than that, the sun was about to set, and before long it would be dark.

"For a little while, all the same, the Indians seemed to gain on him, and he did not feel any way sure how matters were coming out. He managed to keep ahead, however, and when it got dark, turned sharp off his course and followed the ravine down to the river, while the Indians kept riding as hard as they could in the direction that he had previously been following, and nobody knows when they stopped.

"Bruce rode down to the river and crossed to an island where he tied the bay horse in the brush with a rope that he had previously left there. Then he went on to the post and went to bed.

"The next morning he went to Steele and asked him what he would give to get the bay pony back again. Steele knew Bruce pretty well, and said to him at once, 'You've got him.'

"'Well,' said Bruce, 'I think I know how I could get him.'

"'Well,' said Steele, 'if I were to get him he'd only be stolen again, and if you've got him you can have him.'

"So, presently, Bruce went over to the island and got the horse and brought him back and put him in the stable. He hadn't much more than tied him and got out of the stable again, when he saw old Four Bears coming. Four Bears had not heard the news, because his band was camped in a different place from that of Lone Wolf, and the old man came up bubbling over with joy and told Bruce how many buffalo Lone Wolf had killed yesterday. He thought this was just as good a joke now as he had the first time he had told a similar story, and Bruce thought it a much better one. However, Bruce after a while remarked, 'Steele's got a new black horse in the stable. Don't you want to come in and see it?' Four Bears went along and went into the stable and looked at the black horse, and then saw the hips of the horse in the next stall, and stepping forward where he could see the whole of the animal, he recognized it. He hadn't a word to say, but just clapped his hand over his mouth in surprise and walked out without a word. You can bet that Bruce watched that stable good after that, so that there was no chance for Lone Wolf to steal the horse back again."

"Well," exclaimed Jack, "that's a bully story, but, what became of the horse finally?"

"Well," said Hugh, "if you'll hold your horses a little bit I'll go ahead. The story ain't half finished yet."

"I beg your pardon, Hugh," replied Jack, "I was in a little too much of a hurry."

"Well," said Hugh, "Bruce took good care of the horse and whenever he rode him after that kept a bright lookout. Nothing happened, and after a while he got a little careless, and one day, as he was riding along and went around a point of the bluffs he saw, not a hundred yards away, Lone Wolf riding along the trail toward him, with his rifle across his saddle. Bruce had a revolver, but he didn't dare to reach for it, because he knew that would mean a fight, and at the distance which separated the two men, the rifle would be likely to get him before he could do anything with his pistol. He was afraid to turn and run, for Lone Wolf might paste him in the back, so he kept on, never letting on that he noticed Lone Wolf, or had any feeling about him. He played with his quirt some and finally after twisting it about a little, let his hand fall on the handle of his pistol. All the time he was getting nearer and nearer to the Indian, which gave him a lot of comfort.

"Lone Wolf never said or did anything, and presently Bruce rode up to him, and turning his horse so as to bring him on the side opposite the butt of the rifle, told Lone Wolf that Steele had sent him out to look for him to ask him to come to the post, where he had a present for him, because he wanted to make friends. The Indian looked at the pony and smiled a little and then said he'd go, and the two rode side by side into the fort, talking in a friendly way, but each one of them on the watch, you can bet.

"When they got to the store Lone Wolf was fed and given a lot of tobacco and ammunition, and he made Steele a present of a handsome parfleche, which he had on his saddle.

"Bruce kept the horse, and Lone Wolf and he never had any trouble again. Lone Wolf was killed a few years afterwards by the Crows.

"Well, that's the end of how Bruce got the horse; and now, if you like, I'll tell you what finally became of him.

"It was some years afterwards, in the late '60's, and the Indians were bad. A good many men had been killed, miners and trappers and freighters; and a lot of horses had been run off. People did not like to go far from the post, and at night they had a guard round the town, fearing that maybe the Indians would attack them. The horses were on short commons; there was mighty little hay in town and the only place folks dared to pasture them was down on the flat where the feed was mighty poor, because that was where the freighters camped and fed their stock. There were a few people whose horses were on ranches at some distance from the post, and as there was nobody traveling back and forth in the country, most of these people thought that their horses were gone and made up their minds to pocket the loss. However, a friend of Matt Carroll's had a couple of fine driving horses that were running on a ranch about fifteen miles below Benton. This man needed his team.

"Two or three times Carroll had tried to get men to go for the horses, but nobody was willing to make the ride. At last it occurred to Carroll that Bruce might go, and he offered him fifty dollars to ride down and bring up the animals. With a good horse, it would take him only two hours to go down and perhaps three more to return, so that by making an early start, he could get back to the post in time for dinner. Bruce never was afraid of much of anything, and he had a good deal of confidence in his luck, and fifty dollars to him looked like a lot of money; so he agreed to go.

"That evening, feeling pretty good about the money that he was going to earn, Bruce started out for a good time in the barrooms and dance-houses of the town, but about the middle of the night, when he started to go home, he remembered that he was on patrol duty for the morning watch, so instead of going to bed he simply slept a little in a chair by the barroom stove until called to go on patrol.

"After breakfast, Bruce saddled up the bay pony that he had got from Lone Wolf and started.

"He was pretty stupid and dull from lack of sleep, and rode much more slowly than he intended to. When he reached the bottom of a steep ravine, down which his horse went slowly and carefully, he was suddenly grabbed by a dozen hands, pulled out of the saddle, his gun taken from him, his horse captured, and a half dozen Indians were standing about him, one of whom had a butcher knife at his throat. He thought they intended to kill him right there, but an old man who was with them stopped the young men, and said that the captive must be taken before the chiefs. Accordingly they stripped off all his clothing, except his drawers, undershirt and moccasins, and then took him up to where a group of warriors were gathered on the bluff.

"The old man who had saved his life was present and seemed to be watching him. It was a war party that had got him. There were no women, no travois, no pack ponies, and the men, wrapped in blankets and robes, carried nothing but their arms.

"Of course, you know that Bruce talks half a dozen languages -- Sioux, Mandan, Blackfoot, some Crow and two or three more.

"As they were approaching the group, the old man told him that they were going to question him and that he must answer them truthfully.

"'If you do this you will be protected. You and I have slept in the same lodge and have eaten together, but you must answer the questions. The hearts of these young men are bad, and they want horses and scalps.'

When they had got to the chiefs, who were sitting about on the ground, Bruce was asked how many men were at the post, how they were armed, whether they were on the watch for enemies, how many horses there were, and where they were herded.

These questions had to be answered, and answered as truthfully as possible, and when it was proposed to kill Bruce and take his scalp first, for luck, his old friend objected. At last they decided to take Bruce down to the river and send him across, because when he was on the other side, it would be impossible for him to give the alarm. So they tied his hands to the tail of a horse ridden by one man, while another rode behind -- to keep him from pulling back, I reckon -- and they started for the river.

"His moccasins did him little good now and his underclothing tore at every bush they passed. The horses galloped at an ordinary rate and Bruce had to keep up, for if he had fallen he would have been dragged and kicked to death.

"It took but a little time to reach the river, but it seemed a long time to Bruce, whose feet and legs were cut, and his back and shoulders creased with blows from the quirts.

"When they got to the river, his hands were loosened and the Indians dismounted, took the covers off their guns and signed Bruce to jump in. He jumped and swam under water just as far as he possibly could hold his breath.

"The current was swift, and when he came up he was a long way below the Indians, but he took only one breath and dived again, keeping on until at last he reached a shallow place and dragged himself out on the north side of the river, where he sat down to get back his breath and think what he could do.

"Before this he had no time to think. The prospect had been so black for him that he had been looking only to see what would happen the next minute. He was now in bad shape, bruised and bleeding and half frozen to death, and he just broke down and cried like a little child.

"At last he climbed the bank and found himself at an old cabin, long abandoned. Here, looking aimlessly about, he happened to find an old Colt's revolver, which had been lost or thrown away. It was now entirely useless, and, besides, even if it had been in good order he had no ammunition.

"He took this up, however, and started back toward the post, going in low places and traveling out of sight, like an Indian.

"It was well along in the afternoon when he heard on the wind, that was blowing hard, faint sounds of yelling and shooting. The noise sounded as if it came from the post, but he was not going to take any risks, so he hid himself until after sunset. It was bitter cold by that time, and he was obliged to start on or freeze to death.

"He now traveled at a better speed, and quite early in the evening rounded a lofty bluff and kept along on top of it. Presently on the rising wind he heard the sound of voices, but he could not tell whether they were those of the whites or Indians. He lay flat on the ground and waited, and as the sounds came nearer, presently he could distinguish the forms of men against the sky.

"They stopped not very far away and talked, and he thought then that they were the Indians, and had almost made up his mind to drop over the bluff and take his chances of being killed by the fall, when a sudden whiff of wind brought him some words in English, and he knew that the men were from the post.

"The gale made it useless for him to try to call to them, but he felt that he must do something, for at any time they might see his white clothing and shoot at him. He gave a shout, calling, 'Don't shoot, don't shoot,' and holding both his hands above his head, ran forward and found himself in the midst of a party that had been sent out to look for him. A raid on the town had captured a few horses and had cost the life of a white man, while two of the Indians had been killed, but among the horses lost was Lone Wolf's bay pony, which, so far as I know, was never heard of again."

"That certainly is a bully story, Hugh," said Jack.

"Yes," said Joe, "that story is good. I have heard the people talk about it sometimes, but I never heard it all, as White Bull has told it to us to-night. I like it.

"Those Indians were Gros Ventres," he went on, "and at that time they were still enemies of my people, but soon after peace was made."




Chapter XVI

An Ice River


Early the next morning, while they were eating breakfast, Hugh said, "Now, boys, let's saddle and ride up this middle fork. I don't think it goes far, and I reckon we'll not see much up there. We can come back and maybe pack up and get to the head of the other fork to-night. You boys go out right after breakfast and picket the pack horses and bring in the saddle animals, while I'm washing up the dishes and rigging up a scare over this meat, to keep off the birds."

When the boys got in with the saddle horses, after tying the pack horses so that they could not follow, they found that Hugh had put up a pole which slanted over the meat on the scaffold, and to that pole he had tied a cross-stick from which a long strip of cloth was waving merrily in the breeze.

"There," said Hugh, "as long as this wind blows, no bird or animal will bother that meat. Now let's start along."

They rode fast up the valley of the middle fork, for in most places it was fairly open; sometimes in pretty park-like meadows, where the tall white-crowned flower stems of the soap grass waved in the wind, sometimes in broad flat meadows of wet ground, which looked suspiciously like beaver meadows, and sometimes in scattering pine timber growing from low mounds. As they advanced, the valley grew narrower, and on both sides the mountains rose high and steep, but here and there on the heights above they could see the edges of snow fields, and when they reached the head of the valley they found themselves under a tall precipice, over which flowed two great water-falls, which had their sources in the snow banks far above. It was a cold, gray place, grim and grand, but not picturesque nor beautiful, and soon all three were glad to turn about and gallop down the valley toward the sunlight, which was flooding the lower country.

It was not yet noon when they reached the camp, and Hugh said they would just stop for dinner and then move on.

The boys loosened the cinches of the saddle horses, tied them up, brought in the pack horses and saddled them, and took down the tent and packed up the meat, which by this time was quite dry. An hour later, Hugh mounted his horse and they again set out up the trail.

Jack did not clearly see how they were going to get into the valley of the other fork, as the way appeared blocked by the lake on their left, which seemed to run to the very bases of the mountains which lay on three sides of it. However, he followed Hugh and asked no questions.

Joe, however, said, "How do you suppose we're going to get into that valley, Jack? Are we going to swim this lake?"

"You can't prove it by me," said Jack. "But I reckon Hugh will find a way."

"That's so," said Joe, "White Bull knows how to travel in the mountains. I guess we'll get there."

Hugh followed the trail that they had now passed over several times, until he had reached the head of the lake, and then turning off into the forest to the left, began to pick his way toward the mountains that lay west of the lake. Before long they came to the stream along which they had traveled in the morning. It was wide, but not deep, and the bottom was hard. There was much pine timber and a good deal of marshy land through which they passed slowly and with some difficulty, but at length they came to higher ground where progress was better.

As they went on they could see sometimes through the trees the water of the lake on the left; while to the right the mountainside rose above them.

After a mile or two of this travel they came to more marshy meadow ground and then entered a belt of forest, and passing through this, found themselves in a wide willow-grown park, which evidently had once been the bed of a shallow lake.

Mountains rose on either side, and to the left they could hear the murmur of the stream. This stream they crossed and following it up, before long found themselves on the border of another long, narrow lake, hemmed in on both sides by mountains. The timber on this side grew thickly, and Hugh, instead of trying to go through it, kept out a little way in the lake, riding just beyond the overhanging branches of the trees and in water which was from six inches to a foot deep. The bottom was hard gravel -- good going.

The country was absolutely wild and undisturbed, and Jack expected every moment to see or hear game in the timber. He kept looking and listening for this so intently that he neglected the bare sides of the mountains across the lake, until Joe, who was just before him, driving the pack horses that followed Hugh, turned and making a sign to attract his attention, pointed to the mountainside. Then Jack saw, lying down on the face of the cliff, far above the water and really at a great distance from him, a monstrous white goat. He was greatly impressed by the beast, which, as it lay there with its head lowered, its long beard nearly reaching to the ground, the hump on its back and its low hind quarters, reminded him very much of a buffalo.

By the time the travelers had reached the head of the lake the sun had disappeared and long shadows were creeping up the sides of the mountain to the east of them.

Hugh stopped his horse, looked about a little, and said, "Now, boys, I don't know what there is beyond here, and it's getting late in the day. I reckon we may as well stop and camp here and then to-morrow morning look out a trail up above. We're not greatly rushed for time, and if we travel in the dark we're liable to run into some mud hole, or find a lot of fallen timber, and perhaps get in trouble that will take us some little time to get out of. Let's camp here and do our exploring to-morrow. We'll have to pitch the tent in the timber and I reckon the horses can get along in this little park at the head of the lake. There isn't very much for them to eat, and so we'll have to tie them up. Suppose we unload here, and I'll begin to get supper while you boys make some pins and picket the horses, and put up the tent."

They did as he said, and when darkness fell the white tent gleamed among the green timber, and a fire -- perhaps the first ever kindled on the borders of this lake -- cast its cheerful gleam over the water.

Camp was astir very early the next morning, for this was to be a day of real exploration; a trip up to the head of the narrow valley and then perhaps a climb up the mountains beyond, for Hugh had said that the main Divide was probably near at hand.

During the talk of the evening before, he had expressed the belief that they could go only a little farther with horses, and that when they reached the head of the valley the animals must be left behind, and the mountains, stern and forbidding, the snow-covered peaks which had been in sight ever since they had entered the valley, must be climbed afoot.

While breakfast was being cooked, Joe and Jack changed the pack horses to fresh grass, and brought in and saddled the three riding animals. A little later all three mounted, and Hugh taking the lead, they plunged into the forest to try to find a trail to the foot of the mountains.

It was not easy riding. The timber was thick and stood close together. Hugh made his way down to the stream in the hope that it would be possible to ride up its bed and so avoid the obstacles in the forest, but though they entered the creek, they were soon obliged to leave it, for it was blocked by masses of drift timber, over which the horses could not pass. They had traveled a little more than half a mile up the valley, when they came to the edge of a snowslide, the path of an enormous avalanche, which many years before had rushed down the mountainside, making a path through the forest several hundred yards in width.

From this open space a fine view was had of the mountains, and of a great glacier that lay at the head of the valley -- an enormous mass of ice a mile or two wide and a half mile deep, lying in a great cup in the mountainside. The glacier was covered for the most part with new fallen snow, but here and there broken surfaces showed blue or green in the light of the morning sun.

While the others looked at the ice, Joe borrowed the field glasses and began to sweep the mountains for goats, and presently found one, and then another, until at last he had made out no less than eleven of the animals. Then after a time they went on and entered the forest on the upper side of the snowslide, where the going was open and dry, and a little farther on crossed a large stream coming out of a side canyon. Not far beyond that the timber grew thinner, and presently they rode out into a little grassy park.

Just as they passed out of the timber they heard a noise of stones rattling in front of them, and a moment later the plunge of a heavy body into water, and then the cracking of branches, growing fainter and fainter.

"Ho," said Hugh to Jack, "I reckon we started a moose or an elk here, and he's going up the mountain."

They rode forward and in a very few moments reached the gravelly borders of a lake which was hemmed in on three sides by mountains. Just opposite them and seen against the great dark precipice, which partly hid the glacier from their view, fell a white line of foam, the melting water of the great ice mass which supplied the lake. At the head of the lake was a narrow fringe of willows and then an open meadow of small extent, broken on one side by a low, rocky, pine-grown knoll. Behind the little meadow rose a thousand feet of black precipice, and above this was the glacier. Behind the glacier stood a jagged wall of rock, but on either side to the right and the left rose abruptly high mountains, which seemed to terminate in knife edges of naked rock. The scene was perhaps the grandest and most beautiful that Jack had ever beheld near at hand. It made him feel solemn, while Hugh's look at these tremendous heights was full of respect and admiration.

"Son," said Hugh, "those mountains there seem to threaten one, rather than to ask him to come on. It's a job to get up there, and I don't feel sure that we can do it in one day. If we go, we've got to start right away, and we'd better leave our animals here and take it afoot from this on."

"Yes," said Jack, "we can't get the horses any further; and we may as well picket them here."

Joe asked, "You are going to try to climb up there?"

"Why, yes, Joe," replied Jack. "I want to get on to that ice up there if I can, and maybe look over on to the other side of the mountains."

"Well," said Joe, "I don't like those mountains much; they scare me. I'd like to get back on the prairie where the sun shines warm and you can ride wherever you want to."

"Oh, come on," said Jack; "if you get up there, you'll be where no Piegan has been before. Come along."

"Come on, Joe," said Hugh. "You may as well get used to the mountains now as any other time."

The three tied their horses to pine trees, and took off the bridles so that they could feed. Then Hugh said, "Now, I reckon the best thing for us to do is to try to work our way around this lake and climb up that place where the water is tumbling down. It looks like a bad place, but it's liable to be a good deal easier than it looks. We don't know anything about these mountainsides, and if we try to go up them we're liable to take a whole lot of time, and not get anywhere to-night. Let's go right around this lake, crawl through the alder brush that grows at its edge, and then try to get up that flume where the water comes down. I think we can do it."

They started off without delay, and as they reached the rough shingle at the edge of the lake, Hugh pointed to some tracks where the stones and sand were thrown up and said, "That's what we heard a little while ago." On the large stones it was impossible to tell just what animal had made the tracks, but before they had gone far they saw where it had come down to the lake to drink, and in the grass and in the bare soil above they found the tracks of a good-sized moose.

The work of making their way over the talus at the lake border and through the willows and alders which grew among the fallen rocks was slow and difficult. The stones were more or less covered with moss and care was needed in stepping, lest a slip should send one of the men sliding down the slope and into the cold waters below.

At last, however, they had passed through the alders and reached the rocky promontory where the going was open, and passing over this, were soon in the open meadow below the precipice, where they took a moment's breathing spell, then started on, breasting a steep shoulder which gave an easy ascent for a couple of hundred feet to the lowest step of the cliff they wished to climb. Soon they reached the ledge and walked along it until they came to the very bed of the falls, and here began the serious work of the day.

The icy torrent which for ages had been flowing over this precipice had cut for itself a deep channel. On one side or the other of this channel the rock had fallen away so as to furnish here a crevice, there a projecting knob, which gave hand or foothold to the climber. At times, to be sure, they found before them a smooth, naked cliff which could not be climbed, and then search must be made along its face for a place up which they could pass.

They climbed slowly and carefully, often crossing the stream from one side to the other, clinging to little spruce trees that grew in the crevices of the rock, thrusting their fingers into cracks and fitting their feet on some knob or projecting splinter that would give them support. Slowly they worked their way upward, inch by inch, foot by foot.

Often the crossing of the stream was nervous work, for the boulders which lay in it were worn smooth as glass, and the fine mist which rose from the falling waters froze to the rocks, making them very slippery. Sometimes long jumps had to be made from one to another of these rocks, often in places where a slip might cause a bad fall on rough rocks below.

About two-thirds of the way to the top of the precipice they came out on a shelf perhaps a hundred feet wide, which was almost covered by high heaped rocks and gravel -- morainal drift brought down by the glacier from above. This was composed of boulders and stones of all sizes, from masses as large as a small house to grains no bigger than a pin's head.

Here they stopped to rest, and Hugh, with his back against a great rock, smoked a comforting pipe.

Close at hand they could see the beauty of the white, quivering falls rushing down the cliff, often by vertical plunges of a hundred feet or more, or down steep inclines, and in one place they had worn a deep fissure in the slate and shot down with a hissing sound thirty or forty feet back from one who looked in on them from the narrow opening of the crevice. Everywhere there was spray and dampness, and Jack was reminded in some respects of the high mountain torrents which he had seen during his famous canoe trip in British Columbia.

From here the going was much easier. The precipice was no longer vertical, but ascended in a series of huge steps to the level of the glacier.

There they began to see, at the lower border of the ice, vast quantities of drift spread far and wide, and to the right high naked ridges lying parallel to the course of the ice river. The crests of these ridges were sometimes fifty or sixty feet above the surface of the ice which lay against them and from a quarter to a half mile in length. At its lower border, the glacier had melted and had been covered with stones, so that it was hard to say just where the ice ended and the drift which it had carried before it began.

The main body of the glacier lay in the cup-shaped depression already spoken of, but high up on the rock wall behind it and to the left, was another enormous mass of ice looking like a huge snowball thrown against the wall. Its size was very great, but there was no means of estimating it. Hugh thought that the lower ice was two miles across, and nearly a mile deep.

At first the climbers had eyes only for the ice and the mountains which lay in front of them, but presently Joe happened to look behind him down the valley, and there, far, far away, was the yellow prairie shining in the warm sunshine. Joe called the attention of the others to this, saying, "Don't it look nice down there?"

The climb had taken much less time than had been anticipated, not that the height to which they had ascended had been less than they had thought, but because the way had been very direct and they had wasted little time in resting or loitering.

After their first view, Hugh led the way to a little grassy spot just outside of one of the moraines and, sitting down in a sheltered spot, said, "Let's sit here and smoke a pipe, and then get up as high as we can and see the whole show; and then we can turn around and go back." As they sat there they had a fine view of the valley below them.

"Isn't it a fine thing, Hugh," said Jack, "to get up here and see just how this glacier is acting? Don't you remember how Mr. Fannin explained glaciers to us; how simple and easy he made it to understand how they acted? I don't think I shall ever forget the way he talked about them, and I don't think I shall ever see one without looking for the things that he explained to us."

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's so, he sure did make things plain, and I don't wonder that you remember what he said. I was thinking of him when we got up here, but one of the things that seems queerest to me about this ice is that it's all made of snow. He said it was, and now we can see for ourselves that it is. I was looking as we came along, and you can see places just at the edges of the snow where it seems to be changing to ice. I guess the snow just gets solider and solider, and then gets water soaked and makes real ice."

"Of course," said Jack, "that must be it. When I was a small boy I used to make snow forts and defend them with snowballs, and sometimes the fellows would make the snowballs when the weather was warm and the snow was melting, and if it froze that night, they would be just solid ice. To get hit with one of those ice balls was a good deal like getting hit with a stone."

"Well," said Hugh, "I expect if no more snow fell up here this piece of ice would just melt away and leave nothing but the hole that it's laying in -- just a sort of a basin in the side of the mountain."

"Yes," said Jack, "I guess that's so. I think that's what Mr. Fannin told us; that a glacier was a glacier, because it was constantly being added to at its upper end, and the weight of the snow and ice was pushing it along over the mountainside. I take it that a snowbank might be ice at the bottom, perhaps, but that if it doesn't move it isn't a glacier."

"Yes," said Hugh, "I reckon that's so. I took notice of another thing," he went on, "as we were coming along. Did you see how this ice seems to be in layers? Some of 'em are half an inch thick and some of 'em an inch, and there seems to be a thin crust of dirt that separates one layer from another."

"Yes," said Jack, "I noticed that, and I was wondering how it could happen, or what it meant."

"Well, I was figuring on that very thing," said Hugh, "and it seemed to me that these little layers of dirt must be the dust and dirt blown off the mountainside by the wind after each fall of snow."

"Well, Hugh," said Jack, "that seems a natural explanation. We all know how the wind is always blowing up here, and we all know that old snow is always dusty. I guess you're right."

By this time Hugh's pipe was smoked out, and he rose to his feet and said, "Come on, we've got to stretch our legs some more and see if we can go up to the ridge. There looks to be a low place up ahead of us, and maybe if we can get up there we can see over the range. Look out for yourselves when you are walking over this smooth ice. If a man slips on one of these steep places, he's liable to go a long way before stopping."

The caution was a wise one, and for some distance they walked along carefully, keeping either on the moraine or on the very edge of the ice, or choosing a path where the snow was old and hard and gave a firm footing.

At one point, however, Joe tried to make a short cut by climbing over some old snow which was quite steep. Before he had gone very far the others saw him begin to dig his feet into the hard snow as if uncertain of his footing, then he slipped, recovered himself, stood for an instant as if doubtful whether to go backward or forward, took another step and then his feet flew out from under him and he began to slide down the slope. It looked very funny to see him flying over the snow, but Hugh did not laugh, for he feared that possibly the boy might go on until he brought up against rough rocks below. Luckily nothing of this kind happened, and after going about a hundred yards at a high rate of speed, Joe ran into some soft snow and his momentum was checked. He stopped, rose to his feet, and making his way cautiously back to the edge of the rocks, took the safe but longer road that his companions had followed.

Hugh and Jack waited until he had come up, and then Hugh, shaking his head, said to him, "That wasn't very smart, Joe. You'd better not try any more experiments of that kind; it's dangerous. A man may slip any time on one of these smooth icy slopes, and if he does he never can tell where he'll stop. You might have slid down there and brought up against the rocks, and broken some bones or killed yourself, and then we'd have had a hard time packing you down this hill and taking you into the agency. Then, besides that, sometimes these big pieces of ice are all cracked and full of holes, and if anyone should slip into one of those he might go down to the bottom and get killed by the fall on the rocks below, or if he stuck somewhere half way down he'd freeze to death before he could be hauled out. One thing we'll have to do after this when we're climbing in bad places; that is, to bring along a couple of sling ropes and tie ourselves together. It isn't likely that all three of us will slip and fall at the same time, and if only one slips, the other two can haul him out."

"That's a mighty good idea," said Jack; "I was scared when I saw Joe sliding down that ice. I remember reading about people climbing the mountains in Switzerland where they carry ice axes. They're sort of like adzes, with long straight handles and a spike in the end of the handle, and are used for cutting steps in the ice or hard snow. The people who are climbing tie themselves together with ropes and go mighty slowly and carefully, so that there is no danger of more than one man slipping at the same time. They go along one by one, and when one man is moving -- I mean, of course, in bad places -- the others all stand still and fasten their axes in the ice or hang on to the rope, so that if he does slip, there's no trouble about catching him. I remember reading that most of the accidents happen where people have so much confidence in themselves that they are not willing to be roped together, and some man makes a blunder and falls and the others just have to stand and look at him."

"Well," said Hugh, "if we're going to do much climbing around here, we ought to fix ourselves out in some such way as that. I tell you I'm too old myself to try any of these experiments.

"Come on, now," he continued, as he turned and started up the ridge, "let's get up here to a sheltered place and then we can sit down and eat a bite. I put some bread and bacon in my pocket this morning when we started, and we may as well eat and smoke a pipe before we go on."




Chapter XVII

A Fat Bighorn


In a sheltered spot at the foot of a great morainal ridge the three climbers sat down and ate their lunch. The air was warm and the sun bright, but every now and then a drift of breeze came down to them which felt cool, for they had been working hard and their garments were damp with perspiration. Hugh smoked his pipe, and then presently they rose and started to clamber further up the glacier. Presently they came upon the tracks of some large animals, either sheep or goats, which had passed over the moraine not long before. The surface of the ground was so hard that they could not be sure what these animals were, but looking over the snow-covered ice before them, they could see the tracks passing up over it, and at last turning up toward the peaks behind a rocky point which ran out from the mountainside. Hugh followed the tracks as far as the snow, and when they reached its unbroken surface they could see that the tracks were fresh, and before long Hugh turned to Jack and said, "They're sheep. A couple of good rams, I guess."

After they had come quite near the rocky point behind which the tracks led, Joe, who was a little to one side, suddenly stopped, and called out: "Look at that ram." From where they stood, neither Hugh nor Jack could see any living thing, but Jack stepped over toward Joe, and as he did so there came into his view a splendid bighorn, outlined against the snow so that every detail of his form could be seen.

The animal's head was up, and he gazed in curiosity rather than alarm at the three strange creatures that he saw below him.

Jack had loaded his rifle at Joe's exclamation and now asked, "How far off is he, Hugh?"

"About two hundred yards, I reckon," said Hugh. "Draw a coarse sight and shoot at his neck."

The animal was standing half quartering toward them in such a position that his head and neck were in line with his shoulders, and a ball through the shoulder would pierce either heart or lungs. Jack did not raise his sights, but following Hugh's suggestion fired at the animal's neck, just below the throat, so as to allow for any drop of the ball. For an instant the smoke hung, and when Jack could see through it, the animal had disappeared.

"Did anyone see where the ball struck?" asked Jack.

"Not I," said Hugh.

"I didn't either," said Joe, "but I thought he turned in an awkward kind of a way, as though he were hurt."

"I have an idea I heard the ball strike," said Hugh.

"Well," said Jack, "let's go up there anyhow. He was certainly a nice ram, and I'd like to get him."

They hurried up the slope, Hugh and Joe ahead, while Jack toiled behind. Presently they heard a cheerful shout from Hugh, "Come on, son, there's blood on the snow, and lots of it."

Sure enough, when Jack got up to where the slope was less steep he could see, even at a distance, the pure white mantle of snow splashed with great dark blotches.

The trail seemed likely to be a plain one, and the men hurried along over the snow, up the hill. Presently they could see that the ram was staggering, for his tracks no longer went directly ahead, but wavered from side to side. Then they passed on to the rocks and could not see the trail so easily, but farther ahead came to another snow bank where there was a broad smear of blood, showing apparently that the animal had fallen on its side and slipped along over the snow.

Hugh and Joe ran round a point of dwarfed spruces, but Jack, in his eagerness to cut off a corner, attempted to go through the little trees, and found himself in drifted snow up to his waist and his legs held by the branches of the spruces. For a moment or two he could hear the clatter of the others running over the rocks, and a word or two of their talk, but by the time he had got out on to the rocks, his companions were far ahead of him. As they saw him coming, however, they sat down to wait for him.

He followed the blood trail, and when he came up he, too, sat down.

"Have you seen anything of him?" he asked.

"No," said Hugh, "but he's going down hill, bleeding, as you see, and falling down every little while. We'll find him before long."

"All right," said Jack, "he's our meat, I guess. If he keeps on bleeding like this he can't go very far. We can't go down there after him and then come back here, and I want to go up and look if we can't see across the range. How do you feel, Hugh, do you want to go down and get the sheep, or shall we leave him there and all go up and look over the range and then go back?"

"Why," said Hugh, "I'd better go down and butcher him, and you and Joe can go up to the top of the rocks here and see what you can see on the other side. It isn't far. That low place, just above where the sheep stood when you shot, is the point to make for, and I reckon you can see all you want to from there. Then you come back, and come down to me. We've got quite a job to get that sheep into camp to-night. The fact is, I don't believe we can do it. It's too large for the three of us to carry down in one trip."

Jack and Joe went back in the direction that Hugh had suggested, and keeping well up the hill, soon found themselves close to a little saddle, where one of the side arms of the glacier started. It was an easy matter to climb up here and presently they stood on the crest of the Continental Divide, looking over a broad valley in which nothing was to be seen except rocks and stunted pine trees, and dimly through the thick, hazy atmosphere a distant lake and some high, snow-covered mountain crests.

"Do you know anything about this country, Joe?" asked Jack.

"No," said Joe, "not much. I reckon that big lake we see over there may be Lake McDonald, but I don't know these mountains, nor this country close to us."

"Well," said Jack, "I reckon Hugh will know something about it when we tell him what we've seen. Now let us go back on the ice, and then get down to him. It looks as if we were going to have bad weather."

The sky had become overcast, and the wind began to moan among the peaks. It looked like a snowstorm.

They walked down the glacier, keeping as nearly as possible on its comb, for they did not wish to slip, as Joe had done in the morning.

After they had looked down the valley of Swift Current into the flat at the foot of lower St. Mary's Lake and taken a last look over the glacier, they turned aside and, working out to the rocks, began to make their way down to Hugh.

At a little distance the side of the mountain looked absolutely vertical, and it did not seem possible that man, nor even sheep, could have passed along it, but as they went on they found no difficulty in making their way, and recognized one of the deceptions of these grand and mysterious hills. Joe, when they first started down, had been not a little alarmed, and said, "I'm afraid we never will see White Bull again. He could not have gone down such a place as this; he must have fallen and been killed."

"Nonsense," said Jack, "of course he went down all right, and we are going to follow him down. You'll see it won't be bad as we go on."

Before long they came to the blood trail of the sheep, and following that kept on their way until they saw Hugh standing by a fire in a little valley below them.

"Hurrah!" said Jack, "Hugh is cooking meat. I'm mighty glad, for I feel hungry."

When they had worked their way down to within a few hundred yards of him, zigzagging this way and that over the steep ledges, Hugh saw them and waved his hand, and presently when they got down within speaking distance, he called out, "Well, son, you killed the best piece of meat in the mountains."

"Good," said Jack, "I hope you have put some of it on the fire."

"That's what the fire is there for," said Hugh. "Come on down."

The boys at length reached a point about fifty feet above Hugh, and then had to go off to one side to find a way down the cliff. When they had come near the fire, however, Hugh showed them the ram lying at the edge of the snow bank from which he had drawn him.

"You see," said Hugh, "when I got almost up to him, he was lying on the rocks right at the top of this cliff with his head down and pretty nearly dead; but when I got quite close to him he heard me walking and got on his feet again and just walked over the cliff and fell into this snow bank down here. When I got to him he was dead. Nice ram, isn't he?"

Indeed, he was a beauty; perhaps six or seven years old, with horns that were not very large, but perfectly symmetrical and unbroken. His coat was thick, smooth and glossy, dark brown and with a white rump patch. Short of limb, strong of back, sturdy and stout, plump and round as a bull elk in early September, he made a picture such as even the successful hunter does not see every day.

It was evident to all that the whole animal could not be taken in that night, and that another trip must be made to bring in the meat. The best that could be done would be to carry down the head, which Jack wanted to save, and a couple of light loads of the meat, and then the next day they could return and bring in the rest. However, they sat down for a little while and feasted on some of the delicious ribs cut from the animal. Then, taking the head and the two shoulders, they set out for camp. Hugh was inclined to think that by keeping along the mountain, he might reach camp by a route considerably easier than that which they had taken in coming up, though, of course, it would be much longer. He also declared that he thought it possible that they might be able to pick out a trail by which they could bring up a pack horse to carry down the rest of the meat.

As soon as they had finished eating they started down along the mountainside, keeping on the ledges where the walking was good, and descending by easy steps from one ledge to another. They had gone but a short distance when they passed a ravine in which lay a long snow bank hollow beneath. Into this snow cave Hugh went to look for a drink of water and presently called to the boys, telling them to come in to him.

They found themselves in a most beautiful ice grotto. The snow bank was an old one and the rushing waters of spring had tunneled under it, while it melted from above, so that a heavy roof of blue ice stretched across the ravine from side to side. The grotto was eight or ten feet from floor to roof, thirty feet wide and perhaps a hundred long. A drift of snow which had blown in from an opening at its upper end, lay in the bottom of the ravine. The roof seemed not very thick and admitted the light freely. It was a beautiful sky blue and reminded Jack vaguely of some blue grotto in Italy of which he had read and had often heard his mother talk.

The sun was getting lower and lower as the three hurried along the mountain. In most places it was easy going, and in the snow banks, which they were constantly crossing, fresh tracks of goats were seen, but the travelers paid no attention to these and kept on their way as fast as possible.

Long before they had reached the level of the valley the sun had set, but there was light enough for them to go a little way down the stream and then cross on a log-jam which brought them to the other side of the stream. Here they mounted their horses, and in a short time were standing by their tent.

Presently, when the coffee-pot was bubbling and some fat sheep meat sputtering in the pan, when the horses had been looked after and the day's labor was over, it was pleasant to talk of the wonderful things that they had seen since sunrise.

The next morning the boys saddled a pack horse, and crossing the little stream which pours out of the lake, Hugh, Jack and Joe climbed the mountainside, dragging the pack animal behind them.

After they had once got through the thick brush it was not difficult to lead the horse along the ledges, almost to the sheep's carcass. They did at last come to a place where the horse could not get up, and though by taking half a day's time they could probably have found a way to take him to the meat, it seemed simpler and shorter to leave him where he was and to carry the meat to him.

"Now," said Hugh, as they were eating their luncheon, "we've got a little idea of this fork of the stream, what do you say to turning around now and going back to the head of St. Mary's River, where we came from? I believe that by this time the snow has melted some and we will find feed for the horses, so that we can stop there for a while, and do a little hunting and maybe climb the mountains that you've been talking about. What do you say?"

"What do you say, Joe?" asked Jack.

"Why," said Joe, "I'm ready to go 'most anywhere or do 'most anything. I think I like the country at the head of the lake, where the bear tore down the tent, better than I do here."

"Well, Hugh," said Jack, "that's the way I feel. Of course, it is nice here and interesting, and we could spend a lot of time and see a great many things; but it seems to me that the country at the head of St. Mary's River is bigger and more interesting than this."

"All right," said Hugh, "let's go if you say so, and if we're going, why not pack up and roll now. We ought to be able to get down nearly to the mouth of Swift Current before dark. Maybe we can even camp in the big flat of the St. Mary's River. If you boys want to start, round up your horses and I'll be making up the packs, and we'll move mighty quick."

By the time the horses had been brought in and saddled, Hugh had his packs made up, and it took but a few minutes to lash the loads, and soon the train was moving off down the valley.

As they crossed the snowslide, Jack turned aside and looked back toward the great mountain behind them and wondered again at the mighty mass of ice that lay in its lap. It hardly seemed to him possible that he had been up walking on that ice, and on those rocks that now seemed so far away and so difficult of access.

He had but little time, however, to think about this, and, turning his horse, hurried on after the others, who were just entering the timber.

They had gone but a little way, when Hugh stopped his horse, and all the others came to a standstill. He called back to Jack, "Son, have you got a piece of string in your pocket?"

"Yes," said Jack, fishing it out, "I have, but it's only about three feet long."

"Well," said Hugh, "get off your horse and come up here."

When Jack reached Hugh's side, Hugh pointed to the ground a few feet from him, and there, standing close together, were three beautiful Franklin grouse, while on a little spruce tree, two or three feet above the others, sat a fourth bird.

"Now, son," said Hugh, "I reckon you've heard me talk about the way these fool hens are gentle, and how you can kill them with a rock or sometimes with a club, or can even slip a noose over the head of one, as he sits on a branch in front of you. Do you want to try and catch one?"

"Why, yes, Hugh," said Jack, "I'd like to do that. I don't want to kill one particularly, because we've got what meat we need, but I'd like to catch one."

"Well," said Hugh, "you can, and if you get it in your hands quickly enough, you can take off the string and let it go. There's a straight dead branch over there. Just make a noose of your string, and then tie the string to the end of that branch, leaving about a foot hanging down from the branch, and try it."

Jack arranged his snare, tying it to the end of a straight branch about six feet long, and then advanced very slowly toward the grouse.

They paid no attention to him until he was within three or four yards, and then one of those on the ground appeared to notice him and stretched out its neck to look at him. Jack stood still and in a few seconds the bird seemed satisfied and resumed its huddled-up position. Then Jack went on, very slowly, and when he had come within six or seven feet of the bird he held his stick before him and tried to pass the noose over the bird's head. This was not easy to do, and two or three times the noose struck the side of the bird's head without passing over it, yet the grouse merely moved to one side to avoid the string. Presently, in making this movement, the bird itself passed its head through the noose, and Jack, lowering the point of the stick, pulled it toward him, drew the bird off the branch, and brought it flapping furiously to his feet. He at once seized it and, loosening the noose, took it from the bird's head. Then he smoothed the bird's feathers and in a moment or two it seemed to lose all fear.

"Isn't it a beautiful bird, Hugh?" he said, as he held it up for Hugh's inspection.

"Yes," said Hugh, "they certainly are right pretty little birds. It's a pity they don't know better how to take care of themselves, for everything that runs across them can kill them."

"Well," said Jack, "I'm glad I caught this little fellow, but I'm mighty glad I didn't kill him, and now I'm going to turn him loose."

He walked over to the other birds and put the grouse that he held gently on the ground and then stood up. The grouse raised itself to its full height and stretched up its neck, looking at him with an air of great curiosity. Then, seemingly satisfied, it lowered its head and with very deliberate steps walked over toward its fellows, while Jack remounted his horse, and the three travelers started on.

An hour later they were in the main valley of Swift Current and marching at a good gait down the trail.

Quite a long time before sunset they crossed Boulder Creek, and a little later came out on the wide flat below the lower lake. Over by the river were some white lodges and a bunch of horses feeding, and Hugh said, "I believe our friends, the Kootenays, are still camped here. Let's go over and camp with them. I'd rather be right among them than at a little distance. The dogs and children won't trouble us so much in the camp as they would if we were close to it."

They found in the camp all their acquaintances of a week or two before. Evidently the hunting had been good, for there were scaffolds covered with drying meat, and many hides pegged upon the ground.

While the white men were making camp, some of their acquaintances came up and spoke to them, and a little later old Back In Sight, the chief, paid them a call, and on Hugh's invitation sat down and ate with them.

The Indians said they were soon going north and west to their own country. The hunting had been good, and they had killed many beaver. Now the fur was no longer at its best and they did not wish to trap any more this season.

Just before dusk something occurred that immensely interested Jack. A man clad in a blanket and a battered felt hat walked through the camp haranguing the people, who gathered in the middle of the small space within the lodges. Standing in the middle of the group, this man repeated what were evidently prayers. Then to Jack's intense astonishment he crossed himself; rang a little bell, offered up another prayer and crossed himself again, while all the people followed his example. This went on for some little time until, finally, at the end of one prayer, followed by the tinkle of the bell, the people dispersed.

"Say, Hugh," said Jack, "I wish you'd ask that Indian that you can talk to what this means. It looks to me like some sort of a church service."

"Well," said Hugh, "I wouldn't be surprised a mite. You know lots of these Indians, especially on the west side of the mountains and to the north, believe in the Catholic religion, and I wouldn't be surprised if these people do, or think they do. As a matter of fact, I believe they worship the sun, but maybe they think they're Christians. Wait until I talk a little bit with this man that speaks some Chinook and Piegan."

Hugh had quite a long talk with the Kootenay, then turned to Jack and said, "Now, son, that's a mighty queer thing that we've seen. This man says that what we saw them doing was worshiping, and that this worship was taught their fathers by a Black Robe a good many years ago. Their fathers taught them how to worship in this way, but they themselves don't know exactly what it means; all they know is that they are praying to the Black Robe's God. This Black Robe taught their fathers to say these prayers, to ring this bell and make these motions, touching themselves on four places on their bodies. They try to do this just as their fathers taught them."

Jack clapped his hands in astonishment. "That is certainly a most extraordinary thing; a real case of survival. I guess if I tell people back East about this they will laugh at me, and say I'm crazy."

"I reckon, son, if you tell them all the things you have seen out in this country that if they don't call you crazy they'll at least call you a liar."

"That is sure so, Hugh," said Jack. "I've seen people turn their heads away and laugh when I was telling them some common enough story about things out here. You see they don't understand anything about it, and so when they hear anything that is outside of the range of their own experiences they think I'm lying to them; but this holding Mass in a Kootenay Indian camp beats me. It's hard to believe that I've seen it."

"It does seem mighty queer, that's so, son," replied Hugh, "but we all know what great fellows the Indians are for hanging on to anything that they ever get hold of. They are a great people for old customs, and accept and stick to what their old people have told them. Of course, in these days they are changing all the time. The young fellows around the agencies are becoming civilized in spite of themselves, but take these old fellows that live out in the camps, the old buffalo hunters, and others of that sort, and they haven't changed much, and they never will change much either. They'll die old buffalo hunters."

Early the next morning the little party left their Indian friends and started up the lake. By ten o'clock they had crossed the inlet and were on their way along the upper lake. The packs, well put on in the morning and constantly watched, gave them no trouble and there were no delays. Not long after noon they passed their previous camp just below the Point of Rocks, and climbing that steep ridge, kept on their way along the mountainside.

They traveled until after sunset and at last camped in a little park in the narrow valley, and by noon the next day had reached the old camp at the little lake where they had killed the bears.

Here the aspect of the mountains was greatly changed. Much of the snow had melted, the grass was well started, and the landscape looked more like summer.




Chapter XVIII

Among The Icefields


The next morning they rose late, for the previous day had been long and hard. At breakfast Hugh said, "Now, to-day, let's picket the pack horses and ride up on the mountains prospecting, and see whether we can camp over there where that big snow bank lay when we were here last. I have an idea that we'll find most of the snow gone and that we'll have dry ground to camp on and some little feed near by for the horses."

Soon after breakfast they made ready to start.

"They say lightning don't strike twice in the same place," remarked Hugh, "but then it might, so I'm going to hang up all our stuff in one of these trees, where it will be out of the reach of the bears. If they get to mixing up our things once or twice more, we won't have anything to eat, and we'll have to go back to the Agency for grub. They'd like mighty well, I reckon, to get at this sheep meat, and if they could ever get hold of that sheep head of yours, son, they'd carry it off in the brush, and you never would find it."

Some little time was spent in making up the bundles and in putting them in places of safety in the trees. Then they saddled the horses, and climbing the steep game trail that led to the valley above, found themselves once more on the high bench on the mountainside. Here on the flat rocks there were still great expanses of snow, but it was melting fast, and clear torrents of water ran toward the river in the valley below.

Among the rocks was the same wealth of wild flowers that they had seen when they were here before, but the flowers were much more advanced and many of the blossoms had withered and seemed now to be forming seed-pods.

They had not gone far when an old mother ptarmigan hopped up in front of them and performed the familiar ruse of fluttering along the ground with hanging wings, as if wounded. They looked carefully for the chicks, which they knew must be near at hand, but could not see them. No doubt they were lying immediately under their eyes hidden in crevices of the rock, looking just like the little stones that were scattered everywhere.

Across the valley the green timber was now showing black above the paler grass which carpeted the soil, and Joe said, "I reckon we can camp over there all right, White Bull."

"Yes," said Hugh, "it looks so, doesn't it? Anyhow, we'll go over and see. You can't always tell so far off as this."

They crossed the stream at its head among the great rounded boulders that had been carried down by the ice, and the roar of the fall coming over the precipice almost deafened them. When they had left it a little behind, Jack asked Hugh, "Where do you suppose all that water comes from?"

"Why," said Hugh, "I reckon it comes from an awful lot of snow and ice that lies on the mountainside up above there. I wouldn't be a mite surprised if up there we were to find a glacier two or three times as big as the one where you killed the sheep. There's an awful lot of room back between this place where the water falls over and the tops of the mountains. We'll get there in the course of a day or two, if we find a good camping place, as I think we will."

Hugh's prediction as to the possibility of camping here was right. The snow was gone, the ground had dried off, and the grass had started thick and green.

Hugh seemed well pleased and selected a place for the camp, declaring that the best thing they could do would be to go right back, pack up and move here.

"It's true," he said, "there isn't feed enough just now to keep the horses, but we can turn them loose over across the creek, where there is good feed, and can bring them in here and tie them up nights, if we want to. I don't believe that they'll go off, even if we leave them over there, though it's rather far from camp, and of course something might scare them and give us some trouble to hunt them up."

When they reached camp they put the packs on their animals and returning, pitched their tent in a pretty little grove of stunted spruces, close to the edge of a tiny rivulet, where wood was plentiful and there was some grass.

From here they could look out on a dozen splendid mountain peaks, some of them covered with perpetual snow, and with great fields of white snow on the sides of others that seemed to indicate glaciers flowing down their slopes.

Early next morning the three set out to explore this alpine valley, or rather, the mountains which surround it. Opposite them, to the west, rose the huge mountain along whose sides they had now passed several times. To the south of it was a saddle, beyond which again rose a rocky ridge, rising toward a point that was hidden from view by the high cliff to the south, over which came the great water fall that fed the large stream which was the main river. Opposite this saddle, and so to the east of the camp, was a valley in which grew some pine timber, and which seemed to rise by a gentle ascent to very high rocky peaks that were bare of snow.

"Which way shall we go, Hugh?" said Jack. "We have a lot of country to travel over, though of course we don't know how far we can go in any direction."

"No," said Hugh, "we've got to learn that for ourselves. Now the horses are a little tired; they've been traveling pretty steadily for two or three days now, what do you say to leaving them to feed here and crossing over the creek and walking up that snow slope to yon saddle, and seeing what there is on the other side of it? I reckon that here we're about as close to the Divide as we can get, and I guess likely that if we can reach that crest of rock that lies above the snow and look over it, we'll be seeing waters that flow into the Flat Head Lake, and so into the Pacific Ocean. If we can get up on to that ridge, we may be able to see what it is that lies off to the south of us here, which is toward the Cut Bank Pass."

"I'd like to do that," said Jack. "How do you feel about it, Joe?"

"Well," answered Joe, "I'd like to see it, only I don't want to go sliding round, the way I did the other day. I tell you I was scared that time. I couldn't hold myself back, and I didn't know what was going to happen to me."

"Yes," said Jack, "I was scared, too. It would be pretty bad luck if one of us got hurt and had to be nursed up here in the mountains, or packed in to the Agency to find a doctor."

"Well," said Hugh, "you boys have got to be careful wherever you go, and you must think about what your carelessness might cost other people.

"Now, if we go up over that snow, we've got to try to fix ourselves out for it. We'd better each one of us take a kind of walking stick to hold on with, and a rope, so that if we get in any place where the going is right bad we can tie ourselves together, and go mighty careful, one at a time, the way Jack was telling us the other day that those mountain-climbing fellows do in Europe. I'll take the ax and go over into this small timber across the creek, and cut some sticks for us to use."

The boys went with Hugh, and in a few minutes returned with three long slender poles, from which, with ax and knife, all the branches and roughness were soon trimmed. Hugh pointed the larger ends of the poles and then told the boys to thrust them into the fire so that they might become charred and hardened. In that way they would last and be effective much longer. Then Hugh took a couple of sling-ropes off the pack saddles, and coiling them up, put one over his right shoulder and under his left arm, and gave the other to Joe, who carried it the same way.

It was but a few minutes' walk over meadows, green with new springing grass and bright with wild flowers, to the ledges down which they passed to get to the stream. This was easily crossed by springing from rock to rock, and a little later they were slowly trudging over the old snow upon an icefield.

Just before reaching the snow, Hugh pointed out little brooklets running through the drift and gravel, whose milk-white waters showed that they came from under a glacier.

"You remember, I reckon, son," he said to Jack, "what Fannin told us about the way the masses of ice and the loose rocks under it ground up the soil and rock over which the ice passed, and made the water milky with this powdered rock. This must be what we see here, and we can be sure, I reckon, that this is a glacier."

"Yes," said Jack, "I guess there's no doubt about that, especially when we see that big moraine off there to the right. That must have been made by the glacier, though it looks as if that had been done a long time ago."

"That's what," said Hugh, "a long time ago. But seeing that moraine there makes me think that maybe it would be a good plan to get on that and walk along as far as it goes. I've seen these glaciers sometimes that were all cracked and full of holes, and sometimes the holes were bridged with snow, so that a man might break through the snow and fall into one of them. Let's get on the moraine and walk along that, and then when we have to walk over the snow, rope ourselves together."

Edging to the right, they soon came to the steep-sided moraine, and after a little search found a place where they could ascend it and walk along its very sharp crest. It was a place for careful walking, since the crest was a sharp knife-edge and they had to walk with one foot on either side of the ridge, with a drop of fifty or sixty feet below if a misstep were made. Before they had gone very far, Joe, who was bringing up the rear, called, "I don't like this very much. I am afraid I am going to fall."

"Nonsense," said Hugh, "you won't fall, but if you feel as if you were going to, you better sit down astride of the ridge, take your rope and tie one end of it about your waist and throw the other end to Jack. Then he can tie that about his waist, and I'll throw my rope back and he can tie himself to that, too."

Joe stopped and stood there for a moment and then called out, "No, I'm all right now. Go ahead and I'll follow, but don't go too fast."

They went on very deliberately, and presently Hugh reached the end of the moraine and stepped off on to the snow, where a moment later he was joined by Jack and Joe.

"Now," said Hugh, "let's put these ropes on, leaving a little slack in our hands. Then if any one of the three sees that one of the others is going to slip or fall, he must stand still and do the best he can to support his partner. Look out, too," he went on, "about where you're stepping. Try to follow as nearly as you can just where I go, and I'll try the snow with my stick, and if I find a soft place we'll go around it."

They started up the snow slope, directing their course toward the side of the great mountain, until they had come pretty close to it. Then Hugh turned off to the left, and plodded steadily along, vigorously punching the snow with his pole. Occasionally he stopped to rest and to draw a few deep breaths, and on one of these occasions Hugh said to Jack, "You can see, son, why I don't want to get close to the mountains here," and he waved his hand toward the rocks, at the foot of which Jack saw many places where recent snowslides from high up on the mountain had rushed down and thrown great masses of snow and even great pieces of rock far out on the slope which they were ascending.

"As the sun gets higher," Hugh went on, "and the rocks get warm, this snow loosens its hold on the mountain, and sometimes a very little thing will break the last hold it has, and the whole mass will come rushing down. We don't want to get close enough under the rocks to have any of that stuff hit us."

"Well, White Bull," asked Joe, "why don't you keep far out from the mountain?"

"It's like this," replied Hugh; "you see out there in the middle of the ice the slope is steepest, and there in the middle is where the ice moves fastest. For that reason it's more likely to be cracked and broken there, and it's into those crevices that a man might slip and get hurt. We want to dodge those cracks in the ice on the one hand, and the falling snow and rocks on the other, and that is just what I'm trying to do."

"I tell you, Hugh," said Jack, admiringly, "you seem to see everything and to think of everything."

"Oh, no," replied Hugh, "there's lots of things that I don't see and lots of things that I don't think of, but, of course, a man that's been a long time in the mountains gets to know some things, and if he's got any sense he tries to keep himself out of danger."

For an hour or two more they climbed steadily, always keeping near the rim of the great basin, yet well away from the rocks, and at last they were on snow that was almost level, and well up toward a wall of rock, which sometimes stood up high, or again was broken down and so low that it was but six or eight feet above the level of the snow. Gradually they drew near to this wall, which was bare of snow and from which, therefore, Hugh anticipated no danger, until at last they had come so close to it that it seemed that they might reach it at almost any point.

Hugh kept on to a place where the wall was quite broken down, and then, turning, reached the edge of the snow and stepped across to the rocks, where the others joined him.

Through the opening where they were standing they could see mountains, and, taking two or three steps forward, looked into a black gorge full of snow and ice, from which a narrow valley led away to the southwest. It was the coldest, most desolate place that any of them had ever looked into. Below, a precipice fell away a sheer thousand feet, and then, piled up in the valley, one could not tell how thickly, was the snow, sometimes broken and showing green ice beneath it, and sometimes with an immense peak of rock sticking out through it. There was no life to be seen, and no green thing; only black rocks, white snow and dark ice.

"My," said Jack, "that's a terrible place."

"Yes," said Hugh, "it would be mighty lonesome for a man who was put down anywhere in there."

"I don't like to look at it," said Joe, "it scares me. I don't like these mountains. I like the prairie, where it's warm and where you can see a long way."

"Do you suppose that anything lives down there, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Well, I don't know," was the answer. "I reckon likely the goats go down there in summer to get cool, but how they get up here again if they go down there, I don't know. Maybe there are some places where a goat or a man could get down, but I can't see them from here."

"Well," said Jack, "I'd hate to go hunting down there, and I don't believe I'd go if I saw a dozen goats."

"No," said Hugh, "I don't reckon you would. I think it would be better to try to find some easier place to do your hunting. It's scary looking."

They spent a long time looking down into this gulf, and the longer they looked the more dark and forbidding it seemed. Hugh said that the waters from the melting snow and ice must run down into some river that entered Flat Head Lake, but what river it was he did not know, for he had never been in the mountains on the other side of the range.

At length, retreating from the edge of the precipice, they went out to the other side of the rocks, and, sitting down, ate the little lunch of fried sheep meat and bread that they had brought in their pockets. Then Hugh smoked his pipe, and presently they started to return to camp.

"How are you going back, Hugh?" asked Jack. "The way we came or some other way?"

"No," said Hugh, "the way we came is good enough for me. I know I can get back that way, and, if we try some other road, I don't feel sure that we won't meet some steep slope or some big crack that will stop us. I took notice as we came up this morning that the snow on the other side of the basin looks mighty steep, and I don't want to imitate Joe and go sliding around the way he did. Let's go back the way we came, and then if we want to try some other way, if we ever come here again, we can try it from the bottom, and if we get stopped we can go back to camp."

Adjusting their ropes, they started on the return journey. The heat of the sun had decidedly affected the snow, and it was much softer than when they had come up a few hours before. This made the walking easier, and their progress down the slope was much more rapid, so that the afternoon was only half spent when they found themselves once more in camp.

None of the horses were in sight, and they at once set out to look for them, and after considerable search found them all together not very far from camp, but a little way down the hill, where the grass grew thicker and greener than close to the camp.

"Now, boys," said Hugh, "I'll tell you what we've got to do. We can't afford to lose our horses and we can't expect them to stay close to camp where there's no grass, so let's take them over across the creek, and turn them loose on the other side, where the feed is better and they can't very well get away. If they come back and cross the creek to go down hill, we will hear them, and in the morning if any of them are gone from the place where we turned them loose, we can go down the hill on this side of the creek and catch them before they have gone far."

Hugh's advice was acted on, and then returning to the tent they found that it was time for supper.

After supper the question came up as to what they should do to-morrow. After talking for a little while, Hugh said, "Now, son, of course, we want to keep busy and see and do all that we can up here in the mountains, but then we must remember that we've got pretty nearly all the time there is. We don't need to make a labor of our fun and climb these hills every day. If you boys want to do so, you can just as well stay in camp for a day now and then, and kind of rest up. These rocks here are not going to get away, and you don't have to climb them all to-morrow. If you feel like doing it, we can all stay in camp to-morrow and take things easy, and then start out on our travels the next day."

"I think maybe that's a good idea, Hugh," said Jack. "We've been on the go pretty steadily ever since we came out, and maybe it would be a good idea to loaf for a day."

"I think so, too," agreed Joe, "and then something else, my eyes hurt me to-night. I think maybe the shine of the sun on the snow is what makes them pain."

"Yes," said Hugh; "we did a fool trick this morning. I didn't think of it until we got well up on the ice, and the sun commenced to get strong. We ought to have blackened our noses before we started out. We're all of us likely to have sore eyes to-morrow. I don't think it will last long nor hurt much, but the sun is strong now. You see it's mid-summer and, of course, the glare from the ice is pretty bad. After this, we must not start out over the snow without fixing up our faces."

So after a little more talk it was determined that the next day should be spent in and about camp.

The boys were lazy about rising the next morning, and when they got up they saw Hugh sitting by the fire smoking, and noticed that the brilliant sunlight which was cut off from the camp by the great mountain that rose to the east of them, was slowly creeping down the ice field across the valley. It was late.

"Why, Hugh," said Jack, "I guess I was more tired than I thought. I slept right through, and I had no idea it was as late as this."

"Yes," said Hugh, "it's pretty late. I've had breakfast cooked for two or three hours, and I reckon you'll find everything pretty well dried up when you get to eating; but no matter about that, the grub is ready for you; are you ready for it?"

"I'll be ready in about five minutes," said Jack, as he hurried down to the little stream where they had scraped out a pool where the water had collected and which made a very good place for washing their hands and faces. Presently they were all at breakfast and enjoying their food, even if it was dried up.

After Hugh had washed the dishes, he said, "Now, boys, I'm going over to the other side of the creek there to look at the horses and see how they're getting along, and I'll be back in two or three hours. Anybody that wants to go with me can, and anybody that wants to stay here can stay."

"I'll go," said Joe, "if you won't make me climb over that ice."

"No," laughed Hugh, "I promise not to take you on to the ice, but I want to see how those horses are making out over there, and if there's plenty of feed for them. They seemed to be well satisfied this morning."

"I don't believe I'll go," Jack said. "My eyes hurt me a little, and I think I'll just sit here in camp, and then if I get tired of doing that I'll take a little walk up the valley."




Chapter XIX

A Four-Footed Hunter


Hugh and Joe started off to look at the horses, while Jack stayed in camp and watched the mountains, and noticed how their shadows grew shorter and shorter as the sunlight crept toward the place where he was sitting.

It was quiet here. Now and then a bird's note sounded in the trees above him, and once he heard the shrill whistle of a mountain woodchuck and always the dull sound of water falling over the cliff. Despite the quiet, there was yet much that was delightful in his surroundings.

As he sat there doing nothing, the forest, which to the casual traveler seems so silent and so destitute of life, began to give out little sounds and to show movements that Jack hardly expected. Down by the stream a friendly little water ouzel came along feeding, and stopping near the place where Jack sat, perched himself on a dry stick, and sat there for a long time, practicing his thrush-like song. He seemed to be a young bird and, though low, his song was very musical. He tried it over and over again, stopping sometimes when he thought he had made a mistake, and beginning anew with great patience and perseverance. He was a humble bit of life as he perched there, clad in quaker gray and hardly to be distinguished from a stub of the dead branch on which he rested, and Jack could not but admire the little fellow and be delighted by his liquid notes.

On one of the trees hung the shoulders of the sheep, which, shining red against the dark green, attracted the notice of a vagrant company of gray jays, which were flitting from point to point among the pines. Jack had seen many of these amusing rascals, sometimes known as meat hawks or camp robbers, and was always ready to admire their astonishing impudence.

A gray jay has little fear of human beings. He is likely to alight within three feet of one's face, and to wink at one in daring fashion. He will stand on the legs of a deer which is hanging in a tree while you are skinning it, and from his perch will dart down to the ground after every little bit of meat or fat that drops from the knife. One can entice them almost up to his hand by tossing bits of food to them, making each bit fall a little nearer than the last; yet, notwithstanding all their impudence and apparent tameness, they are watchful and well able to take care of themselves. They scan you suspiciously with keen black eyes, and are always on the alert.

A group of these bold fellows darted down from the tree tops, some of them perching on the meat in the tree, but two or three plunging close to the fire, and alighting with an audacious flirt and spreading of the tail, which made Jack feel that the camp belonged rather to the birds than to him, and that he, if he had any modesty at all, ought to go off and leave them to occupy it.

The jays raised themselves to their full height, as if standing on tiptoe, and looked round, and then seeming perfectly satisfied, hopped about and picked up little pieces of bacon, morsels of fat and crumbs of bread. Some of these they ate at once, some they took up and carried off bodily to a neighboring branch, where, holding the food under one foot, they hammered and tore the piece until it was so divided that they could swallow it.

One of the jays got hold of a bone of the sheep to which some flesh was clinging, and as it was too big to carry off, pecked at it until he got a beak full of the food, and then flew off to eat it, but immediately returned for more.

Jack noticed that the jays that were working at the meat hanging in the trees sometimes clung to it, hanging head down, like titmice, which, indeed, they somewhat resembled. They did not seem very good-natured among themselves, and Jack noticed that if two alighted on the same piece of meat, one of them always retired and waited until the other had satisfied himself and gone off. Once or twice there seemed a possibility of an active quarrel between two of them. One of the two would draw himself up very straight indeed, slightly raise the feathers of his head and give a low flute-like whistle, and when the other saw this attitude and heard the warning he at once flew away.

Jack supposed that the jays would eat what they wanted, and then go away, but this was not the case. After satisfying their appetites, they continued their foraging, carrying off their booty and laying it up in secret storehouses on the branches, or in the little festoons of moss that hung from the trees.

Jack noticed that they seemed to store away quite a little bit of food in their throats, and that when they had all they could carry they went off and deposited it, and came back for more. The gray jays were so persistent and such wholesale robbers that Jack contemplated throwing sticks and stones at them to drive they away, but before he had made up his mind to do this another bird appeared, which at once scattered the jays.

While they were hard at work gathering plunder from the camp a dark shape flashed across the opening, and a moment later a beautiful Steller's jay alighted in a small tree near the tent, raised his long crest, looked about him for an instant, and then hopping from one branch to another, reached the topmost spray of the tree, where he hung for an instant, swinging backward and forward on a slender twig. Then he darted down and alighted on the meat, and after another glance about him, attacked it with much vigor, sinking his sharp bill into the tender flesh at every stroke. He was a fine fellow, this Rocky Mountain blue jay, beautiful in color and shape, with dark blue wings and tail, a smoky brown body and head and a long crest, with light blue dots on his forehead. He was trim, graceful, alert and quick in all his motions, but he remained about the camp only a little while and then dashed away into the forest.

After the blue jay had gone, and the coast was clear, the gray jays came back again, and so persistently did they assail the meat that Jack finally drove them off, and threw a coat over it to protect it.

The daring and impudent gray jays were not, however, the only birds about the camp. Modest little juncos -- birds like the black snow bird of the East -- now and then crept out of the forest and made cautious advances to the neighborhood of the fire, where they feasted on the bread crumbs that had been dropped on the ground.

When Jack first saw them they seemed to him the most timid, shrinking little creatures imaginable, and he was astonished later to see two of them almost come to blows over a choice bit of bread that one had found. When another bird approached the dainty which its discoverer was picking to pieces, the owner grimly lowered his head and bristled up his feathers, prepared to defend his rights. The other little bird threw itself into a defensive position as if quite prepared for battle, but the two did not quite come to blows. After eyeing each other for a few seconds one made a little hop to one side and then the other moved off, and presently the ruffled feathers were smoothed down.

Back in the woods, Jack could hear now and then dull tappings and drummings, which told him that the carpenters among the birds were at work, and after a while one of these woodpeckers dashed into camp, and, alighting near the top of an old stub, stood there for a while as if waiting to be admired.

He was a handsome fellow, with a glossy black back, relieved by white shoulder knots and wearing a satiny cap of red. He was also an energetic worker, but liked frequent intervals of rest.

He hammered away on the wood as if his life depended on it, making the chips fly this way and that, but when he secured the grub that his keen ear told him was concealed there and had swallowed it, he would sit still for some moments as if considering its excellent flavor.

A sudden movement of the gray jays, which still loitered about in the hope of being able to steal something more, occasionally alarmed this visitor and caused him to dodge around to the other side of the stub with a little shriek of alarm, but he would at once peer out from behind it and, finding that he had been frightened without cause, went to work again.

Two rather distant cousins of this woodpecker also came into the camp. They were banded three-toed woodpeckers, somewhat more modestly clad in black and white, with yellow silk caps.

Jack noticed that they worked most on the trunks of the higher trees and on the larger limbs, corkscrewing about them and pecking away in modest fashion, as if anxious to escape observation.

One of them crept into a hollow in the bark of a great spruce and stayed there for a long time, and Jack thought that he was taking a nap before starting out for his supper.

For some hours Jack sat there watching the birds and having a delightfully lazy time. Once in a while he looked across the creek to the place where the horses were, and could see two figures, which he knew must be Hugh and Joe. They seemed in no hurry to return to the camp, but had gone beyond the horses and almost to the crest of the hill above the old camp where the bears had been killed.

At length when the birds had all gone off and he felt a little tired of doing nothing, Jack took up his rifle and crossing the tiny stream which lay before the camp, clambered half a mile or more up the mountainside. It was steep, but not bad going.

There was little sign of game, but, presently, on one of the ledges, Jack walked into a little brood of Franklin's grouse; a mother and half a dozen young ones as big as a quail.

At first the old bird seemed rather uneasy, but not sufficiently alarmed to resort to any of the common tricks for leading an intruder away from her young, and Jack sat down on the ground close to them and watched them for a long time. They did not seem very active birds, nor did they display much energy in searching for food. They seemed to him rather lazy, and at last he rose and, leaving them, went on.

From his high perch he could see far into the distance and could now overlook the great cliff lying south of the camp, which he discovered to be the northern boundary of an immense snow field which ran back a long way to a vast mountain and to the ridges which extended from it on either hand.

"My," said Jack to himself, "that will be no fool of a climb to cross that ice and get on those ridges. We will have to do that before very long."

Looking down across the valley he could now see Hugh and Joe returning to camp, and turning about retraced his steps and got to the tent soon after the others.

The next morning Hugh proposed that they should explore still further the valley which lay to the east of the camp, up which they had ridden when they had been here before. There was no special reason for hunting, since they still had plenty of the sheep killed a few days before.

It took some little time to go across the stream and bring in the horses -- the pack animals along with the others, since there was no place over where they were feeding where they could be tied up. The long level ledges of rock that formed the floor of the bench gave no opportunity for driving a picket pin down into the soil, and indeed the feed was so scattered that a picketed horse would get nothing to eat.

Jack suggested that they should tie up the pack animals near camp, but Hugh said no, that it would be better to let them follow, and perhaps graze in the little valley up which they were about to go. There was no likelihood that they would get out of this narrow trough, and even if they did not follow the saddle horses, they could be picked up on the return to camp and taken back to their feeding ground.

As the three riders passed among the scattered pines that grew in the valley they were again impressed by the vast height to which the mountains rose on either hand, by the stillness of the place, and by the glimpses they had from time to time of new snowfields and rock pinnacles.

When they had passed the little lake that lay high up in the valley Jack rode down to its edge, and saw there the fresh tracks of mountain sheep and one huge footmark of an immense bear. He got down from his horse and measured the length of this track, which was very large, reaching from the heel-plate of his rifle to the hammer.

Remounting, he followed Hugh and Joe, whose horses were clambering up a steep slope which presently ended in a tumbled mass of rock lying at the foot of a low cliff.

When the travelers reached the rocks they tied their horses to some little spruces and started to breast the steep ascent on foot.

It was a long, hard climb, but in no way dangerous, simply the mounting one after another of low ledges or steep rocky slopes, wearying to the legs and making the climbers puff.

At last they reached a very high point from which they could look out over the upper lake and see to the northeast a number of cold snowy basins. Over some mountain points they could see also what they believed to be the prairie shining in the hot sun, but the lower lake was hidden by the mountains.

"Come on now," said Hugh, "let us see if we can work our way over on to this next ridge to the south. If we can get there, I believe we can see down into the head of Red Eagle Creek."

Following the ridge as well as they could, and going down hill but little, the three soon stood on another crest of rock, from which they looked down into a long valley, carpeted at its head with grass and low willows, but farther down supporting large spruces and pines. In the timber a long way off shone a bit of silver, which Hugh told them was Red Eagle Lake.

"Who is the lake named after, Hugh?" asked Jack. "It cannot be our Red Eagle that we saw back at the Agency."

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's just who it is. A man that thought a great deal of him came up that valley and found the lake and named it after the old man, and the creek and the valley take their name from the lake, I reckon."

"That's interesting, Hugh," remarked Jack, "I'm glad somebody has given Indian names to these mountains. I think that is the way that mountains, lakes and rivers ought to be named. The first thing we know there won't be any Indians left, and unless we name the main features of the land after them, the Indians will all be forgotten."

"Well," said Hugh, "I don't know but you're right. It seems to me a great deal better to call things and places after Indians than to call them after the names of European cities. Haven't you got a Rome in New York State? I know we've got a Paris in my State, and I don't think either name is a very good one for an American city."

"Not a bit good," replied Jack.

While Hugh and Jack had been discussing names and places, Joe had been studying the mountainsides, to see whether he could discover any game. Presently he picked up a little bit of snow and tossed it toward Hugh and Jack. It hit Hugh's leg and he turned around and looked at Joe, who made, with his lips, a side motion toward the valley, and after a moment's search Hugh, and then a little later, Jack, discovered several sheep feeding far below them.

Taking out their glasses, they sat down on the rocks and began to search the valley for sheep, and before long discovered a number.

Jack thought that there must be eighteen or twenty, though it was not easy to count them, for some would occasionally disappear, hidden behind some bush or rise of the ground, while others would be found in unexpected places.

Those feeding at the upper end of the valley seemed to be rams, some of them with very large horns, while those farther away were harder to identify, but appeared to be ewes and lambs.

"Well, son," said Hugh, "there are your sheep all right, but as near as I can see they're pretty safe."

"I guess they are, Hugh," answered Jack. "I don't see any way of getting at them without going down into that valley, and the way it looks to me you couldn't go and come in the same day."

"No," said Hugh, "it's a long way."

They spent some hours looking at the sheep, all of which after a while stopped feeding, and the ewes and lambs lay down on the grass, while most of the rams left the valley and climbed some distance up the rocks and lay down.

"Well," said Hugh, "I don't know but we've seen enough of Red Eagle Valley and its bunch of sheep, especially as we're not going to get any of them. What do you say to turning round and going back to camp?"

The boys were ready, and they started back, following along the rim of rocks on which they were until they came to the high cliffs, down which they had to climb to get to their horses.

They were descending these, sometimes jumping from ledge to ledge, and in bad places lowering themselves by their hands, when Hugh, who was a little below the others, gave a low hiss, which caused the boys to stand motionless. After a moment he said in a low voice, "Come on down to where I am, and be quick about it."

Cautiously and silently the boys descended to the broad ledge on which Hugh stood.

He pointed across the valley to a mountainside not more than three hundred yards away and said, "Do you see that hill there with the ridge running down toward camp? Well, a minute ago three young rams passed behind that, and behind the rams came a lion stalking them."

"Well, what became of them, Hugh?" asked Jack. "Are they still behind there?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "I haven't seen them come out and I don't know as we will, but if the lion jumps on one of them, the other two ought to show up soon."

Almost as he spoke they saw the three young rams climbing toward the upper ledges of the mountain, evidently undisturbed as yet, and a moment or two later the panther appeared on the trail that the rams had followed, eagerly looking after them.

The sheep climbed higher and higher and then stopped, and after standing for a little while, two of them lay down.

Meanwhile, their pursuer had not been able to advance, for if he had followed the trail which the rams had taken they would surely have seen him and run off. Two or three times he put up his head to look at them and then drew it back again.

"What can we do, Hugh?" asked Jack. "I'd like to get a shot at that lion, but he's a long way off, and doesn't show himself."

"No, you can't do anything now," declared Hugh, "except wait. Maybe if the rams move, he will come out so that you can shoot at him with some chance of hitting. As it is now, it's a thousand to one that you wouldn't come anywhere near him and would just scare the game and make a noise for nothing. If you were 'round on the other side of that hill you could probably get a good shot, but so you could if you had wings and could fly right over the beast."

"Nothing to do but wait here, I expect?" said Joe.

"Nothing else," said Hugh.

Eager though Jack was to get a shot at the panther and strong as were his sympathies with the sheep, he could not help being interested as he sat there and watched the three rams which stood unconsciously so near their deadly enemy, and the patience and caution of the great cat. He hardly marked the passage of time, so anxious was he to see the lion as it took an occasional peep at the sheep, and then settled back again out of sight. At last, however, he whispered to Hugh, "Isn't there anything we can do, Hugh? I'd like that lion."

"I don't know of anything unless we want to end the show right here. If you make a move the rams will see us and go off, and likely enough when the lion sees them go away scared he will see us, and then he'll go."

For a long time they sat there, but at length the two rams that had been lying down got up, and after moving about a little, started on, passing out of sight, round the side of the mountain, and long before they had disappeared the lion was cautiously creeping after them.

"Now, Hugh," said Jack, "can't we go over there and follow that lion and perhaps get him?"

"Well," said Hugh, "there's a chance, of course, of getting him and a good many chances that we may not see him again. If you feel like it, we can get up on the ledge along which the animals passed. We'll make quite a procession, I think, the sheep in the lead, the lion after the sheep, and we three after the lion. I think it will be rather a funny sight to see, and I'm willing to be one of the procession, if you like."

With due caution, and making as little noise as possible, they crossed over to the hill and started in pursuit of the lion.

As Hugh supposed, the chase was fruitless. When they got round on the other side of the hill they could see the three rams a long way off descending the rocks toward the meadow at the head of Red Eagle Valley, and after a careful inspection with the glasses the lion was also seen, still following them, but some distance behind.

"You see," said Hugh, "we can't catch that lion and the lion can't catch the sheep. I believe we might as well turn round and go back to camp. We can come up here again some day before long and kill a sheep, if we need one, I reckon, and possibly get a shot at the lion, but we can't to-day."

On the way down they picked up the pack animals, and as they passed the camp Hugh stopped to cook supper, while the boys took the horses across the river and turned them loose to feed, returning to camp on foot.

The day had been warm, and from the mountains all around them, sometimes loud and sometimes faint and far off, came the rumble and roar of avalanches sliding down the heights.

As they were eating supper, and the sun was sinking over the great mountain to the west, Hugh pointed toward the mountain, and they saw what seemed to be the greater part of a vast snow bank start, at first moving slowly and then more rapidly, slide for some distance down the mountainside, pour in a cloud of what looked like white spray over the great cliff at the mountain's foot and then pile in a bank at the base of the cliff.

"Lots of snow falling to-day," said Hugh.

"Lots of it," assented Jack. "But, say, Hugh, is this going to keep up all night?"

"No," said Hugh, "just as soon as it gets a little bit cold these slides will stop falling, and then if the sun shines hot to-morrow they'll begin again toward night."

"Don't the animals sometimes get caught in these slides, White Bull?" asked Joe.

"I don't know," replied Hugh. "Sometimes I've thought they do. One time I found a bunch of sheep bones at the foot of a cliff lying all mixed up together, and I had an idea that maybe they'd been caught in a snowslide and killed there. I heard, too, of a man that found half a dozen goats once in just such a place, and he thought they had been killed by a slide.

"In neither case had the animals been torn to pieces or skinned. Their hair and wool lay all about them. Still, I reckon these mountain animals are pretty well able to take care of themselves, and that they don't often get into places where snowslides can harm them. Nowadays, most of the sheep live too high up to be caught by slides."

"You say nowadays, Hugh, as if there had been a time when the sheep did not live high up. I have always thought that they were a mountain animal and always lived among the rocks," said Jack.

"Hold on, son," said Hugh. "I don't know if I've ever talked with you about these things before, but even if I haven't you've seen sheep down on the prairie yourself, where there were no mountains, living around among the Bad Land Bluffs just where the black-tailed deer or elk may be found, and where the buffalo often go. What about the first sheep that you ever killed? Was that in the mountains?"

"That's so, Hugh; you are certainly right. Sheep don't need the mountains."

"No," said Hugh, "they don't. Of course, they always try to run to broken land when they're scared, but that broken land need not necessarily be mountain land. I have seen sheep a good many times feeding out on the flat prairie and a long way from any hills; feeding with the antelope, in fact. Haven't I ever told you old Hugh Monroe's story about how the Piegans used to hunt sheep in old times?"

"I don't know, Hugh," replied Jack. "If you have I've forgotten it."

"Well," said Hugh, "all through the Piegan country there are great big buttes rising up out of the prairie, and in old times there used to be lots of sheep on all these buttes. They fed on the prairie down below, and then if they got scared for any reason, they'd run up on the rocks and get away. Old man Monroe says that in old times when he was a young man the Indians used to start out on horseback and go to one of these buttes where sheep lived and make a big circle around it. Then two or three of them would climb up on top of the butte and run the sheep off the top. Then they would go down to the prairie and the horsemen would chase them and kill them. They used to do this only occasionally, when they wanted mountain sheep hides for war shirts or women's dresses."

"Is it possible that the sheep here were ever so plentiful that they could be killed in that way, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Yes," said Hugh, "there's no doubt about either of those things. A sheep can run pretty fast and can climb well, but on the level a good fast dog can overtake it after a fairly short chase. When I first came into the country, the Indians used to say that of all the animals, except the buffalo, the sheep were the gentlest and easiest to kill."

"Well, they've changed since then, haven't they, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Yes," replied Hugh, "they're pretty sharp now. We saw to-day one of the worst enemies that a sheep has, and one that along the mountains here probably kills more than all the men that are hunting them do."

"What was that, White Bull?" asked Joe, "the lion?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's just what it is. You see, the lion is at work all the time. He's got to eat every two or three days, and to eat he's got to kill something. Now and then he may pick up a bird or a rabbit or a woodchuck, but his main dependence is these animals here in the mountains. High up like this there are not so many lions, and I was surprised to see that one to-day, but lower down there are a good many, and, of course, in summer they work up higher. On the other side of the range, where deer are plenty, they kill lots of deer and a few elk, but they also kill a great many sheep and goats, most of them, perhaps, young ones.

"You know about their killing goats, son, for you've seen them do it, and you remember that story that I was telling you the other day about a lion jumping on what he took to be a sheep. Now, there's a place down south of here on Boulder Creek up near its head, where two men, both of whom I know well, Colonel Pickett and Billy Hofer, found eighteen or twenty skulls of sheep all by one rock. They had been killed at different times. Some of them were mighty old and all falling to pieces, and some of them were pretty fresh. They had all been killed under a high rock, not in a place where they could have been hit by a snowslide, but in a place where a lion could lie by the trail without being seen, but could himself see both ways. The rock was right over the trail, so close that a lion could jump right down on it.

"The two men who found these skulls were both good mountain men and they both believe that this was a place where a lion lay and killed his food as the sheep passed along the trail under the rock.

"There's another interesting thing about sheep that most people don't know. A sheep is awful easy tamed, especially if you get him young. I knew of one owned by a man in Salt Lake, caught when a little lamb and as tame as any dog. He was good-natured and liked to be petted. He spent most of his time lying on the roof of the house, but sometimes he'd jump down and feed in the yard and sometimes go quite a way along the street. Sometimes the dogs would chase him and he'd come back as hard as he could pelt, and then jump up on the roof, where he was safe.

"I once knew an Indian that had a lamb that was perfectly tame and was not afraid of the Indian dogs around the house. This Indian lived in a cabin and was always complaining about the sheep because it would jump up on the windowsill, sometimes breaking a light of glass out of the window.

"You take a young sheep, though, and tame him and let him grow up into a big ram and he isn't afraid of anything and is likely to get real cross; and I expect that a big ram can hit a terrible blow with those horns of his.

"I reckon there are sheep found all the way up and down the mountains, maybe from the Arctic to Mexico. I've heard of a white sheep up North and of a black one, and I've been told that sheep were plenty down in the hot desert country in California and Arizona, but I never have been down there and don't know anything about them. They say that down there they kill 'em by watching the water holes."

"I suppose," said Jack, "that there are not many sheep found on the prairie now, are there?"

"No," replied Hugh, "I guess there are very few, if any at all. You see the prairie is getting covered with cattle now, and where there are cattle there are cowboys, and the cowboys don't like anything better than the fun of chasing and roping any wild animal that they come across.

"A sheep don't bear chasing very well. If they get much harried in any place, they get up and move away to where they think they'll be safer."

By this time the sun had set and it was quite dark. The roar of the snowslides, heard less and less frequently as the air grew cooler, had now ceased, and before very long Hugh smoked a final pipe, and advised all hands to turn in.




Chapter XX

Climbing A Great Mountain


At breakfast the next morning it was decided that they should try to learn something about the great mass of ice that lay in the basin south of the camp, which supplied the water for the river that fell over the cliff.

"Now, if we're going up there," said Hugh, "we've got a long tramp over the ice, and we want to go as well fixed as we can. We ought to have one gun with us, but we must go roped and take our sticks along. We may find that the ice up there slopes sharply and is smooth, and we ought to have something to help ourselves with."

"All right," chimed in both boys, "you tell us what to do and we'll do it."

"Well," said Hugh, "the first thing is to point the ends of those walking sticks again, then shove them into the fire to harden. Next take some charcoal and break it up in your fingers and blacken your noses and cheek bones and your faces under the eyes. Each one of you ought to have a handkerchief or a rag to tie around your heads over the bridge of your nose if the sun gets very bright. That's a good protection against snow-blindness."

The preparations that Hugh advised were soon made, and the sun had not yet showed itself above the eastern mountains when the three set out on foot. For several hundred yards they had to climb a steep slope, and then as they went on toward the precipice, they came to a level bit of land, over which were strewn immense masses of stone, huge monoliths that made Jack think of the stories that he had read about the ruins in the old places of worship of the Druids.

Beyond this level land was a talus fallen from the cliff and then a morainal trough, up which they passed to the ice above. From this point the whole basin of the great glacier was spread out before them, and Hugh began to examine it with a view to making the ascent by the easiest and safest path.

Hugh studied the situation with the field glasses for a long time and then, passing them to Jack, asked, "What do you see, son? Which road seems to be the best?"

"Well, Hugh," answered Jack, after he had looked over the ground, "it's a little hard for me to say, for I don't know much about these places. The shortest way, of course, is to cross over to the right and try to climb up the rocks there, but the snowslides and rockfalls seem to be coming down all the time, and I shouldn't suppose that would be safe. The same thing is true about going close to the mountains on the left, and, of course, we can all see that we can't go up in the middle. It looks to me, too, as if the ice were steeper on the right hand than it is on the left, so I should say that it was better to keep to the left, just as near the middle of the glacier as we can without getting in among crevices."

"What do you say, Joe?" asked Hugh.

"I don't know," said Joe. "I guess I'll just follow where you go, but it seems to me that Jack's talk is good."

"Yes," said Hugh, "I think so, too, and I believe that's the best way for us to go. I ain't so much afraid of falling in those cracks in the ice as I am of being hit by one of those rocks that comes down a thousand feet or two. Even a little bit of a rock could crack a man's head open, and if one of those big rocks ever hits him I believe it would go right through him.

"I think Jack is right and we'd better go where he has said. Now, before we start, we must tie ourselves together with this rope, and if we get to a place where the ice is any way cracked we'll have to go pretty slowly, so that only one man can fall in at a time, and the other two can pull him out."

They started without further delay; and now for two or three hours followed a slow plodding walk up the face of the ice. Sometimes they came to a long crevasse, which they had to go around, but at no time did they approach very near the edge of the snowfalls. Several times, however, they passed near great stones which had fallen from the mountain far out onto the ice.

At one point, when they had passed over three-fourths of the distance, they heard a low, rumbling sound behind them, and, turning, all three were in time to witness the fall of a great avalanche, which threw itself far out onto the ice.

It was afternoon when they found themselves immediately under the ridge of rocks which was their destination, and a little search showed them a place where they could get off the ice and on to the rocks, and they were soon reclining on the grassy soil crowning the slope. There they rested while Hugh smoked a pipe, and then went on. To their left, that is on the side of this ridge of rocks opposite from the one by which they had approached, lay another great mass of ice, which, however, sloped the other way, and which Hugh said must run into the Flat Head or else into the head of Cut Bank River.

The crest over which they were passing was substantially level, and before them stood the tall rounded summit of the great mountain, the top of which they hoped to reach.

When they had come to the end of the ridge, it was a short climb down to the ice, and passing over this for a short distance, they came to more rocks and, surmounting these, found themselves at the edge of a dome-shaped snow bank, which seemed to stretch away by a gentle slope to the very top of the mountains. To the north was the slope they had to cross, and immediately below the edge of this a tremendous drop of perhaps a thousand feet to another ice field below.

"Here's a bad place," said Hugh; "if this snow is real hard there's a chance that some one of us may slip. We must go across slowly. Come to the edge and then we will go forward, one at a time, always keeping the rope tight between us, the two men that are standing still anchoring themselves solidly by means of their sticks. If one of us should slip he'll need all the help the other two can give him."

Hugh put his gun down on the rocks and said, "I reckon I'll leave that here till I come back. I may want both my hands crossing this snow."

When they started they proceeded with great caution, following Hugh's instructions. Occasionally the snow was so hard that it was impossible for them to dig their feet into it, and it was even difficult for them to punch their sticks down into it. Each one as he advanced went slowly and carefully, while the other two stood still to support him in case anything happened.

If the traverse was slow, it was steady and safe; and before very long the three found themselves clambering over the broken rock near the top of the mountain. At the moment, they had little thought for the wonderful view, since the minds of all were turned toward the summit which lay before them, and now only a few steps distant.

A moment later and the peak was gained, and the three threw themselves down in a sheltered place among the great rocks that formed the mountain crest, where the view was entrancing in its extent and grandeur.

In all directions, as far as they could see, mountains lay beyond mountains. Far away to the north were two which seemed higher than any of those nearer at hand. The whole circle of the horizon could be seen except that, to the north, the view was interrupted by the tall mountain close to them, which equaled in height the one on which they were sitting, and behind them to the south was another peak equally high. Away to the westward the eye traveled without interruption over lower rocky peaks and great stretches of forest, until it met other mountain ranges running north and south, so far away that only their dim outlines could be seen. To the north there was no such low country as to the west, for peaks and ridges thrust their sharp points up toward the sky, and one gained the impression of a world set on edge. Although they could not see them, they knew that between the ridges and beyond each peak lay some narrow valley or canyon, and that only by following such water courses could the country be traversed.

Immediately before and below them lay the great ice that they had just passed over, and behind or to the south, that other extensive ice field, which Hugh now said flowed into a tributary of the Flat Head River, and which, years before, had been named after a man who crossed the mountains through the Cut Bank Pass, the Pumpelly Glacier.

"I tell you, Hugh," said Jack, "this is a wonderful place up here. It beats anything I ever saw. I can't help wondering how these mountains got tipped up in this way, and what the force was that changed them from level or rolling ground to these sharp peaks and ridges."

"Well, son," replied Hugh, "you can't prove it by me, but I expect that most of these valleys, if not all of them, were cut out by the ice, just as we see below us this valley here being cut out."

"I suppose that is so," Jack replied, "but it doesn't seem quite possible to me."

"Well," answered Hugh, "you must remember that if our understanding about these glaciers is correct, they may have been working for thousands of years, and if they only ground away six inches or a foot of the rock under them in each year, a thousand years or so would make a mighty deep valley. And besides that, I reckon that in those ancient times these glaciers were a heap bigger and heavier than they are now, and maybe they moved a lot faster, and in that case they'd work a lot faster, wouldn't they?"

"I suppose they would," agreed Jack. "But it's mighty hard to realize such things. You see we human beings are such little bits of things, and we live so short a time, that it's mighty difficult to comprehend the forces of nature that never stop working."

"You bet your life it is," said Hugh. "It's only within a few years, since I began to talk to people who understood something about these things, that I began to look back a little. In my young days, so long as I had my blankets and a few charges of ammunition I never thought much about what was behind me or what was ahead. Of course, I always looked out for myself as well as I could, but I never thought very much about the world and the things that are going and have gone on in it. But of late years it's different, and when a man does think about those things it kind o' takes his breath away once in a while."

"That's so," replied Jack. "People say that we can't count the stars in the sky, and that we can't understand how many miles away from the earth the sun or the moon is, and, of course, that's true, but it's just as hard for us to understand some of the things that are going on right under our noses, as it is to understand time or space."

Up on this mountain peak the wind blew cool, and it was not long before they were ready to turn about and begin the descent.

"We'll go back the way we came," said Hugh, "and we want to go just as carefully over this snow as we did when we were coming up. Only one man must move at a time, and the others must fix themselves firmly, so as to hold him if he slips."

The traverse back across the snow was made in safety, and before very long they found themselves on the low rocky ridge over which they must descend to return over the ice.

Before leaving it they sat down under the lee of the ridge in the warm sun, and while Hugh smoked a pipe the others looked out over the wide white field before them.

Presently Joe called out, "Look at the sheep," and pointed in front of him.

Jack looked, and at first could see nothing, but after Joe had told him where to look, he saw half a dozen tiny dark objects moving swiftly about without order over the ice a couple of miles away. Borrowing the glasses, he looked at them, and could plainly see that they were four-legged animals running to and fro over the ice field, apparently playing with each other.

Hugh looked at them and said that they were indeed sheep, as Joe had said, but confessed that he only called them sheep because he knew that no other animals could be found in such a place.

In the soil of the rocky ridge where they were sitting Jack discovered some beautiful pink flowers, but neither Hugh nor Joe could give them a name. They grew on exceedingly short stems from little round bunches of green leaves shaped like a pincushion and with the general aspect of what Jack remembered in Eastern gardens as phlox.

He would have liked to take some of these flowers back with him to have them identified, but had no way of carrying them.

Still roped together, the three once more descended to the ice, and started toward camp.

The walking was easier now, partly because it was down hill and partly because the snow had been softened by the sun's heat and gave them a better foothold.

Hugh advised the boys to tie their handkerchiefs over the bridge of their noses, and to pull their hats well down on their foreheads to shield their eyes as much as possible from the glare of the sun.

As they went on down the glacier, they could see that even since they had passed up in the morning new cracks had opened in the ice and some that they had gone around on the way up had lengthened. Two or three of these were so narrow that they could step across them, but Hugh still kept as far from the rocks as the broken condition of the glacier would permit.

They were walking along, the boys perhaps a little carelessly, though Hugh's vigilance never seemed to relax, when Jack's left foot seemed to meet with no resistance as it struck the snow, and in a moment he was in a crack or hole in the ice far above his waist. Luckily he had turned his staff as he fell, so that it reached across the crack and held him, and but little strain came on the ropes which attached him to his companions. Hugh had heard the fall and had braced himself, and a second later Joe had done the same.

It took but a moment to pull Jack out onto the hard ice, and Joe, making a detour to the left, avoided the opening into which Jack had fallen. When they were all once more together and on the hard ice, Hugh said to Jack, "Son, you're old enough not to have done a trick like that."

"Yes, Hugh," replied Jack, "I know that now, and I'm sorry and ashamed. If I had followed in your tracks, I wouldn't have given you and Joe a scare, and I wouldn't have had one myself. Every now and then I do some stupid thing that makes it seem as if this was my first trip out West, and I didn't know anything at all. I was thinking of something else besides the trail and looking off toward the valley, and I left your tracks and tumbled into that hole."

"Well," replied Hugh, "of course, you're new to traveling around on the ice. You can't be expected to know much about it, but you can be expected to look out for yourself as well as you know how, and to try hard not to make other people uncomfortable. I guess Joe was scared up good when he saw you go down, and I know I wasn't a bit comfortable."

"No," said Jack, "I know you weren't and I know it's a good thing for you to talk to me in this way. Your talking doesn't make me feel any worse than I feel already, and I hope I've learned a lesson, but, of course, I don't know."

"We all make mistakes every day," said Hugh, "and it's no ways likely that you've made your last; only, as I've told you before, try not to make the same mistake twice. If you do that it shows that you don't learn anything."

The rest of the way to camp passed without adventure, and when they reached the moraine above the cliff, they took off the ropes and scrambled down the rocks, when a short walk, and a slide by the boys down a long snow bank, brought them to the little stream by which the tent was pitched.

The sun hung low over the western mountain and all were hungry after their long walk, and they at once busied themselves getting supper.

All through the evening Jack's heart was low. He was sorry to have made such a blunder as he had, and knew that his carelessness had disappointed Hugh. It was certainly humiliating to have done what he felt Hugh might justly call a "fool trick."

As they sat around the fire, Hugh, who for some time had been smoking thoughtfully, said, "Well, boys, we've seen quite a lot of things up here on this patch of mountains, and time is passing. What do you say to turning around and going back? I'd surely like to stay up here longer, but we must remember that son here has got to get back East, and we have quite a little way to go before we strike the railroad. I reckon if we roll to-morrow morning we ought to be able to get down to the inlet by night. We can stop there for a day or two and hunt and fish a little, and then pull out for the Agency and from there go to Benton."

"I suppose we've got to go before long, Hugh," replied Jack. "I was counting up the days only the day before yesterday, and figured that we hadn't much more time here in the mountains. I hate to go, but there's nothing else to do, I suppose.

"It seems to me that each year I dislike more and more to go back. I've never had such good times as I've had with you. I think of them all winter when I'm back in New York; for about six months I think of the good time I had last year, and then for the other months I think of the good time I'm going to have next year. I hope we'll have lots more of them."

"Yes," said Hugh, "I hope we will. I don't know, though; I'm getting old, and I don't think I get about quite as easily as I used to. Of course, I can ride and walk as far as I could when you first came out, but it's sure that a time is coming when I'll get crippled up and won't be able to do as much as I can now. I've got some old hurts that sometimes bother me a whole lot now in winter, when I'm not moving around very much, and the older a man gets the more things like that trouble him."

"Well," said Jack, "you can still ride farther and do more than any man I ever saw, and I guess it will be a long time before you are laid up."

The next morning Hugh roused the boys while it was still only gray dawn and sent them across the creek to bring in the horses, and by the time they returned breakfast had been cooked, the tent taken down and many of the packs made up, and an hour or two later the little train was retracing its steps toward the lower country.

As they started, Hugh said, "Of course, we could make quite a cut off in distance by going down on this side of the creek and I don't believe we'd have much trouble, but then none of us have been over the ground. We might find some place where we couldn't get the horses down easily, and worse than all, we might have trouble crossing the river. It'll take us an hour or more longer perhaps to go around the way we came, but that way we know we can keep out of trouble, and that's the way we better go."

All day long they traveled down the river, following the trail that they had made coming up. At one point, one of the horses mired in a bog-hole and there was some difficulty in getting him out, but by pulling and urging and getting some willow brush and throwing it under him so that he could get his front feet on it, he finally managed to pull himself out without having his load taken off.

As they were passing through an open place, from which they could see the towering precipice of the great mountains across the creek, Joe remarked, "I think I see three bears."

All stopped and looked in the direction in which he pointed, and there, sure enough, far up on the precipice above them, they saw one very large bear and two much smaller ones, industriously feeding below the ledges. They did not see the travelers, but were much too far off to be shot at. Joe asked Hugh at what he estimated the distance, and Hugh said, "Anywhere from six hundred yards to half a mile."

Of course, Jack was strongly tempted to suggest that they should stop here and try to hunt the bears, but he knew that the prospect of getting them was small and so said nothing about it, and after watching the unconscious animals for a time, the train moved on.

The sun was only an hour or two high when they descended the point of rocks and struck into the open trail along the upper lake. Here Hugh increased the speed of his horse, and the boys, keeping the pack horses up, reached the inlet just before dark and made camp.




Chapter XXI

Trouble With Whiskey Traders


The travelers remained here for several days, climbing the mountains to hunt, fishing and leading a generally lazy life. The weather was bright and clear, with a warm sun, and these idle days were greatly enjoyed.

In some of the deep holes in the inlet were great schools of monster trout, to the capturing of which Jack gave much time. Crossing the inlet and going up on the flat to where the great river left the lakes, he found several places where he could cast his flies over the swift-running water, and from behind the great rocks over which the stream flowed in a deep smooth current he took some goodly fish.

Joe delighted to sit on the bank and watch the casting, for he said, "Jack, some day you'll get one of those big fellows, and he'll smash that little limber pole of yours all to pieces. That's what I'm waiting for."

On one or two occasions Jack almost feared that Joe was to have his wish; the biggest fish that he caught came very near taking away his tackle, for the fish was so powerful that when he ran down stream Jack was obliged to race along the shore as hard as he could, jumping from rock to rock, and plowing through shallow water before he got to a deep pool where the fish stopped of its own accord, and he was able to recover his line.

It seemed to Jack a full hour before he had tired the fish sufficiently to tow it on its side into the shallow water of a little bay.

Joe, who had followed him in much excitement, went around and very cautiously approached the fish from the water and at last threw himself upon it and getting his fingers into its gills dragged it triumphantly ashore.

When it was fairly landed Jack was astonished at its size, for it seemed to him bigger than any Hudson River shad that he had seen, and when he took it to camp, Hugh, lifting it with one hand, declared that it weighed more than eight pounds.

They had all talked several times about starting for the Agency, but were reluctant to leave this charming spot, and still remained. One afternoon when Jack and Joe returned from fishing at the head of the inlet stream, they saw just below their own tent another, about which two or three men were moving. Moored to the shore of the inlet was a flat-bottomed boat by which the men had come, though Jack could not understand how they had pushed it up the swift stream to this point.

As they came to the border of the stream and were about to ride in, Jack said to Joe, "Do you know any of those men, Joe?"

"Yes," said Joe, "two of them I know, that white man and the half-breed down by the water. The white man is John Williamson and the half-breed is Louis Legros. I don't know that other big man."

When they unsaddled, Jack noticed that Hugh, who had come out of the tent, looked rather grave, and after the horses had been turned loose, he said to the boys in a low voice, "Those fellows down below here look to me like whiskey traders. There has been a bunch of Bloods up here to-day, and when they went away some of them were drunk, I think. These men have been singing and making plenty of noise this afternoon, and they may give us a little trouble. I want you boys to be careful and not have any words with them, no matter what they do. If there's going to be any rowing or jawing let me do the talking."

While supper was cooking, the neighboring tent grew more and more noisy. The men there were singing and shouting and sometimes giving Indian warwhoops, and once or twice the big man came out of the tent and, calling out, invited the three travelers to come over and have a drink with them, but they returned no answer to the invitation.

The sun was still an hour or two high, and Hugh, Jack and Joe were eating their supper, when suddenly a shot sounded from the neighboring tent and at the same time a chip flew from the front tent pole, showing that the ball must have passed three or four feet over their heads.

Hugh called out, "Be careful with your shooting irons over there. You came pretty near hitting one of us," but the only reply was a volley of angry curses from the adjoining tent.

A few minutes later the big man came out and stood not far from his own tent and raising a revolver which he held in his right hand, fired two shots in quick succession over the heads of the three who were still eating. The boys did not know what to do, but Hugh slowly rose to his feet, and saying to the boys, "Keep quiet now and don't mix up in this unless you are told to," walked over to the big man.

As Hugh walked up close, the big man began to abuse him violently and once or twice half raised his hand to point the revolver at him, but evidently thought better of it.

Meanwhile, the man's two companions had come out of the tent, the white man laughing in a silly fashion and the half-breed more or less frightened and earnestly imploring his companion, whom he addressed as Tony, to come away.

The latter, however, seemed fascinated by Hugh, and no longer moved nor spoke, while Hugh took hold of his wrist, wrenched the revolver away from him and threw it on the ground, where Jack picked it up. Then turning Tony about, so that he faced his friends, Hugh said: "Now you three men break camp quick and get out of here. I won't have you round any longer."

Hugh's speech seemed to break the spell under which the man had been laboring, for he raised his fist and struck at Hugh. Before the blow reached him, however, Hugh had thrown his arms about the big man just below the shoulders, pinioning both his arms to his sides.

Tony tried to free himself, but he could not. He struggled violently and then tried to kick, but Hugh stood firm, seeming to hold the man tighter and tighter to his chest, and in a moment Tony had forgotten all about fighting and was screaming with the pain of the pressure.

It was exciting to both the boys, and they waited, not knowing what to do, astonished to see this man, who looked like a giant, held as if he were a little child by Hugh, who, though tall, was rather slender, and on account of his white hair and beard appeared to them venerable.

After a few seconds Tony was weeping and praying to be released, and promising to do anything he was told to if only he were set free. Hugh somewhat relaxed his embrace and said, "Now, you Williamson and you Louis, are you ready to go?"

"Yes, Hugh," said the white man, "you bet we'll go quick;" and Louis assented.

"Have you got any arms, any pistols or guns?" said Hugh.

"Yes," said Williamson, "I've got my rifle here and Louis has a six shooter."

"Well," said Hugh, "bring 'em out and put 'em on the ground here, with all your ammunition, and we'll take 'em into the Agency and leave them there for you." Then, raising his voice a little, he called, "Boys, come over here."

Jack and Joe came up and Hugh said, "Now, take these men's guns and ammunition and carry them over to our tent and then come back."

The men gave up their arms and cartridges, and the boys took them away and then returned.

"Now," said Hugh, "take down that tent and get everything you've got into the boat. Now, Tony," he said, addressing the man whom he held, "if I let you go, will you be quiet, and go and get into that boat and go away?"

"You bet I will," said Tony, "I'd like to get as far from you as I could."

"Go on," said Hugh. "Go down to the boat and sit there," and the man staggered off.

"Now," said Hugh, "you men are drunk, both of you; and sometimes drunken men tell lies. I want to look through your baggage and see if you have any arms."

He searched their blankets, but found nothing. Then he and the boys helped the three men take down their tent and carry their property down to the boat, and then before they pushed off, Hugh said, "Now, I know you've got some friends down here, Bloods, I think, and you may as well go down and camp with them, but don't try to get the Indians to trouble us. You Williamson and you Louis, know me. This man here," and he pointed to Tony, "does not.

"You two men know that I want trouble with no one, but you know also that I don't mean to be imposed on by anyone. If I find any of you men lurking around my camp, I shall probably shoot you for horse thieves. As for your property that I've taken, I'll leave it at the trader's store, and you can get it when you come in. I suppose your whiskey is cached in the brush somewhere here, but you can get along without it for a day or two. We are going into the Agency pretty soon, and after we have gone you can come and get it, if you want to. Go now, and don't let me see you again on this trip."

Hugh loosened the painter from the old log to which it was tied, tossed it into the boat, and when Louis and Williamson had gotten out their oars, he put his foot against the bow and pushed the boat off into the swiftly running water.

For fifty or sixty yards it went down stream stern foremost, and then the two men by clumsy strokes turned it round, and in a few minutes it vanished around a bend, and the last thing the boys saw was the bowed form of the burly man sitting in the stern, still nursing his crushed ribs.

Hugh walked slowly back toward their camp, the two boys following him, half awed and whispering to each other; for both were astonished at what seemed to be a new phase of Hugh's character.

Hugh did not stop at the tent, but remarked that he was going out to look at the horses, and the two boys sat down by the fire.

"I tell you, Joe," said Jack, "wasn't it wonderful to see Hugh walk up to that man with the pistol and take it from him?"

"Sure," said Joe, "it was fine, but then White Bull is not afraid of anything. That's what people have said about him ever since I can remember."

"And wasn't it fine to see him take that big man and squeeze him until he yelled? I should have laughed myself to death if I hadn't been so scared," said Jack.

"Yes," said Joe, "he must be powerful strong. I should have thought that that man could have eaten White Bull up in a minute. He must be powerful strong; I should hate to have him get angry with me."

"That's the wonderful thing about Hugh," Jack went on, "that he makes people do whatever he wants 'em to. Of course, we do what he tells us to, because we know that he knows what's right, but he makes other people do what he tells them. Of course, he doesn't order them to do things, but he'll say it would be a good idea to do something, and then he'll talk for a few minutes and then presently the people will go off and do just what he wants."

"That's so," said Joe, "I've seen that, too. I've seen him talk sometimes in a council of old men. Maybe they all think that something was the best thing to do, and then White Bull would get up and say that it seemed to him that something different ought to be done, and he'd talk a little while and presently one after another would stand up and say that he thought that White Bull was right; and then they'd all do just what he said."

"Yes," said Jack, "he's a great man, and I believe if he'd lived back East, he would have been a mighty big man among the white people."

"Well," said Joe, "if he lived in an Indian camp, he could be the chief any time he wanted to."

A little while before dusk Hugh came back and said, "Well, boys, I've tied up all the horses and I guess maybe to-morrow, if you like, we may as well start for the Agency. The fact is we couldn't stay out here much longer anyhow, because if it came on to rain now, we'd all get wet, our tent has so many holes in it."

Joe said nothing, but Jack shouted with laughter at Hugh's mild jest, and said, "Tell me, Hugh, were you at all scared when you walked up to that man with his pistol in his hand?"

"Well, really son, I don't know. I don't think I thought much whether I was scared or not. I was a little bit cross with him for acting like a fool, and I made up my mind we couldn't have them around here any longer, and that I would send them off."

"But, good Lord, Hugh," replied Jack, "he might have killed you."

"Yes," said Hugh, "perhaps he might if he had been sober and could have hit me, but I didn't think that he'd try to shoot, and if he had I don't believe he would have hit me."

"Hugh," said Jack, "do you know what I thought of when you were holding that man in your arms and he was yelling like a stuck pig?"

"No," said Hugh, "I don't."

"I couldn't help thinking about a story that Mr. Fannin told us when we were out in British Columbia, about how the bears used to come in and take a pig out of the pen and hold it in their arms and walk off on their hind legs, the pig squealing all the time."

Hugh's eye twinkled as he said, "I believe I do remember that story. So when you saw me holding Tony that way you took me for a bear and him for a pig, did you?"

"Well," said Jack, "not that exactly, but it made me think of that. It seemed awfully funny for a minute, but I was too scared and too excited to laugh, although I wanted to."

"Do you suppose those men will come back, White Bull?" asked Joe.

"No," said Hugh, "I don't reckon they will. They'll go down to the head of the lower lake and then they'll go ashore there somewhere, and build a fire and lie down and sleep their liquor off. If we start in to-morrow, we'll likely see them across the lake when we stop to get the wagon. I think they'll camp on this side, and to-morrow morning they'll be feeling mighty mean and mighty cross with each other, and about the time we get down to the wagon and hitch up, they'll be waking up and quarreling with each other about whose fault it was that they got sent away from camp the night before."

"You think there's no danger, then?" said Jack, "that we'll have trouble with them?"

"Not a particle," said Hugh. "In the first place John Williamson hasn't got the sand of a cotton-tail rabbit, Louis Legros is a good fellow, but foolish. Who that big man Tony is, I don't know, but I reckon he may be Tony Beaulieu. He has a kind of a look of that Beaulieu gang. They're good enough fellows when they're sober, but mighty troublesome when they're drunk.

"We'll never have any further trouble with them; in fact, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if they were to come up to us, the next time we see any of them, and say that they were sorry for what happened."

It was early next morning when Hugh had the boys up and the start was made. The sun was little more than an hour high when they stopped at the wagon, gathered their property together and loaded it, and set out for the lower end of the lower lake, intending to follow the wagon road up to the Duck Lake Hill, for this would be easier on the horses than the steep pull up the hill they had come down in approaching the lake.

As they started down the lake, Joe pointed across to the other side, where a spot of white was seen, with two or three small moving objects about it, and looking with the glasses, Jack saw three men engaged in the work of putting up a tent. Before they passed over a low hill which cut off the view across the lake the boys saw several horsemen ride up to the distant tent. The glasses showed that these horsemen were Indians.

The drive down the lake was slow, for they crossed many ravines and little streams, and in some places the road was very muddy. At length, however, they came out on the flat near where the river leaves the lake, and looking across the stream saw a camp of thirty or forty lodges.

"Do you know who these people are, Joe?" inquired Hugh.

"No," replied Joe, "I don't; I don't think they are our people. Maybe they're Bloods; often they come down to this side after they've got their payment from the Government up North. They like to buy things on this side of the line."

"Well," said Hugh, "we'll know pretty quick, for there's a lot of them starting across the river, or I miss my guess."

Sure enough, twenty-five or thirty men came out of the lodges and, jumping on their horses, galloped down to the fording place.

The road up the Duck Lake Hill starts not far above where the ford comes out of the river, so that Hugh and his party had to keep on down the stream until they had almost reached the ford, and by that time the hurrying crowd of Indians had ridden up on the bank and presently surrounded them and stopped the team.

Most of the men were young, but among them were a few of middle age, and none were old men or very young boys.

They were quite noisy, some of them yelping in pure fun and high spirits, others shouting aloud in tones that seemed to show anger.

When they got about the wagon, Hugh pulled up his team and sat there looking and listening, trying to make out what they wanted.

Jack could understand a few words of what was being said, but in the confusion could not catch its drift, and looked inquiringly at Joe, who he thought wore a very solemn face.

During the colloquy that followed, he was in the dark as to what the trouble was, but it was afterwards explained to him.

After the noise made by the Indians had somewhat subsided, one of the men pushed his horse to the front, and coming close to Hugh, said to him, "Where is the whiskey?"

Hugh replied, "What whiskey?"

"You know," said the Indian; "the whiskey you took from those men up the lake. We know all about it; that you drove them from their camp and kept the whiskey, and now you are taking it away with you, but you shall not do that. That whiskey was brought here for us and we are going to have it; so give it to us now, or we will take it from you."

"Look here, my friend," said Hugh, "you talk like a child. I took no whiskey from those men and I have none with me, and I shall give you none. It is true that we had trouble with these men yesterday and that I sent them away from our camp, but I took no whiskey from them, and if I had done so, I should not give it to you.

"You know me, for you have often seen me in the Piegan camp, and I know you, Wolf Collar, for more than once I have seen you in the Blood camp.

"Why do you come over here to make trouble with people on this side of the line? Do you think that you can do over here what you dare not do over there? You know very well that if you were to act like this to any white man on your side of the line, the Red Coats would soon take you and put you in the jail, perhaps with irons on your feet. You have lived years enough to know better than to act so as to get your young men into trouble.

"Listen to me, my friends," he said in a louder voice, addressing all the Indians, although most of them were near enough to have heard his conversation with Wolf Collar, "I have just told your leader that I have no liquor with me, and that if I had I should not give it to you; but I have with me here a boy of your own race, a Piegan, who knows what took place last night, and he can tell you, if you do not believe me. Speak to them, Joe," he said, "and tell them what happened last night."

Joe began to tell the story of the trouble of the evening before, but before he had said many words, the party was joined by a late comer, who rode up from the river and close to the wagon, crowding his horse through those of the young men, and occasionally, if a horse did not make way for him, striking it fiercely with the quirt, but all the Indians who saw him got out of his way at once.

He was a giant in stature, with a heavy and particularly ferocious face, and rode a beautiful black horse, which seemed too small to bear his immense frame. He rode up to the wagon, roughly pushing Wolf Collar out of the way, and then stretching out his hand to Hugh shook hands with him and said, "My friend, you seem to be traveling. Why do you stop here?"

"Why, hello, Calf Robe," said Hugh. "I didn't stop here willingly, but your young men got in my way, and crowded about me, and asked me for whiskey, which I have not got, and which, if I had, I would not give to them. They get too much whiskey now."

"Why do they ask you for whiskey since all who know you know that you do not drink whiskey, any more than you try to make others drink it?"

"I don't know," said Hugh, "but I reckon some of them have seen this morning some whiskey traders up the lake, and they have told the Indians that I took their whiskey."

"Truly," said Calf Robe, "these Indians are fools, and will believe any lies that the white men choose to tell them."

His evil face worked a little, and then, turning an angry glance on Wolf Collar, he said to him, "Go now, go all of you to the camp quickly. After this know better than to trouble this man with your crazy talk. Go, I say," he repeated fiercely, and striking his horse with his quirt it carried him with a bound close to Wolf Collar, whom he lashed savagely over the head and shoulders.

Wolf Collar darted away and Calf Robe turned toward another man, but in a moment the whole body of Indians were galloping down into the ford, many of them whooping, yelling and laughing; while others, humiliated by the way in which they had been driven off, followed silently.

"Now, my friend, go your way," said Calf Robe. "No one will trouble you."

"No," said Hugh, "I think not -- when Calf Robe is about," and chirping to his horses, they began to climb the hill.

During the whole ascent Jack was eagerly cross-questioning Joe as to what the matter had been, what had happened and what had been said. Joe explained everything at great length and wound up his talk by saying, "Calf Robe is a great man. All his people fear him."

"Well," said Jack, "from the way he rode at them and lashed them, he was not afraid of any of them. How he quirted Wolf Collar!"

"He does not know fear. He had a father and a grandfather who were like him; I don't mean to say that they looked like him, but they were big men, and when they told people to do anything, they did it quick," replied Joe.

"I have heard lots about Calf Shirt and about Bull Back Fat. They were great men. Running Rabbit, who lives in our camp, is also one of his relations, and he, too, is a great man. You know he used to be head war chief of the Bloods."

"No, I didn't know that," said Jack. "That little kind man used to be head war chief of the Bloods? I never supposed that he did anything except sit around and tell funny stories and make jokes. It's hard to believe that he was a great warrior."

"Oh, yes," answered Joe, "one of the greatest of warriors."

They camped that night by Duck Lake, and there Hugh told Jack something about the fierce wild life of Calf Shirt and of the way in which he was finally killed by the white men.

From Duck Lake they kept on to the Agency, which was reached without incident four days later.

The morning after their arrival while Jack was dressing preparatory to starting off to the railroad, Joe burst into the room, calling to him to hurry up and get out, for many horses had been stolen during the night.

The flat in front of the Agency was the scene of great excitement and confusion. Old men were haranguing in loud tones and women were singing strong-heart songs to encourage their relatives about to start off in pursuit of the enemy. Men were galloping to and fro, trying to borrow swift horses or arms, with which to make the chase. Every now and then a man would come in from the east, reporting success or failure in the search for the trail of the robbers.

At last one man came who had followed the trail so far that the direction which the thieves would take was pretty well known, and presently a large body of horsemen, armed with rifles, bows and arrows, and lances, started off down the creek, riding with a certain air of dignity until they had gone some distance from the stockade, and then breaking into a faster run.

"Well, Joe," asked Hugh, "are our horses all right?"

"Yes," replied the Indian boy, "they're all right, and it's mighty lucky, too. I would have turned them out last night if there had been any feed close by, but as there wasn't any, I got Joe Bruce to give me some hay and locked them up in his stable. Last night somebody tried to pry off the chain, but the staples are clinched and they couldn't move them."

"Well," said Hugh, "that's mighty good. Now you go and hitch up, and we'll say good-by to the Major and Bruce here, and then we'll roll."

A few days later Jack and Hugh shook hands in the railroad station at Helena and parted, the one going west to reach the ranch, while the other started for his far-away home in New York.




To-Day


Up to the time when Jack Danvers, with his two friends, penetrated to the head of the St. Mary's River and Swift Current, nothing was known of the upper courses of either stream. Men who had been longest in the country had never ascended beyond the Upper St. Mary's Lake -- from its shape called Bow Lake in early times -- nor beyond the large lake on Swift Current, which receives the water from the river's three forks.

What lay beyond these lakes was still unknown. Ancient but long-disused trails ran up the rivers; sometimes so dim, so overgrown with grass and weeds, and so blocked by fallen timber, that it was hard to say whether they were Indian hunting trails, or merely paths worn by the buffalo and the elk, which in bygone days had made their homes among the rocky fastnesses at the heads of these streams. What had made these trails, who had traveled them, was unknown.

There is a wonderful fascination in penetrating a new country, in placing one's foot where perhaps the foot of civilized man never trod before.

A century ago there were many such places in the United States, fifty years ago there were still not a few, twenty-five years ago there were hardly any, and it is no wonder that Hugh and Jack wished to explore these valleys and the mountains that walled them in.

Within a few years after the discoveries made by Hugh and Jack at the heads of these rivers, other parties, hearing of what they had found, followed the same trails. Soon it became not unusual for one or two hunting parties to camp each year among these mountains. The fame of their beauty and grandeur spread from one person to another and many people visited them.

Among these at length came a party of engineers sent out by the Government to consider the question of diverting the waters of the St. Mary's River from their natural course to join the Saskatchewan, into a new channel southward across Milk River Ridge, and by a great irrigation project thus to make fertile a vast area of arid country in Northern Montana.

Meanwhile, the Government had purchased from the Blackfoot Indians these rough mountains in which many miners professed to believe great mineral wealth was hidden. The country was thoroughly prospected for precious metals, for copper, and finally, for oil, but nothing was discovered that promised to pay for the working, and the mines and claims were abandoned.

Finally, in the month of February, 1908, Senator Thomas H. Carter, of Montana, introduced in the United States Senate a bill establishing the Glacier National Park, to include territory visited and seen by Hugh and Jack on both slopes of the Rocky Mountains and to-day lying between the International boundary and the Great Northern Railroad on the north and south, and the Blackfoot reservation and one of the forks of the Flat Head River on the east and west.

If the measure shall become law, this most beautiful country, with its wonderful glaciers, its rushing rivers, its broad forests and its abundant game supply, may remain forever as a pleasure resort and playground for the benefit of the whole people of the United States. Valuable as it will be in this respect, its economic worth to the United States will be not less great. It will be a mighty reservoir, from which for ages an unfailing supply of water may be drawn to give drink to those thirsty plains, which need only moisture to yield a generous return to the farmer.

<eob>

Charlie To The Rescue

By

R.M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

Introduces The Hero.

To be generally helpful was one of the chief points in the character of Charlie Brooke.

He was evidently born to aid mankind. He began by helping himself to everything in life that seemed at all desirable. This was natural, not selfish.

At first there were few things, apparently, that did seem to his infant mind desirable, for his earliest days were marked by a sort of chronic crossness that seemed quite unaccountable in one so healthy; but this was eventually traced to the influence of pins injudiciously disposed about the person by nurse. Possibly this experience may have tended to develop a spirit of brave endurance, and might perhaps account for the beautiful modifications of character that were subsequently observed in him. At all events, sweet, patient amiability was a prevailing feature in the boy long before the years of infancy were over, and this heavenly aspect of him was pleasantly diversified, in course of time, by occasional displays of resolute -- we might almost say heroic -- self-will, which proved a constant source of mingled pride and alarm to his widowed mother.

From a very early period of life little Charlie manifested an intense desire, purpose, and capacity for what may be called his life-work of rescuing human beings from trouble and danger. It became a passion with him as years rolled on, and was among the chief means that brought about the changes in his chequered career.

Appropriately enough he began -- almost in babyhood -- by rescuing himself!

It happened thus. One day, when he had reached the immature age of five, he was left in the nursery for a few moments in company with a wash-tub, in which his mother had been cleansing the household linen.

Mrs Brooke, it may be remarked, although in the middle ranks of life, was very much below the middle ranks in financial prosperity, and had therefore to perform much household drudgery.

Charlie's earnest desire to please and obey his mother constantly came into collision with that self-will to which we have referred. Separately, these qualities may perhaps work quietly, at least as regards their possessor, but unitedly they form a mixture which is apt to become explosive in early youth.

"Don't touch the tub, Charlie; I'll be back directly," said Mrs Brooke, as she was leaving the nursery. "Don't even go near it."

"No, muvver, I won't."

He spoke with much decision, for he adored water -- not to drink but to play with -- and seemed to realise the danger of his position, and the necessity for self-control.

The temptation to avail himself of the chance, however, was almost too much for him. Feeling that an internal conflict was pending, he toddled to the fire, turned his back to it a la paterfamilias, and glared at the tub, resolved, come what might, to be "dood." But fate was against him!

Suddenly he became aware that something more than radiated heat was operating in rear. He glanced behind. His cotton tunic was in flames! In the twinkling of an eye he was seated in the wash-tub, his hands clasped in horror as he thought of his guilt, and the flames thoroughly extinguished!

The solemn glare and pursed mouth with which he met his mother's look of blank amazement may be imagined but cannot be described -- he looked so quiet, too, and so evidently contented, for the warm water was congenial!

"O Charlie! did I not say that -- "

"Yes, muvver, but I'm bu'nt."

The fearsome and dripping black patch which presented itself to the agonised mother when she lifted him out of the tub sufficiently enlightened her and exonerated the child, but her anxiety was not relieved till she had stripped him naked and ascertained for certain that no scrap of his fair skin had been injured.

This may be said to have been the real commencement of Charlie Brooke's career. We mention it chiefly to show that our hero was gifted with some power of ready resource even in childhood. He was also gifted with a fearless and daring disposition, a quietly enthusiastic spirit, a modest mien, and a strong muscular body.

Of course these admirable qualities were not fully developed in childhood, but the seeds were there. In due time the plants came up and the flowers bloomed.

We would here caution the reader -- especially the youthful reader --  against supposing that from this point our hero was engaged in rescue-work, and continued at it ever after without intermission. Like Samson, with his great strength, he exercised his powers only now and then -- more than half unconscious of what was in him -- and on many occasions without any definite purpose in view.

His first act of heroism was exercised, when he had reached the age of nine, in behalf of a kitten.

It was on a magnificent summer day, soon after he had been sent to the village school, that the incident occurred. Charlie was walking at the time with one of his school-fellows named Shank Leather.

Shank was a little older than himself, and a good enough fellow in his way, but much given to boasting, and possessed of very few of the fine qualities that characterised our hero. The two were out for a holiday-ramble, a long way from home, and had reached a river on the banks of which they sat down to enjoy their mid-day meal. The meal was simple, and carried in their pockets. It consisted of two inch-and-a-half-thick slices of bread, with two lumps of cheese to match.

"I wish this river was nearer home," said Shank Leather, as they sat down under a spreading oak to dine.

"Why?" asked his companion, with a felicitous brevity and straightforwardness which occasionally marked his conversation.

"Because then I would have a swim in it everyday."

"Can you swim?" asked Charlie, a slight elevation of the eyebrows indicating surprise not unmingled with admiration -- for our hero was a hero-worshipper. He could not well have been a hero otherwise!

"Of course I can swim," returned Shank; "that is to say, a little; but I feel sure that I'll be a splendid swimmer some day."

His companion's look of admiration increased.

"What'll you take to drink?" asked Shank, drawing a large flask from the pocket in which he had concealed it up to that moment with the express purpose of giving his companion a pleasant surprise.

It may be well to add that the variety of dunks implied in his question was imaginary. Shank had only one flask, but in the exuberance of convivial generosity he quoted his own father -- who was addicted to "the bottle."

"What is it?" asked Brooke, in curious expectancy.

"Taste and see," said his friend, uncorking the flask.

Charlie tasted, but did not "see," apparently, for he looked solemn, and tasted again.

"It's liquorice-water," said Shank, with the look of one who expects approval. "I made it myself!"

Nauseous in the extreme, it might have served the purpose of an emetic had not the digestion of the boys been ostrich-like, but, on hearing how it came into existence, Charlie put it a third time to his lips, took a good gulp, and then, nodding his head as he wiped his mouth with his cuff, declared that it was "wonderful."

"Yes, isn't it? There's not many fellows could make stuff like that."

"No, indeed," assented the other heartily, as he attacked the bread and cheese. "Does your father know you made it?"

"Oh yes, and he tasted it too -- he'd taste anything in the shape of drink -- but he spat it out, and then washed his mouth with brandy an' water. Mother took some too, and she said she had tasted worse drinks; and she only wished that father would take to it. That made father laugh heartily. Then I gave some to little May, and she said it was 'So nice.'"

"Ay. That was like little May," remarked Charlie, with a quiet laugh; "she'd say that a mess o' tar an' shoe-blacking was nice if you made it. But I say, Shank, let's see you swim. I'd give anything if I could swim. Do, like a brick as you are. There's a fine deep hole here under the bank."

He pointed to a pool in the river where the gurgling eddies certainly indicated considerable depth of water, but his friend shook his head.

"No, Charlie," he said, "you don't understand the danger as I do. Don't you see that the water runs into the hole at such a rate that there's a tree-mendous eddy that would sweep any man off his legs -- "

"But you're goin' to swim, you know," interrupted his friend, "an' have got to be off your legs anyhow!"

"That's all you know," returned the other. "If a man's swept round by an eddy, don't you know, he'll be banged against things, and then the water rushes out of the hole with such a gush, an' goes thunderin' down below, over boulders and stones, and -- an' -- don't you see?"

"That's true, Shank; it does look dangerous, even for a man that can swim."

He put such emphasis on the "man" that his comrade glanced sharply at him, but the genuine innocence of our hero's face was too obvious to suggest irony. He simply saw that the use of the word man pleased his friend, therefore he used it.

Conversation was cut short at this point by the sudden appearance on the scene of two strangers -- a kitten and a dog.

The assertion that "dogs delight to bark and bite" is, perhaps, too sweeping, but then it was made by a poet and poets have an acknowledged licence -- though not necessarily a dog-licence. Certain it is, however, that this dog -- a mongrel cur -- did bark with savage delight, and display all its teeth, with an evident desire to bite, as it chased a delirious tortoise-shell kitten towards the river.

It was a round, soft, lively kitten, with the hair on its little body sticking straight out, its heart in its mouth, and horror in its lovely eyes. It made straight for the tree under which the dinner was going on. Both boys started up. Enemies in front and rear! Even a human general might have stood appalled. Two courses were still open -- right and left. The kitten turned right and went wrong, for that was the river-side. No time for thought! Barking cur and yelling boys! It reached the edge of the pool, spread out all its legs with a caterwaul of despair, and went headlong into the water.

Shank Leather gazed -- something like glee mingled with his look of consternation. Not so our hero. Pity was bursting his bosom. With one magnificent bound he went into the pool, caught the kitten in his right hand, and carried it straight to the bottom. Next moment he re-appeared on the surface, wildly beating the water with one hand and holding the kitten aloft in the other. Shank, to do him justice, plunged into the river up to his waist, but his courage carried him no further. There he stuck, vainly holding out a hand and shouting for help.

But no help was near, and it seemed as if the pair of strugglers were doomed to perish when a pitiful eddy swept them both out of the deep pool into the foaming rapid below. Shank followed them in howling despair, for here things looked ten times worse: his comrade being tossed from billow to breaker, was turned heels over head, bumped against boulders, stranded on shallows, overturned and swept away again -- but ever with the left arm beating wildly, and the right hand with the kitten, held high in air.

But the danger, except from being dashed against the boulders, was not really as great as it seemed, for every time that Brooke got a foothold for an instant, or was driven on a rock, or was surged, right-end-up, on a shoot of water, he managed to gasp a little air -- including a deal of water. The kitten, of course, had the same chances, and, being passive, perhaps suffered less.

At the foot of the rapid they were whirled, as if contemptuously, into an eddy. Shank was there, as deep as he dared venture. He even pushed in up to the arm-pits, and, catching his comrade by the hair, dragged him to bank.

"O Charlie, I've saved ye!" he exclaimed, as his friend crawled out and sat down.

"Ay, an' you've saved the kitten too!" replied his friend, examining the poor animal.

"It's dead," said Shank; "dead as mutton."

"No, only stunned. No wonder, poor beast!"

With tender care the rescuer squeezed the water from the fur of the rescued. Then, pulling open his vest and shirt, he was about to place the kitten in his bosom to warm it.

"No use doin' that," said Leather. "You're as wet an' nigh as cold as itself."

"That's true. Sit down here," returned Brooke, in a tone of command which surprised his comrade. "Open your shirt."

Again Shank obeyed wonderingly. Next moment he gave a gasp as the cold, wet creature was thrust into his warm bosom.

"It makes me shiver all over," he said.

"Never mind," replied his friend coolly, as he got up and wrung the water out of his own garments.

"It's beginning to move, Charlie," said Shank, after a few minutes.

"Give it here, then."

The creature was indeed showing feeble symptoms of revival, so Brooke --  whose bosom was not only recovering its own heat, but was beginning to warm the wet garments -- thrust it into his own breast, and the two friends set off homeward at a run.

At the nearest house they made inquiry as to the owner of the kitten, but failed to find one. Our hero therefore resolved to carry it home. Long before that haven was reached, however, his clothes were nearly dry, and the rescued one was purring sweetly, in childlike innocence --  all the horrors, sufferings, and agonies of the past forgotten, apparently, in the enjoyment of the present.



Chapter Two.

The Shipwreck.

We have no intention of carrying our reader on step by step through all the adventures and deeds of Charlie Brooke. It is necessary to hasten over his boyhood, leaving untold the many battles fought, risks run, and dangers encountered.

He did not cut much of a figure at the village school -- though he did his best, and was fairly successful -- but in the playground he reigned supreme. At football, cricket, gymnastics, and, ultimately, at swimming, no one could come near him. This was partly owing to his great physical strength, for, as time passed by he shot upwards and outwards in a way that surprised his companions and amazed his mother, who was a distinctly little woman -- a neat graceful little woman -- with, like her stalwart son, a modest opinion of herself.

As a matter of course, Charlie's school-fellows almost worshipped him, and he was always so willing to help and lead them in all cases of danger or emergency, that "Charlie to the rescue!" became quite a familiar cry on the playground. Indeed it would have been equally appropriate in the school, for the lad never seemed to be so thoroughly happy as when he was assisting some boy less capable than himself to master his lessons.

About the time that Charlie left school, while yet a stripling, he had the shoulders of Samson, the chest of Hercules, and the limbs of Apollo. He was tall also -- over six feet -- but his unusual breadth deceived people as to this till they stood close to him. Fair hair, close and curly, with bright blue eyes and a permanent look of grave benignity, completes our description of him.

Rowing, shooting, fishing, boxing, and swimming seemed to come naturally to him, and all of them in a superlative degree. Swimming was, perhaps, his most loved amusement and in this art he soon far outstripped his friend Leather. Some men are endowed with exceptional capacities in regard to water. We have seen men go into the sea warm and come out warmer, even in cold weather. Experience teaches that the reverse is usually true of mankind in northern regions, yet we once saw a man enter the sea to all appearance a white human being, after remaining in it upwards of an hour, and swimming away from shore; like a vessel outward bound, he came back at last the colour of a boiled lobster!

Such exceptional qualities did Charlie Brooke possess. A South Sea Islander might have envied but could not have excelled him.

It was these qualities that decided the course of his career just after he left school.

"Charlie," said his mother, as they sat eating their mid-day meal alone one day -- the mother being, as we have said, a widow, and Charlie an only child -- "what do you think of doing, now that you have left school? for you know my income renders it impossible that I should send you to college."

"I don't know what to think, mother. Of course I intend to do something. If you had only influence with some one in power who could enable a fellow to get his foot on the first round of any sort of ladder, something might be done, for you know I'm not exactly useless, though I can't boast of brilliant talents, but -- "

"Your talents are brilliant enough, Charlie," said his mother, interrupting; "besides, you have been sent into this world for a purpose, and you may be sure that you will discover what that purpose is, and receive help to carry it out if you only ask God to guide you. Not otherwise," she added, after a pause.

"Do you really believe, mother, that every one who is born into the world is sent for a purpose, and with a specific work to do?"

"I do indeed, Charlie."

"What! all the cripples, invalids, imbeciles, even the very infants who are born to wail out their sad lives in a few weeks, or even days?"

"Yes -- all of them, without exception. To suppose the opposite, and imagine that a wise, loving, and almighty Being would create anything for no purpose seems to me the very essence of absurdity. Our only difficulty is that we do not always see the purpose. All things are ours, but we must ask if we would have them."

"But I have asked, mother," said the youth, with an earnest flush on his brow. "You know I have done so often, yet a way has not been opened up. I believe in your faith, mother, but I don't quite believe in my own. There surely must be something wrong -- a screw loose somewhere."

He laid down his knife and fork, and looked out at the window with a wistful, perplexed expression.

"How I wish," he continued, "that the lines had been laid down for the human race more distinctly, so that we could not err!"

"And yet," responded his mother, with a peculiar look, "such lines as are obviously laid down we don't always follow. For instance, it is written, 'Ask, and it shall be given you,' and we stop there, but the sentence does not stop: 'Seek, and ye shall find' implies care and trouble; 'Knock, and it shall be opened unto you' hints at perseverance, does it not?"

"There's something in that, mother," said Charlie, casting another wistful glance out of the window. "Come, I will go out and 'seek'! I see Shank Leather waiting for me. We agreed to go to the shore together, for we both like to watch the waves roaring in on a breezy day like this."

The youth rose and began to encase his bulky frame in a great pilot-cloth coat, each button of which might have done duty as an afternoon tea-saucer.

"I wish you would choose any companion to walk with but young Leather," said the widow, with a sigh. "He's far too like his father to do you any good."

"Mother, would you have me give up an old playmate and school-fellow because he is not perfect?" asked the youth in grave tones as he tied on a sou'-wester.

"Well, no -- not exactly, but -- "

Not having a good reason ready, the worthy woman only smiled a remonstrance. The stalwart son stooped, kissed her and was soon outside, battling with the storm -- for what he styled a breezy day was in reality a wild and stormy one.

Long before the period we have now reached Mrs Brooke had changed her residence to the sea-coast in the small town of Sealford. Her cottage stood in the centre of the village, about half-a-mile from the shore, and close to that of her bosom friend, Mrs Leather, who had migrated along with her, partly to be near her and partly for the sake of her son Shank, who was anxious to retain the companionship of his friend Brooke. Partly, also, to get her tippling husband away from old comrades and scenes, in the faint hope that she might rescue him from the great curse of his life.

When Charlie went out, as we have said, he found that Shank had brought his sister May with him. This troubled our hero a good deal, for he had purposed having a confidential talk with his old comrade upon future plans and prospects, to the accompaniment of the roaring sea, and a third party was destructive of such intention. Besides, poor May, although exceedingly unselfish and sweet and good, was at that transition period of life when girlhood is least attractive -- at least to young men: when bones are obtrusive, and angles too conspicuous, and the form generally is too suggestive of flatness and longitude; while shyness marks the manners, and inexperience dwarfs the mind. We would not, however, suggest for a moment that May was ugly. By no means, but she had indeed reached what may be styled a plain period of life -- a period in which some girls become silently sheepish, and others tomboyish; May was among the former, and therefore a drag upon conversation. But, after all, it mattered little, for the rapidly increasing gale rendered speech nearly impossible.

"It's too wild a day for you, May," said Brooke, as he shook hands with her; "I wonder you care to be out."

"She doesn't care to be out, but I wanted her to come, and she's a good obliging girl, so she came," said Shank, drawing her arm through his as they pressed forward against the blast in the direction of the shore.

Shank Leather had become a sturdy young fellow by that time, but was much shorter than his friend. There was about him, however, an unmistakable look of dissipation -- or, rather, the beginning of it -- which accounted for Mrs Brooke's objection to him as a companion for her son.

We have said that the cottage lay about half-a-mile from the shore, which could be reached by a winding lane between high banks. These effectually shut out the view of the sea until one was close to it, though, at certain times, the roar of the waves could be heard even in Sealford itself.

Such a time was the present, for the gale had lashed the sea into wildest fury, and not only did the three friends hear it, as, with bent heads, they forced their way against the wind, but they felt the foam of ocean on their faces as it was carried inland sometimes in lumps and flakes. At last they came to the end of the lane, and the sea, lashed to its wildest condition, lay before them like a sheet of tortured foam.

"Grand! isn't it?" said Brooke, stopping and drawing himself up for a moment, as if with a desire to combat the opposing elements.

If May Leather could not speak, she could at all events gaze, for she had superb brown eyes, and they glittered, just then, like glowing coals, while a wealth of rippling brown hair was blown from its fastenings, and flew straight out behind her.

"Look! look there!" shouted her brother with a wild expression, as he pointed to a part of the rocky shore where a vessel was dimly seen through the drift.

"She's trying to weather the point," exclaimed Brooke, clearing the moisture from his eyes, and endeavouring to look steadily.

"She'll never weather it. See! the fishermen are following her along-shore," cried young Leather, dropping his sister's arm, and bounding away.

"Oh! don't leave me behind, Shank," pleaded May.

Shank was beyond recall, but our hero, who had also sprung forward, heard the pleading voice and turned back.

"Here, hook on to me," he cried quickly, for he was in no humour to delay.

The girl grasped his arm at once, and, to say truth, she was not much of a hindrance, for, although somewhat inelegant, as we have said, she was lithe as a lizard and fleet as a young colt.

A few minutes brought them to the level shore where Brooke left May to shelter herself with some fisher-women behind a low wall, while he ran along to a spot where a crowd of fishermen and old salts, enveloped in oil-skins, were discussing the situation as they leaned against the shrieking wind.

"Will she weather it, Grinder, think you?" he asked of an elderly man, whose rugged features resembled mahogany, the result of having bid defiance to wind and weather for nigh half a century.

"She may, Mr Brooke, an' she mayn't," answered the matter-of-fact man of the sea, in the gruff monotone with which he would have summoned all hands to close reef in a hurricane. "If her tackle holds she'll do it. If it don't she won't."

"We've sent round for the rocket anyhow," said a smart young fisherman, who seemed to rejoice in opposing his broad chest to the blast, and in listening to the thunder of the waves as they rolled into the exposed bay in great battalions, chasing each other in wild tumultuous fury, as if each were bent on being first in the mad assault upon the shore.

"Has the lifeboat coxswain been called?" asked Charlie, after a few minutes' silence, for the voice of contending elements was too great to render converse easy or agreeable.

"Yes, sir," answered the man nearest to him, "but she's bin called to a wreck in Mussel Bay, an' that brig will be all right or in Davy Jones's locker long afore th' lifeboat 'ud fetch round here."

Silence again fell on the group as they gazed out to sea, pushing eagerly down the beach until they were ankle-deep in the foam of each expended wave; for the brig was by that time close on the point of rocks, staggering under more sail than she could carry with safety.

"She'll do it!" exclaimed the smart young fisherman, ready to cheer with enthusiastic hope.

"Done for! Lost!" cried one, while something like a groan burst from the others as they saw the brig's topmasts go over the side, and one of her sails blown to ribbons. She fell away towards the rocks at once.

Like great black teeth these rocks seemed to leap in the midst of the foam, as if longing to grasp the ill-fated vessel, which had, indeed, all but weathered the dangerous point, and all might have been well if her gear had only held; but now, as if paralysed, she drifted into the bay where certain destruction awaited her.

Just at that moment a great cheer arose, for the rocket-cart, drawn by the men of the Coast-Guard, was seen rattling over the downs towards them.

Anxiety for the fate of the doomed brig was now changed into eager hope for the rescue of her crew. The fishermen crowded round the Coast-Guard men as they ran the cart close down to the water's edge, and some of them -- specially the smart young fellow already mentioned -- made eager offer of their services. Charlie Brooke stood aloof, looking on with profound interest, for it was the first time he had ever seen the Manby rocket apparatus brought into action. He made no hasty offer to assist, for he was a cool youth -- even while burning with impatient enthusiasm --  and saw at a glance that the men of the Coast-Guard were well able to manage their own affairs and required no aid from him.

As the brig was coming straight in they could easily calculate where she would strike, so that the rocket men could set up their triangle and arrange their tackle without delay. This was fortunate, for the wreck was carried shoreward with great rapidity. She struck at last when within a short distance of the beach, and the faces of those on board could be distinctly seen, and their cries heard, as both masts snapped off and were swept over the side, where they tore at the shrouds like wild creatures, or charged the hulk like battering-rams. Instantly the billows that had borne the vessel on their crests burst upon her sides, and spurted high in air over her, falling back on her deck, and sweeping off everything that was moveable. It could be seen that only three or four men were on deck, and these kept well under the lee of the bulwarks near the stern where they were strongest.

"No passengers, I think," said one of the fishermen; "no women, anyhow."

"Not likely they'd be 'lowed on deck even if there was," growled Grinder, in his monotone.

"Now, then, out o' the way," cried the leader of the Coast-Guard men, as he laid a rocket in its place. "Line all clear, Fred?"

"All clear."

Next moment there was a burst of flame, a crash, and a vicious whizz as the powerful projectile leaped from its stand and sped out to sea, in grand defiance of the opposing gale, with its light line behind it.

A cheer marked its flight, but a groan told of its descent into the boiling sea, considerably to the left of the wreck.

"What a pity!" cried Shank Leather, who had come close to his friend when the rocket-cart arrived.

"No matter," said Brooke, whose compressed lips and flashing eyes told of deep but suppressed feelings. "There are more rockets."

He was right. While he was speaking, another rocket was placed and fired. It was well directed, but fell short. Another, and yet another, rose and fell, but failed to reach its mark, and the remainder of the rockets refused to go off from some unknown cause -- either because they had been too long in stock or had become damp.

Meantime the brig was tossed farther and farther in, until she stuck quite fast. Then it became evident that she must soon break up, and her crew perish. Hasty plans and eager advice were proposed and given. Then the smart young fisherman suddenly sprang forward, and threw off his oil-coat and sou'-wester.

"Here! hold on!" he cried, catching up the end of the rocket line, and fastening it round his waist, while he kicked off his heavy boots.

"You can't do it, Bill," cried some.

"Too far to swim," cried others.

"The seas 'll knock the life out o' ye," said Grinder, "afore you're clear o' the sand."

Despite these warnings the brave young fellow dashed into the foam, and plunged straight into the first mighty breaker that towered over his head. But he was too much excited to act effectively. He failed to time his plunge well. The wave fell upon him with a roar and crushed him down. In a few seconds he was dragged ashore almost insensible.

Example, whether good or bad, is infectious. Another strapping young fellow, stirred to emulation, ran forward, and, seizing the rope, tied it round his own waist, while they helped poor Bill up the beach and seated him on a sand-bank.

The second youth was more powerful than the first -- and cooler. He made a better attempt, but only got past the first wave, when his comrades, seeing that he was exhausted, drew him back. Then a third -- a broad burly youth -- came forward.

At this point the soul of Shank Leather took fire, for he was by no means destitute of generous impulses, and he tried to get hold of the rope.

"Out o' the way," cried the burly youth, giving Leather a rough push that almost sent him on his back; "we don't want no land-lubbers for this kind o' work."

Up to this point Charlie Brooke, although burning with eager desire to take some active part in the rescue, had restrained himself and held back, believing, with characteristic modesty, that the fishermen knew far better than he did how to face the sea and use their appliances; but when he saw his friend stagger backward, he sprang to the front, caught hold of the line, and, seizing the burly fisherman by the arm, exclaimed, "You'll let this land-lubber try it, anyhow," and sent him spinning away like a capsized nine-pin.

There was a short laugh, as well as a cheer at this; but next moment all were gazing at the sea in breathless anxiety, for Brooke had rushed deep into the surf. He paused one moment, as the great wave curled over him, then went through it head-first with such force that he shot waist-high out of the sea on the other side. His exceptional swimming-powers now served him well, for his otter-like rapidity of action enabled him to avoid the crushing billows either by diving through them at the right moment, or holding back until they fell, and left him only the mad swirling foam to contend with. This last was bad enough, but here his great muscular strength and his inexhaustible caloric, with his cork-like power of flotation, enabled him to hold his own without exhaustion until another opportunity of piercing an unbroken wave offered. Thus he gradually forced his way through and beyond the worst breakers, which are always those nearest shore. Had any one been close to him, and able calmly to watch his movements, it would have been seen that, great as were the youth's powers, he did not waste them in useless battling with a force against which no man could effectively contend; that, with a cool head, he gave way to every irresistible force, swimming for a moment, as it were, with the current -- or, rather, floating easily in the whirlpools -- so as to conserve his strength; that, ever and anon, he struck out with all his might, rushing through foam and wave like a fish, and that, in the midst of it all, he saw and seized the brief moments in which he could take a gasping inhalation.

Those who watched him with breathless anxiety on shore saw little of all this as they paid out the line or perched themselves on tiptoe on the few boulders that here and there strewed the sand.

"Haul him back!" shouted the man who was farthest out on the line. "He's used up!"

"No, he's not, I know him well!" roared Shank Leather. "Pay out, men --  pay out line!"

"Ay, ease away," said Grinder, in a thunderous growl. "He's a rigler walrus, he is. Niver see'd sich a feller since I left the southern seas. Ease away, boys."

A cheer followed his remark, for at that moment it was seen that our hero had reached the tail of the eddy which was caused by the hull of the wreck, and that one of her crew had darted from the cover of the vessel's bulwarks and taken shelter under the stump of the mainmast. His object was seen in a moment, for he unhooked a coil of rope from the belaying-pins, and stood ready to heave it to the approaching swimmer. In making even this preparation the man ran very great risk, for the stump was but a partial shelter -- each wave that burst over the side sweeping wildly round it and leaping on the man higher than his waist, so that it was very difficult for him to avoid being torn from his position.

Charlie's progress was now comparatively easy. A few vigorous strokes brought him under the lea of the wreck, which, however, was by no means a quiet spot, for each divided wave, rushing round bow and stern, met there in a tumult of foam that almost choked the swimmer, while each billow that burst over the wreck poured a small Niagara on his head.

How to get on board in such circumstances was a subject that had troubled Charlie's mind as he drew near, but the action of the sailor unhooking the coil of rope at once relieved him. The moment he came within reach, the sailor, watching his opportunity between waves, threw out the coil. It was aimed by an accustomed hand and fell on the rescuer's head. Another minute and young Brooke stood on the deck. Without waiting an instant he leaped under the shelter of the stump of the mainmast beside the seaman. He was only just in time, for a wave burst in thunder on the weather side of the quivering brig, and, pouring over the bulwarks, almost dragged him from the belaying-pins to which he clung.

The instant the strain was off, he passed a rope round his waist and gave the end of it to the sailor.

"Here, make it fast," he said, beginning to haul with all his might on the line which he had brought from shore. "You're the skipper -- eh?"

"Yes. Don't waste your breath in speech. I know what to do. All's ready."

These few words were an unspeakable relief to our hero, who was well aware that the working of the rocket apparatus required a slight amount of knowledge, and who felt from his manner and tone that the skipper was a thorough man. He glanced upwards as he hauled in the line, assisted by his companion, and saw that a stout rope with two loops on it had been fixed to the stump of the mast. Just as he noted this with satisfaction a large block with a thin line rove through it emerged from the boiling sea. It had been attached by the men on shore to the rocket line which Charlie had been hauling out with so much energy. Its name was indicated by the skipper.

"Here comes the whip," he cried, catching hold of the block when it reached him. "Hold me up, lad, while I make it fast to them loops."

While Charlie obeyed he saw that by fixing the tail-lines of the block quickly to the loops prepared for them, instead of winding them round the mast, -- a difficult process in such a sea -- much time was saved.

"There, our part o' the job is done now," said the skipper, pulling off his sou'-wester as he spoke and holding it up as a signal to the men on shore.

Meanwhile those to whom he signalled had been watching every movement with intense eagerness, and with the expressions of men whose gaze has to penetrate with difficulty through a haze of blinding spray.

"They've got the block now," cried one man.

"Does that young feller know about fixin' of it?" asked another.

"Clap a stopper on your mugs; they're a-fixin' of it now," said old Grinder. "There's the signal! Haul away, lads!"

We must explain here that the "whip" above mentioned was a double or endless line, passing through the block which had been hauled out to the wreck by our hero.

By means of this whip one end of a stout cable was sent off to the wreck, and on this cable a sling-lifebuoy was hung to a pulley and also run out to the wreck. The working of the apparatus, though simple enough to seamen, would entail a complicated, perhaps incomprehensible, description to landsmen: we therefore pass it by with the remark that, connection with the shore having been established, and the sling-lifebuoy -- or life-saving machine -- run out, the crew received it with what was meant for a hearty cheer, but which exhaustion modified to a feeble shout.

"Now, lads," cried the skipper to his men, "look sharp! Let out the passengers."

"Passengers?" exclaimed Charlie Brooke in surprise.

"Ay -- my wife an' little gurl, two women and an old gentleman. You don't suppose I'd keep 'em on deck to be washed overboard?"

As he spoke two of the men opened the doors of the companion-hatch, and caught hold of a little girl of about five years of age, who was handed up by a woman.

"Stay! keep her under cover till I get hold of her," cried the skipper.

As he was passing from the mast to the companion a heavy sea burst over the bulwarks, and swept him into the scuppers. The same wave wrenched the child from the grasp of the man who held it and carried it right overboard. Like an eel, rather than a man, Charlie cleft the foam close behind her, caught her by the skirt and bore her to the surface, when a few strokes of his free arm brought him close under the lee of the wreck just in time to prevent the agonised father from leaping after his child. There was terrible suspense for a few minutes. At one moment our hero, with his burden held high aloft, was far down in the hollow of the watery turmoil, with the black hull like a great wall rising above him, while the skipper in the main-chains, pale as death but sternly silent held on with his left hand and reached down with his right -- every finger rigid and ready! Next moment a water-spout, so to speak, bore the rescuer upward on its crest, but not near enough -- they went downward again. Once more the leaping water surged upwards; the skipper's strong hand closed like the grip of death on the dress, and the child was safe while its rescuer sank away from it.

"Help him!" shouted the skipper, as he staggered to the shelter of the companion.

But Charlie required no help. A loose rope hanging over the side caught his eye: he seized it and was on deck again in a few seconds. A minute later and he was down in the cabin.

There, terror-stricken, sat the skipper's wife, never venturing to move, because she had been told to remain there till called. Happily she knew nothing of the incident just described.

Beside her sat the other women, and, near to them, a stern old gentleman, who, with compressed lips, quietly awaited orders.

"Come, quick!" said Charlie, grasping by the arm one of the women.

It was the skipper's wife. She jumped up right willingly and went on deck. There she found her child already in the life-buoy, and was instantly lifted in beside it by her husband, who looked hastily round.

"Come here, Dick," he said to a little cabin-boy who clung to a stanchion near by. "Get in."

The boy looked surprised, and drew back.

"Get in, I say," repeated the skipper sternly.

"There's more women, sir," said the boy, still holding back.

"True -- brave lad! but you're wanted to keep these from getting washed out. I am too heavy, you know."

The boy hesitated no longer. He squeezed himself into the machine beside the woman and child.

Then up at arm's-length went the skipper's sou'-wester as a signal that all was ready, and the fishermen began to haul the life-buoy to the shore.

It was an awful trip! Part of the distance, indeed, the trio were borne along well out of the sea, though the waves leaped hungrily up and sent spray over them, but as they drew near the shore they were dipped again and again into the foam, so that the little cabin boy needed all his energy and knowledge, as well as his bravery and strength, to prevent his charge being washed out. Amid ringing cheers from the fishermen --  and a treble echo from the women behind the wall -- they were at last safely landed.

"My lass, that friend o' your'n be a braave cheeld," said an old woman to May Leather, who crouched beside her.

"Ay, that he is!" exclaimed May, with a gush of enthusiasm in tone and eyes that made them all turn to look at her.

"Your brother?" asked a handsome, strapping young woman.

"No -- I wish he was!"

"Hm! ha!" exclaimed the strapping young woman -- whereat there was exchanged a significant laugh; but May took no notice of it, being too deeply engrossed with the proceedings on shore and sea.

Again the fishermen ran out the life-buoy and soon hauled it back with another woman; then a third. After that came the old gentleman, quite self-possessed and calm, though very pale and dishevelled; and, following him, the crew, one by one, were rescued. Then came the hero of the hour, and last of all, as in duty bound, the skipper -- not much too soon, for he had barely reached the land when the brig was overwhelmed and engulfed in the raging sea.



Chapter Three.

"It's An Ill Wind That Blaws Naebody Guid."

That many if not most names have originated in the character or condition of individuals seems obvious, else why is it that so many people take after their names? We have no desire to argue the question, but hasten on to remark that old Jacob Crossley was said to be -- observe, we do not say that he was -- a notable illustration of what we refer to.

Jacob was "as cross as two sticks," if we are to believe Mrs Bland, his housekeeper -- and Mrs Bland was worthy of belief, for she was an honest widow who held prevarication to be equivalent to lying, and who, besides having been in the old bachelor's service for many years, had on one occasion been plucked by him from under the feet of a pair of horses when attempting the more dangerous than nor'-west passage of a London crossing. Gratitude, therefore, rendered it probable that Mrs Bland spake truly when she said that her master was as cross as two sticks. Of course we admit that her judgment may have been faulty.

Strange to say Mr Crossley had no reason -- at least no very apparent reason -- for being cross, unless, indeed, the mere fact of his being an old bachelor was a sufficient reason. Perhaps it was! But in regard to everything else he had, as the saying goes, nothing to complain of. He was a prosperous East India merchant -- not a miser, though a cross old bachelor, and not a millionaire, though comfortably rich. His business was prosperous, his friends were numerous, his digestion was good, his nervous system was apparently all that could be desired, and he slept well!

Standing one morning in the familiar British position before his dining-room fire in London, he frowningly contemplated his housekeeper as that indefatigable woman removed the breakfast equipage.

"Has the young man called this morning?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Well, when he comes tell him I had business in the city and could wait no -- "

A ring and a sharp knock interrupted him. A few moments later Charlie Brooke was ushered into the room. It was a smallish room, for Mr Crossley, although well off, did not see the propriety of wasting money on unnecessary space or rent, and the doorway was so low that Charlie's hair brushed against the top as he entered.

"I called, Mr Crossley, in accordance with the wish expressed in your letter. Although, being a stranger, I do not -- "

The young man stopped at this point and looked steadily at the old gentleman with a peculiarly questioning expression.

"You recognise me, I see," said the old man, with a very slight smile.

"Well -- I may be mistaken, but you do bear some resemblance to -- "

"Just so, I'm the man that you hauled so violently out of the cabin of the wreck last week, and shoved so unceremoniously into the life-buoy, and I have sent for you, first, to thank you for saving my life, because they tell me that, but for your swimming off with a rope, we should certainly have all been lost; and, secondly, to offer you aid in any course of life you may wish to adopt, for I have been informed that you are not at present engaged in any special employment."

"You are very kind, sir, very kind," returned Charlie, somewhat embarrassed. "I can scarcely claim, however, to have saved your life, though I thankfully admit having had the opportunity to lend a hand. The rocket-men, in reality, did the work, for without their splendid working of the apparatus my swimming off would have been useless."

Mr Crossley frowned while the youth was speaking, and regarded him with some suspicion.

"You admit, I suppose," he rejoined sternly, "that if you had not swum off, the rocket apparatus would have been equally useless."

"By no means," returned Charlie, with that benignant smile that always accompanied his opposition in argument. "I do not admit that, because, if I had not done it, assuredly some one else would. In fact a friend of mine was on the point of making the attempt when I pulled him back and prevented him."

"And why did you prevent him?"

"Because he was not so well able to do it as I."

"Oh! I see. In other words, you have a pretty high opinion of your own powers."

"Possibly I have," returned the youth, somewhat sharply. "I lay claim to no exemption from the universal law of vanity which seems to affect the entire human race -- especially the cynical part of it. At the same time, knowing from long experience that I am physically stronger, can swim better, and have greater power of endurance, though not greater courage, than my friend, it would be mere pretence were I to assume that in such matters I was his inferior. You asked me why I prevented him: I gave you the reason exactly and straightforwardly. I now repeat it."

"Don't be so ready to fire up, young man," said Crossley, with a deprecating smile. "I had no intention of hurting your feelings."

"You have not hurt them, sir," returned Charlie, with almost provoking urbanity of manner and sweetness of voice, "you have only misunderstood me."

"Well, well, let it pass. Tell me, now, can I do anything for you?"

"Nothing, thank you."

"Eh?" exclaimed the old gentleman in surprise.

"Nothing, thank you," repeated his visitor. "I did not save you for the purpose of being rewarded, and I refuse to accept reward for saving you."

For a second or two Mr Crossley regarded his visitor in silence, with a conflicting mixture of frown and smile -- a sort of acidulated-drop expression on his rugged face. Then he asked -- 

"What is the name of this friend whom you prevented from swimming off to us?"

"Shank Leather."

"Is he a very great friend of yours?"

"Very. We have been playmates from childhood, and school-fellows till now."

"What is he? -- his profession, I mean?"

"Nothing at present. That is to say, he has, like myself, been trained to no special profession, and the failure of the firm in the counting-house of which we have both served for some months has cast us adrift at the same time."

"Would it give you much satisfaction if I were to find good employment for your friend?"

"Indeed it would -- the highest possible satisfaction," exclaimed Charlie, with the first symptom of enthusiasm in his tone and look.

"What can your friend Shank Leather do?" asked the old man brusquely.

"Oh! many things. He's capital at figures, thoroughly understands book-keeping, and -- and is a hard-working fellow, whatever he puts his hand to."

"Is he steady?"

Charlie was silent for a few moments.

"Well, one cannot be sure," he answered, with some hesitation, "what meaning you attach to the word 'steady.' I -- "

"Yes, yes, I see," interrupted Crossley, consulting his watch. "No time to discuss meanings of words just now. Will you tell your friend to call on me here the day after to-morrow at six o'clock? You live in Sealford, I have been told; does he live near you?"

"Yes, within a few minutes' walk."

"Well, tell him to be punctual. Punctuality is the soul of business. Hope I won't find your friend as independent as you seem to be! You are quite sure, are you, that I can do nothing for you? I have both money and influence."

The more determined that our hero became to decline all offers of assistance from the man who had misconstrued his motives, the more of urbanity marked his manner, and it was with a smile of ineffable good-nature on his masculine features that he repeated, "Nothing, thank you -- quite sure. You will have done me the greatest possible service when you help my friend. Yet -- stay. You mentioned money. There is an institution in which I am much interested, and which you might appropriately remember just now."

"What is that?"

"The Lifeboat Institution."

"But it was not the Lifeboat Institution that saved me. It was the Rocket apparatus."

"True, but it might have been a lifeboat that saved you. The rockets are in charge of the Coast-Guard and need no assistance, whereas the Lifeboat Service depends on voluntary contributions, and the fact that it did not happen to save Mr Crossley from a grave in the sea does not affect its claim to the nation's gratitude for the hundreds of lives saved by its boats every year."

"Admitted, my young friend, your reasoning is just," said the old gentleman, sitting down at a writing table and taking a cheque-book from a drawer; "what shall I put down?"

"You know your circumstances best," said Charlie, somewhat amused by the question.

"Most people in ordinary circumstances," returned the old man slowly as he wrote, "contribute a guinea to such charities."

"Many people," remarked Charlie, with a feeling of pity rather than contempt, "contribute five, or even fifteen."

"Ah, indeed -- yes, well, Mr Brooke, will you condescend to be the bearer of my contribution? Fourteen Saint John Street, Adelphi, is not far from this, and it will save a penny of postage, you know!"

Mr Crossley rose and handed the cheque to his visitor, who felt half disposed -- on the strength of the postage remark -- to refuse it and speak his mind somewhat freely on the subject, but, his eye happening to fall on the cheque at the moment, he paused.

"You have made a mistake, I think," he said. "This is for five hundred pounds."

"I make no mistakes, Mr Brooke," returned the old man sternly. "You said something about five or fifteen. I could not well manage fifteen hundred just now, for it is bad times in the city at present. Indeed, according to some people, it is always bad times there, and, to say truth, some people are not far wrong -- at least as regards their own experiences. Now, I must be off to business. Good-bye. Don't forget to impress on your friend the importance of punctuality."

Jacob Crossley held out his hand with an expression of affability which was for him quite marvellous.

"You're a much better man than I thought!" exclaimed Charlie, grasping the proffered hand with a fervour that caused the other to wince.

"Young sir," returned Crossley, regarding the fingers of his right hand somewhat pitifully, "people whose physique is moulded on the pattern of Samson ought to bear in mind that rheumatism is not altogether unknown to elderly men. Your opinion of me was probably erroneous to begin with, and it is certainly false to end with. Let me advise you to remember that the gift of money does not necessarily prove anything except that a man has money to give -- nay, it does not always prove even that, for many people are notoriously prone to give away money that belongs to somebody else. Five hundred pounds is to some men not of much more importance than five pence is to others. Everything is relative. Good-bye."

While he was speaking Mr Crossley rang the bell and politely opened the dining-room door, so that our hero found himself in the street before he had quite recovered from his astonishment.

"Please, sir," said Mrs Bland to her master after Charlie was gone, "Cap'en Stride is awaitin' in the library."

"Send him here," said Crossley, once more consulting his watch.

"Well, Captain Stride, I've had a talk with him," he said, as an exceedingly broad, heavy, short-legged man entered, with a bald head and a general air of salt water, tar, and whiskers about him. "Sit down. Have you made up your mind to take command of the Walrus?"

"Well, Mr Crossley, since you're so very good," said the sea-captain with a modest look, "I had feared that the loss o' -- "

"Never mind the loss of the brig, Captain. It was no fault of yours that she came to grief. Other ship-owners may do as they please. I shall take the liberty of doing as I please. So, if you are ready, the ship is ready. I have seen Captain Stuart, and I find that he is down with typhoid fever, poor fellow, and won't be fit for duty again for many weeks. The Walrus must sail not later than a week or ten days hence. She can't sail without a captain, and I know of no better man than yourself; so, if you agree to take command, there she is, if not I'll find another man."

"I'm agreeable, sir," said Captain Stride, with a gratified, meek look on his large bronzed face -- a look so very different from the leonine glare with which he was wont to regard tempestuous weather or turbulent men. "Of course it'll come rather sudden on the missus, but w'en it blows hard what's a man got to do but make all snug and stand by?"

"Quite true, Stride, I have no doubt that you are nautically as well as morally correct, so I leave it to you to bring round the mistress, and consider that matter as settled. By the way, I hope that she and your little girl have not suffered from the wetting and rough handling experienced when being rescued."

"Not in the least, sir, thankee. In fact I incline to the belief that they are rather more frisky than usual in consekince. Leastwise little Maggie is."

"Glad to hear it. Now, about that young fellow."

"By which I s'pose you mean Mr Brooke, sir?"

"The same. He has just left me, and upon my word, he's about the coolest young fellow I ever met with."

"That's just what I said to the missus, sir, the very night arter we was rescued. 'The way that young feller come off, Maggie,' says I, 'is most extraor'nar'. No fish that -- '"

"Yes, yes, Stride, I know, but that's not exactly what I mean: it's his being so amazingly independent that -- "

"'Zactly what I said, sir. 'Maggie,' says I, 'that young feller seemed to be quite independent of fin or tail, for he came right off in the teeth o' wind and tide -- '"

"That's not what I mean either, Captain," interrupted the old gentleman, with slight impatience. "It's his independent spirit I refer to."

"Oh! I ax your pardon, sir."

"Well, now, listen, and don't interrupt me. But first let me ask, does he know that I am the owner of the brig that was lost?"

"Yes; he knows that."

"Does he know that I also own the Walrus."

"No, I'm pretty sure he don't. Leastwise I didn't tell him, an' there's nobody else down there as knows anything about you."

"So far, good. Now, Stride, I want you to help me. The young goose is so proud, or I know not what, that he won't accept any favours or rewards from me, and I find that he is out of work just now, so I'm determined to give him something to do in spite of himself. The present supercargo of the Walrus is a young man who will be pleased to fall in with anything I propose to him. I mean, therefore, to put him in another ship and appoint young Brooke to the Walrus. Fortunately the firm of Withers and Company does not reveal my name -- I having been Company originally, though I'm the firm now, so that he won't suspect anything, and what I want is, that you should do the engaging of him --  being authorised by Withers and Company -- you understand?"

"I follow you, sir. But what if he objects?"

"He won't object. I have privately inquired about him. He is anxious to get employment, and has strong leanings to an adventurous life on the sea. There's no accounting for taste, Captain!"

"Right you are, sir," replied the Captain, with an approving nod. "That's what I said only this mornin' to my missus. 'Maggie,' says I, 'salt water hasn't a good taste, as even the stoopidest of mortals knows, but w'en a man has had to lick it off his lips at sea for the better part of half a century, it's astonishin' how he not only gits used to it, but even comes to like the taste of it.' 'Pooh!' says she, 'don't tell me you likes it, for you don't! It's all a d'lusion an' a snare. I hates both the taste an' the smell of it.' 'Maggie,' says I, quite solemn-like, 'that may be so, but you're not me.' 'No, thank goodness!' says she -- which you mustn't suppose, sir, meant as she didn't like me, for she's a true-hearted affectionate creetur -- though I say it as shouldn't -- but she meant that she'd have had to go to sea reg'lar if she had been me, an' that would have done for her in about six weeks, more or less, for the first time she ever went she was all but turned inside -- "

"If you're going citywards," interrupted Mr Crossley, again pulling out his watch, "we may as well finish our talk in the street."

As Captain Stride was "quite agreeable" to this proposal, the two left the house together, and, hailing a hansom, drove off in the direction of the City.



Chapter Four.

Drifting On The Rocks.

On the sea-shore, not far from the spot where the brig had been wrecked, Charlie Brooke and Shank Leather walked up and down engaged in earnest conversation soon after the interviews just described.

Very different was the day from that on which the wreck had taken place. It seemed almost beyond possibility that the serene sky above, and the calm, glinting ocean which rippled so softly at their feet, could be connected with the same world in which inky clouds and snowy foam and roaring billows had but a short time before held high revelry.

"Well, Charlie," said his friend, after a pause, "it was very good of you, old boy, and I hope that I'll do credit to your recommendation. The old man seems a decent sort of chap, though somewhat cross-grained."

"He is kind-hearted, Shank; I feel quite sure of that, and hope sincerely that you will get on well with him."

"'With him!'" repeated Leather; "you don't seem to understand that the situation he is to get for me is not in connection with his own business, whatever that may be. It is in some other City firm, the name of which he has not yet mentioned. I can't myself understand why he is so close!"

"Perhaps because he has been born with a secretive nature," suggested Charlie.

"May be so. However, that's no business of mine, and it doesn't do to be too inquisitive when a man is offering you a situation of two hundred a year. It would be like looking a gift-horse in the mouth. All I care about is that I'm to go to London next week and begin work -- Why, you don't seem pleased to hear of my good fortune," continued Leather, turning a sharp look on his friend, who was gazing gravely at the sand, in which he was poking holes with his stick.

"I congratulate you, Shank, with all my heart, and you know it; but -- I'm sorry to find that you are not to be in connection with Mr Crossley himself, for there is more good in him than appears on the surface. Did he then make no mention of the nature of his own business?"

"None whatever. To say truth, that mysteriousness or secrecy is the only point about the old fellow's character that I don't like," said Leather, with a frown of virtuous disapproval. "'All fair and above-board,' that's my motto. Speak out your mind and fear nothing!"

At these noble sentiments a faint smile, if we may say so, hovered somewhere in the recesses of Charlie Brooke's interior, but not the quiver of a muscle disturbed the solemnity of his face.

"The secrecy of his nature seems even to have infected that skipper with -- or rather by -- whom he was wrecked," continued Leather, "for when I asked him yesterday about the old gentleman, he became suddenly silent, and when I pressed him, he made me a rigmarole speech something like this: 'Young man, I make it a rule to know nothin' whatever about my passengers. As I said only two days past to my missus: "Maggie," says I, "it's of no use your axin' me. My passengers' business is their business, and my business is mine. All I've got to do is to sail my ship, an' see to it that I land my passengers in safety."'

"'You made a pretty mess of your business, then, the last trip,' said I, for I was bothered with his obvious determination not to give me any information.

"'Right you are, young man,' said he, 'and it would have been a still prettier mess if your friend Mr Brooke hadn't come off wi' that there line!'

"I laughed at this and recovered my temper, but I could pump nothing more out of him. Perhaps there was nothing to pump. -- But now tell me, how is it -- for I cannot understand -- that you refused all offers to yourself? You are as much 'out of work' just now as I am."

"That's true, Shank, and really I feel almost as incapable of giving you an answer as Captain Stride himself. You see, during our conversation Mr Crossley attributed mean -- at all events wrong -- motives to me, and somehow I felt that I could not accept any favour at his hands just then. I suspect I was too hasty. I fear it was false pride -- "

"Ha! ha!" laughed Leather; "'pride!' I wonder in what secret chamber of your big corpus your pride lies."

"Well, I don't know. It must be pretty deep. Perhaps it is engrained, and cannot be easily recognised."

"That last is true, Charlie. Assuredly it can't be recognised, for it's not there at all. Why, if you had been born with a scrap of false pride you and I could never have been friends -- for I hate it!"

Shank Leather, in saying this, had hit the nail fairly on the head, although he had not intelligently probed the truth to the bottom. In fact a great deal of the friendship which drew these young men together was the result of their great dissimilarity of character. They acted on each other somewhat after the fashion of a well-adjusted piece of mechanism, the ratchets of selfishness and cog-wheels of vanity in Shank fitting easily into the pinions of good-will and modesty which characterised his friend, so that there was no jarring in their intercourse. This alone would not, perhaps, have induced the strong friendship that existed if it had not been coupled with their intimacy from childhood, and if Brooke had not been particularly fond of Shank's invalid mother, and recognised a few of her good characteristics faintly reproduced in her son, while Shank fully appreciated in Charlie that amiable temperament which inclines its happy possessor to sympathise much with others, to talk little of self, to believe all things and to hope all things, to the verge almost of infantine credulity.

"Well, well," resumed Charlie, with a laugh, "however that may be, I did decline Mr Crossley's offers, but it does not matter much now, for that same worthy captain who bothered you so much has told me of a situation of which he has the gift, and has offered it to me."

"You don't say so! Is it a good one?"

"Yes, and well paid, I'm told, though I don't know the exact amount of the salary yet."

"And have you accepted?"

"I have. Mother agreed, after some demur, that it is better than nothing, so, like you, I begin work in a few days."

"Well now, how strangely things do happen sometimes!" said Leather, stopping and looking out seaward, where the remains of the brig could still be distinguished on the rocks that had fixed her doom. "But for that fortunate wreck and our saving the people in her, you and I might still have been whistling in the ranks of the Great Unemployed -- And what sort of a situation is it, Charlie?"

"You will smile, perhaps, when I tell you. It is to act as supercargo of the Walrus, which is commanded by Captain Stride himself."

Young Leather's countenance fell. "Why, Charlie," he said, "that means that you're going away to sea!"

"I fear it does."

"Soon?"

"In a week or two."

For some little time Leather did not speak. The news fell upon him with a shock of disagreeable surprise, for, apart from the fact that he really loved his friend, he was somehow aware that there were not many other young men who cared much for himself -- in regard to which he was not a little surprised, for it never occurred to him that egotism and selfishness had anything to do with the coolness of his friends, or that none but men like our hero, with sweet tempers and self-forgetting dispositions, could by any possibility put up with him.

"Who are the owners of the Walrus, Charlie?" he asked, as they turned into the lane that led from the beach to the village.

"Withers and Company of London."

"H'm -- don't know them. They must be trustful fellows, however, to take a captain into their employ who has just lost his vessel."

"They have not taken him into their employ," said Charlie. "Captain Stride tells me he has been in their service for more than a quarter of a century, and they exonerate him from all blame in the loss of the brig. It does seem odd to me, however, that he should be appointed so immediately to a new ship, but, as you remarked, that's none of my business. Come, I'll go in with you and congratulate your mother and May on your appointment."

They had reached the door of Shank Leather's house by that time. It was a poor-looking house, in a poor side street or blind alley of the village, the haunt of riotous children during the day-time, and of maddening cats at night. Stray dogs now and then invaded the alley, but, for the most part, it was to children and cats that the region was given over. Here, for the purpose of enabling the proverbial "two ends" to "meet," dwelt a considerable population in houses of diminutive size and small accommodation. A few of these were persons who, having "seen better days," were anxious to hide their poverty and existence from the "friends" of those better days. There was likewise a sprinkling of individuals and families who, having grown callous to the sorrows of earth, had reached that condition wherein the meeting of the two ends is a matter of comparative indifference, because they never met, and were never more expected to meet -- the blank, annually left gaping, being filled up, somehow, by a sort of compromise between bankruptcy, charity, and starvation.

To the second of these the Leather family belonged. They had been brought to their sad condition by that prolific source of human misery --  the bottle.

To do the family justice, it was only the father who had succumbed. He had been a gentleman; he was now a sot. His wife -- delicate owing to bad treatment, sorrow, and insufficient nourishment -- was, ever had been, and ever would be, a lady and a Christian. Owing to the last priceless condition she was still alive. It is despair that kills, and despair had been banished from her vocabulary ever since she had laid down the arms of her rebellion and accepted the Saviour of mankind as her guide and consolation.

But sorrow, suffering, toil had not departed when the demon despair fled away. They had, however, been wonderfully lightened, and one of the brightest gleams of hope in her sad life was that she might possibly be used as the means of saving her husband. There were other gleams of light, however, one of the brightest of them being that May, her only daughter, was loving and sympathetic -- or, as she sometimes expressed it, "as good as gold." But there was also a very dark spot in her life: Shank, her only son, was beginning to show a tendency to tread in his father's steps.

Many golden texts were enshrined in the heart of poor Mrs Leather, and not a few of these -- painted by the hand of May -- hung on the walls of their little sitting-room, but the word to which she turned her eyes in seasons of profoundest obscurity, and which served her as a sheet-anchor in the midst of the wildest storms, was, "Hope thou in God, for thou shalt yet praise Him." And alongside of that text, whenever she thought of it or chanced to look at it, there invariably flashed another: "Immanuel, God with us."

May and her mother were alone when the young men entered; the former was at her lessons, the latter busy with knitting-needles.

Knitting was the means by which Mrs Leather, with constant labour and inexhaustible perseverance, managed to fill up the gap between the before-mentioned "two ends," which her dissolute husband failed to draw together. She could read or assist May with her lessons, while her delicate fingers, working below the table, performed miraculous gyrations with steel and worsted. To most male minds, we presume, this is utterly incomprehensible. It is well not to attempt the description of that which one does not understand. The good lady knitted socks and stockings, and mittens and cuffs, and comforters, and other things, in absolutely overwhelming quantities, so that the accumulation in the press in which she stored them was at times quite marvellous. Yet that press never quite filled up, owing to the fact that there was an incurable leak in it -- a sort of secret channel -- through which the products of her toil flowed out nearly as fast as she poured them in.

This leak in the worsted press, strange to say, increased wonderfully just after the wreck described in a previous chapter, and the rivulet to which it gave rise flowed in the direction of the back-door of the house, emptying itself into a reservoir which always took the form of a little elderly lady, with a plain but intensely lovable countenance, who had been, perhaps still was, governess in a family in a neighbouring town where Mrs Leather had spent some of her "better days." Her name was Molloy.

Like a burglar Miss Molloy came in a stealthy manner at irregular intervals to the back-door of the house, and swept the press of its contents, made them up into a bundle of enormous size, and carried them off on the shoulders of an appropriately disreputable blackguard boy -- as Shank called him -- whom she retained for the purpose. Unlike a burglar, however, Miss Molloy did not "bolt with the swag," but honestly paid for everything, from the hugest pair of gentlemen's fishing socks to the smallest pair of children's cuffs.

What Miss Molloy did with this perennial flow of woollen work, whom she came from, where she went to, who discovered her, and why she did it, were subjects of inquiry which baffled investigation, and always simmered in the minds of Shank and May, though the mind of Mrs Leather herself seemed to be little if at all exercised by it. At all events she was uncommunicative on the point, and her children's curiosity was never gratified, for the mother was obdurate, and, torture being illegal at that time in England, they had no means of compelling disclosure. It was sometimes hinted by Shank that their little dog Scraggy --  appropriately named! -- knew more than he chose to tell about the subject, for he was generally present at the half-secret interviews, and always closed the scene with a sham but furious assault on the ever contemptuous blackguard boy. But Scraggy was faithful to his trust, and revealed nothing.

"I can't tell you how glad I am, Mrs Leather, about Shank's good fortune," said Charlie, with a gentle shake of the hand, which Mr Crossley would have appreciated. Like the Nasmyth steam-hammer, which flattens a ton of iron or gently cracks a hazel-nut, our Herculean hero could accommodate himself to circumstances; "as your son says, it has been a lucky wreck for us."

"Lucky indeed for him," responded the lady, instantly resuming her knitting, which she generally kept down near her lap, well hidden by the table, while she looked at her visitor and talked, "but not very pleasant for those who have lost by it."

"Pooh! mother, nobody has lost by it," said Shank in his free-and-easy style. "The owners don't lose, because of course it was insured; and the Insurance Companies can't be said to lose, for the value of a small brig will be no more felt by them than the losing of a pin would be felt by yourself; and the captain won't lose -- except a few sea-garments and things o' that kind -- for he has been appointed to another ship already. By the way, mother, that reminds me that Charlie has also got a situation through this lucky wreck, for Captain Stride feels so grateful that he has offered him the situation of supercargo in his new ship."

For once Mrs Leather's knitting-needles came to a sudden stop, and she looked inquiringly at her young friend. So did May.

"Have you accepted it?"

"Well, yes. I have."

"I'm so sorry," said May; "I don't know what Shank will do without you."

At that moment a loud knocking was heard at the door. May rose to open it, and Mrs Leather looked anxiously at her son.

A savage undertoned growl and an unsteady step told all too plainly that the head of the house had returned home.

With sudden interest in worsted fabrics, which he was far from feeling, Charlie Brooke turned his back to the door, and, leaning forward, took up an end of the work with which the knitter was busy.

"That's an extremely pretty pattern, Mrs Leather. Does it take you long to make things of the kind?"

"Not long; I -- I make a good many of them."

She said this with hesitation, and with her eyes fixed on the doorway, through the opening of which her husband thrust a shaggy dishevelled head, with dissipation stamped on a countenance which had evidently been handsome once.

But Charlie saw neither the husband's head nor the poor wife's gaze, for he was still bending over the worsted-work in mild admiration.

Under the impression that he had not been observed, Mr Leather suddenly withdrew his head, and was heard to stumble up-stairs under the guidance of May. Then the bang of a door, followed by a shaking of the slimly-built house, suggested the idea that the poor man had flung himself on his bed.

"Shank Leather," said Charlie Brooke, that same night as they strolled on the sea-shore, "you gave expression to some sentiments to-day which I highly approved of. One of them was 'Speak out your mind, and fear nothing!' I mean to do so now, and expect that you will not be hurt by my following your advice."

"Well!" exclaimed Shank, with a dubious glance, for he disliked the seriousness of his friend's tone.

"Your father -- " began Charlie.

"Please don't speak about him," interrupted the other. "I know all that you can say. His case is hopeless, and I can't bear to speak about it."

"Well, I won't speak about him, though I cannot agree with you that his case is hopeless. But it is yourself that I wish to speak about. You and I are soon to separate; it must be for a good long while -- it may be for ever. Now I must speak out my mind before I go. My old playmate, school-fellow, and chum, you have begun to walk in your poor father's footsteps, and you may be sure that if you don't turn round all your hopes will be blasted -- at least for this life -- perhaps also for that which is to come. Now don't be angry or hurt, Shank. Remember that you not only encouraged me, but advised me to speak out my mind."

"Yes, but I did not advise you to form a false, uncharitable judgment of your chum," returned Leather, with a dash of bitterness in his tone. "I admit that I'm fond of a social glass, and that I sometimes, though rarely, take a little -- a very little -- more than, perhaps, is necessary. But that is very different from being a drunkard, which you appear to assume that I am."

"Nay, Shank, I don't assume that. What I said was that you are beginning to walk in your dear father's footsteps. No man ever yet became a drunkard without beginning. And I feel certain that no man ever, when beginning, had the most distant intention or expectation of becoming a drunkard. Your danger, dear old fellow, lies in your not seeing the danger. You admit that you like a social glass. Shank, I candidly make the same admission -- I like it, -- but after seeing your father, and hearing your defence, the danger has been so deeply impressed on me, that from this hour I resolve, God helping me, never more to taste a social glass."

"Well, Charlie, you know yourself best," returned his friend airily, "and if you think yourself in so great danger, of course your resolve is a very prudent one; but for myself, I admit that I see no danger, and I don't feel any particular weakness of will in regard to temptation."

"Ah, Shank, you remind me of an eccentric old lady I have heard of who was talking with a friend about the difficulties of life. 'My dear,' said the friend, 'I do find it such a difficult thing to resist temptation -- don't you?' 'No,' replied the eccentric old lady, 'I don't, for I never resist temptation, I always give way to it!'"

"I can't quite make out how your anecdote applies to me, Charlie."

"Don't you see? You feel no weakness of will in regard to temptation because you never give your will an opportunity of resisting it. You always give way to it. You see, I am speaking out my mind freely -- as you have advised!"

"Yes, and you take the whole of my advice, and fear nothing, else you would not risk a quarrel by doing so. But really, my boy, it's of no use your troubling your head on that subject, for I feel quite safe, and I don't mean to give in, so there's an end on't."

Our hero persevered notwithstanding, and for some time longer sought to convince or move his friend both by earnest appeal and light pleasantry, but to all appearance without success, although he reduced him to silence. He left him at last, and went home meditating on the truth of the proverb that "a man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still."



Chapter Five.

All Things To All Men.

Under the influence of favouring breezes and bright skies the Walrus swept gaily over the ocean at the beginning of her voyage, with "stuns'ls slow and aloft, royals and sky-scrapers," according to Captain Stride. At least, if these were not the exact words he used, they express pretty well what he meant, namely, a "cloud of canvas."

But this felicitous state of things did not last. The tropics were reached, where calms prevailed with roasting heat. The Southern Atlantic was gained, and gales were met with. The celebrated Cape was doubled, and the gales, if we may say so, were trebled. The Indian Ocean was crossed, and the China Seas were entered, where typhoons blew some of the sails to ribbons, and snapped off the topmasts like pipe-stems. Then she sailed into the great Pacific, and for a time the Walrus sported pleasantly among the coral islands.

During all this time, and amid all these changes, Charlie Brooke, true to his character, was the busiest and most active man on board. Not that his own special duties gave him much to do, for, until the vessel should reach port, these were rather light; but our hero -- as Stride expressed it -- "must always be doing." If he had not work to do he made it -- chiefly in the way of assisting other people. Indeed there was scarcely a man or boy on board who did not have the burden of his toil, whatever it was, lightened in consequence of young Brooke's tendency to put his powerful shoulder voluntarily to the wheel. He took the daily observations with the captain, and worked out the ship's course during the previous twenty-four hours. He handled the adze and saw with the carpenter, learned to knot and splice, and to sew canvas with the bo's'n's mate, commented learnedly and interestingly on the preparation of food with the cook, and spun yarns with the men on the forecastle, or listened to the long-winded stories of the captain and officers in the cabin. He was a splendid listener, being much more anxious to ascertain exactly the opinions of his friends and mates than to advance his own. Of course it followed that Charlie was a favourite.

With his insatiable desire to acquire information of every kind, he had naturally, when at home, learned a little rough-and-tumble surgery, with a slight smattering of medicine. It was not much, but it proved to be useful as far as it went, and his "little knowledge" was not "dangerous," because he modestly refused to go a single step beyond it in the way of practice, unless, indeed, he was urgently pressed to do so by his patients. In virtue of his attainments, real and supposed, he came to be recognised as the doctor of the ship, for the Walrus carried no medical man.

"Look here, Brooke," said the only passenger on board -- a youth of somewhat delicate constitution, who was making the voyage for the sake of his health, -- "I've got horrible toothache. D'you think you can do anything for me?"

"Let's have a look at it," said Charlie, with kindly interest, though he felt half inclined to smile at the intensely lugubrious expression of the youth's face.

"Why, Raywood, that is indeed a bad tooth; nothing that I know of will improve it. There's a cavern in it big and black enough to call to remembrance the Black Hole of Calcutta! A red-hot wire might destroy the nerve, but I never saw one used, and should not like to try it."

"Horrible!" exclaimed Raywood. "I've been mad with pain all the morning, and can't afford to be driven madder. Perhaps, somewhere or other in the ship there may be a -- a -- thingumy."

"A whatumy?" inquired the other.

"A key, or -- or -- pincers," groaned Raywood, "for extracting -- oh! man, couldn't you pull it out?"

"Easily," said Charlie, with a smile. "I've got a pair of forceps --  always carry them in case of need, but never use them unless the patient is very bad, and must have it out."

Poor Raywood protested, with another groan, that his was a case in point, and it must come out; so Charlie sought for and found his forceps.

"It won't take long, I suppose?" said the patient rather nervously, as he opened his mouth.

"Oh no. Only a moment or -- "

A fearful yell, followed by a gasp, announced to the whole ship's company that a crisis of some sort had been passed by some one, and the expert though amateur dentist congratulated his patient on his deliverance from the enemy.

Only three of the ship's company, however, had witnessed the operation. One was Dick Darvall, the seaman who chanced to be steering at the time, and who could see through the open skylight what was being enacted in the cabin. Another was the captain, who stood beside him. The third was the cabin-boy, Will Ward, who chanced to be cleaning some brasses about the skylight at the time, and was transfixed by what we may style delightfully horrible sensations. These three watched the proceedings with profound interest, some sympathy, and not a little amusement.

"Mind your helm, Darvall," said the Captain, stifling a laugh as the yell referred to burst on his ears.

"Ay, ay, sir," responded the seaman, bringing his mind back to his duty, as he bestowed a wink on the brass-polishing cabin-boy.

"He's up to everything," said Darvall in a low voice, referring to our hero.

"From pitch-and-toss to manslaughter," responded the boy, with a broad grin.

"I do believe, Mr Brooke, that you can turn your hand to anything," said Captain Stride, as Charlie came on deck a few minutes later. "Did you ever study doctoring or surgery?"

"Not regularly," answered Charlie; "but occasionally I've had the chance of visiting hospitals and dissecting-rooms, besides hearing lectures on anatomy, and I have taken advantage of my opportunities. Besides, I'm fond of mechanics; and tooth-drawing is somewhat mechanical. Of course I make no pretension to a knowledge of regular dentistry, which involves, I believe, a scientific and prolonged education."

"May be so, Mr Brooke," returned the captain, "but your knowledge seems deep and extensive enough to me, for, except in the matter o' navigation, I haven't myself had much schoolin', but I do like to see a fellow that can use his hands. As I said to my missus, not two days before I left 'er: 'Maggie,' says I, 'a man that can't turn his hands to anything ain't worth his salt. For why? He's useless at sea, an', by consequence, can't be of much value on land.'"

"Your reasoning is unanswerable," returned Charlie, with a laugh.

"Not so sure o' that," rejoined the captain, with a modestly dubious shake of his head; "leastwise, however unanswerable it may be, my missus always manages to answer it -- somehow."

At that moment one of the sailors came aft to relieve the man-at-the-wheel.

Dick Darvall was a grave, tall, dark, and handsome man of about five-and-twenty, with a huge black beard, as fine a seaman as one could wish to see standing at a ship's helm, but he limped when he left his post and went forward.

"How's the leg to-day, Darvall!" asked young Brooke, as the man passed.

"Better, sir, thankee."

"That's well. I'll change the dressing in half-an-hour. Don't disturb it till I come."

"Thankee, sir, I won't."

"Now then, Raywood," said Charlie, descending to the cabin, where his patient was already busy reading Maury's Physical Geography of the Sea, "let's have a look at the gum."

"Oh, it's all right," said Raywood. "D'you know, I think one of the uses of severe pain is to make one inexpressibly thankful for the mere absence of it. Of course there is a little sensation of pain left, which might make me growl at other times, but that positively feels comfortable now by contrast!"

"There is profound sagacity in your observations," returned Charlie, as he gave the gum a squeeze that for a moment or two removed the comfort; "there, now, don't suck it, else you'll renew the bleeding. Keep your mouth shut."

With this caution the amateur dentist left the cabin, and proceeded to the fore-part of the vessel. In passing the steward's pantry a youthful voice arrested him.

"Oh, please, sir," said Will Ward, the cabin-boy, advancing with a slate in his hand, "I can't make out the sum you set me yesterday, an' I'm quite sure I've tried and tried as hard as ever I could to understand it."

"Let me see," said his friend, taking the slate and sitting down on a locker. "Have you read over the rule carefully?"

"Yes, sir, I have, a dozen times at least, but it won't come right," answered the boy, with wrinkles enough on his young brow to indicate the very depths of puzzlement.

"Fetch the book, Will, and let's examine it."

The book was brought, and at his teacher's request the boy read: -- 

"Add the interest to the principal, and then multiply by -- "

"Multiply?" said Charlie, interrupting. "Look!"

He pointed to the sum on the slate, and repeated "multiply."

"Oh!" exclaimed the cabin-boy, with a gasp of relief and wide-open eyes, "I've divided!"

"That's so, Will, and there's a considerable difference between division and multiplication, as you'll find all through life," remarked the teacher, with a peculiar lift of his eyebrows, as he handed back the slate and went on his way.

More than once in his progress "for'ard" he was arrested by men who wished hint to give advice, or clear up difficulties in reference to subjects which his encouragement or example had induced them to take up, and to these claims on his attention or assistance he accorded such a ready and cheerful response that his pupils felt it to be a positive pleasure to appeal to him, though they each professed to regret giving him "trouble." The boatswain, who was an amiable though gruff man in his way, expressed pretty well the feelings of the ship's company towards our hero when he said: "I tell you, mates, I'd sooner be rubbed up the wrong way, an' kicked down the fore hatch by Mr Brooke, than I'd be smoothed or buttered by anybody else."

At last the fo'c'sl was reached, and there our surgeon found his patient, Dick Darvall, awaiting him. The stout seaman's leg had been severely bruised by a block which had fallen from aloft and struck it during one of the recent gales.

"A good deal better to-day," said Charlie. "Does it pain you much?"

"Not nearly as much as it did yesterday, sir. It's my opinion that I'll be all right in a day or two. Seems to me outrageous to make so much ado about it."

"If we didn't take care of it, my man, it might cost you your limb, and we can't afford to bury such a well-made member before its time! You must give it perfect rest for a day or two. I'll speak to the captain about it."

"I'd rather you didn't, sir," objected the seaman. "I feel able enough to go about, and my mates'll think I'm shirkin' dooty."

"There's not a man a-board as'll think that o' Dick Darvall," growled the boatswain, who had just entered and heard the last remark.

"Right, bo's'n," said Brooke, "you have well expressed the thought that came into my own head."

"Have ye seen Samson yet, sir?" asked the boatswain, with an unusually grave look.

"No; I was just going to inquire about him. No worse, I hope?"

"I think he is, sir. Seems to me that he ain't long for this world. The life's bin too much for him: he never was cut out for a sailor, an' he takes things so much to heart that I do believe worry is doin' more than work to drive him on the rocks."

"I'll go and see him at once," said our hero.

Fred Samson, the sick man referred to, had been put into a swing-cot in a berth amidships to give him as much rest as possible. To all appearance he was slowly dying of consumption. When Brooke entered he was leaning on one elbow, gazing wistfully through the port-hole close to his head. His countenance, on which the stamp of death was evidently imprinted, was unusually refined for one in his station in life.

"I'm glad you have come, Mr Brooke," he said slowly, as his visitor advanced and took his thin hand.

"My poor fellow," said Charlie, in a tone of low but tender sympathy, "I wish with all my heart I could do you any good."

"The sight of your kind face does me good," returned the sailor, with a pause for breath between almost every other word. "I don't want you to doctor me any more. I feel that I'm past that, but I want to give you a message and a packet for my mother. Of course you will be in London when you return to England. Will you find her out and deliver the packet? It contains only the Testament she gave me at parting and a letter."

"My dear fellow -- you may depend on me," replied Brooke earnestly. "Where does she live?"

"In Whitechapel. The full address is on the packet. The letter enclosed tells all that I have to say."

"But you spoke of a message," said Brooke, seeing that he paused and shut his eyes.

"Yes, yes," returned the dying man eagerly, "I forgot. Give her my dear love, and say that my last thoughts were of herself and God. She always feared that I was trusting too much in myself -- in my own good resolutions and reformation; so I have been -- but that's past. Tell her that God in His mercy has snapped that broken reed altogether, and enabled me to rest my soul on Jesus."

As the dying man was much exhausted by his efforts to speak, his visitor refrained from asking more questions. He merely whispered a comforting text of Scripture and left him apparently sinking into a state of repose.

Then, having bandaged the finger of a man who had carelessly cut himself while using his knife aloft, Charlie returned to the cabin to continue an interrupted discussion with the first mate on the subject of astronomy.

From all which it will be seen that our hero's tendencies inclined him to be as much as possible "all things to all men."



Chapter Six.

Disaster, Starvation, And Death.

The least observant of mortals must have frequently been impressed with the fact that events and incidents of an apparently trifling description often lead to momentous -- sometimes tremendous -- results.

Soon after the occurrence of the incidents referred to in the last chapter, a colony of busy workers in the Pacific Ocean were drawing towards the completion of a building on which they had been engaged for a long time. Like some lighthouses this building had its foundations on a rock at the bottom of the sea. Steadily, perseveringly, and with little cessation, the workers had toiled for years. They were small insignificant creatures, each being bent on simply performing the little bit of work which he, she, or it had been created to do probably without knowing or caring what the result might be, and then ending his, her, or its modest labours with life. It was when this marine building had risen to within eight or ten feet of the surface of the sea that the Walrus chanced to draw near to it, but no one on board was aware of the existence of that coral-reef, for up to the period we write of it had failed to attract the attention of chart-makers.

The vessel was bowling along at a moderate rate over a calm sea, for the light breeze overhead that failed to ruffle the water filled her topsails. Had the wind been stormy a line of breakers would have indicated the dangerous reef. As it was there was nothing to tell that the good ship was rushing on her doom till she struck with a violent shock and remained fast.

Of course Captain Stride was equal to the emergency. By the quiet decision with which he went about and gave his orders he calmed the fears of such of his crew as were apt to "lose their heads" in the midst of sudden catastrophe.

"Lower away the boats, lads. We'll get her off right a way," he said, in a quick but quiet tone.

Charlie Brooke, being a strong believer in strict discipline, at once ran to obey the order, accompanied by the most active among the men, while others ran to slack off the sheets and lower the topsails.

In a few minutes nearly all the men were in the boats, with hawsers fixed to the stern of the vessel, doing their uttermost to pull her off.

Charlie had been ordered to remain on deck when the crew took to the boats.

"Come here, Mr Brooke, I want you," said the Captain, leading his young friend to the taffrail. "It's pretty clear to me that the poor old Walrus is done for -- "

"I sincerely hope not sir," said Charlie, with anxious looks.

"A short time will settle the question," returned the Captain, with unwonted gravity. "If she don't move in a few minutes, I'll try what heaving out some o' the cargo will do. As supercargo, you know where it's all stowed, so, if you'll pint out to me which is the least valooable, an' at the same time heaviest part of it, I'll send the mate and four men to git it on deck. But to tell you the truth even if we do git her off I don't think she'll float. She's an oldish craft, not fit to have her bottom rasped on coral rocks. But we'll soon see."

Charlie could not help observing that there was something peculiarly sad in the tone of the old man's voice. Whether it was that the poor captain knew the case to be utterly hopeless, or that he was overwhelmed by this calamity coming upon him so soon after the wreck of his last ship, Charlie could not tell, but he had no time to think, for after he had pointed out to the mate the bales that could be most easily spared he was again summoned aft.

"She don't move," said the captain, gloomily. "We must git the boats ready, for if it comes on to blow only a little harder we'll have to take to 'em. So do you and the stooard putt your heads together an' git up as much provisions as you think the boats will safely carry. Only necessaries, of course, an' take plenty o' water. I'll see to it that charts, compasses, canvas, and other odds and ends are ready."

Again young Brooke went off, without saying a word, to carry out his instructions. Meanwhile one of the boats was recalled, and her crew set to lighten the ship by heaving part of the cargo overboard. Still the Walrus remained immovable on the reef, for the force with which she struck had sent her high upon it.

"If we have to take to the boats, sir," said Charlie, when he was disengaged, "it may be well to put some medicines on board, for poor Samson will -- "

"Ay, ay, do so, lad," said the captain, interrupting; "I've been thinkin' o' that, an' you may as well rig up some sort o' couch for the poor fellow in the long-boat, for I mean to take him along wi' myself."

"Are you so sure, then, that there is no chance of our getting her off?"

"Quite sure. Look there." He pointed, as he spoke, to the horizon to windward, where a line of cloud rested on the sea. "That'll not be long o' comin' here. It won't blow very hard, but it'll be hard enough to smash the old Walrus to bits. If you've got any valooables aboard that you'd rather not lose, you'd better stuff 'em in your pockets now. When things come to the wust mind your helm, an' look out as I used to say to my missus -- "

He stopped abruptly and turned away. Evidently the thought of the "missus" was too much for him just then.

Charlie Brooke hurried off to visit the sick man, and prepare him for the sad change in his position that had now become unavoidable. But another visitor had been to see the invalid before him. Entering the berth softly, and with a quiet look, so as not to agitate the patient needlessly, he found to his regret, though not surprise, that poor Fred Samson was dead. There was a smile on the pale face, which was turned towards the port window, as if the dying man had been taking a last look of the sea and sky when Death laid a hand gently on his brow and smoothed away the wrinkles of suffering and care. A letter from his mother, held tightly in one hand and pressed upon his breast told eloquently what was the subject of his last thoughts.

Charlie cut a lock of hair from the sailor's brow with his clasp-knife, and, taking the letter gently from the dead hand, wrapped it therein.

"There's no time to bury him now. His berth must be the poor fellow's coffin," said Captain Stride, when the death was reported to him. "The swell o' the coming squall has reached us already. Look alive wi' the boats, men!"

By that time the rising swell was in truth lifting the vessel every few seconds and letting her down with a soft thud on the coral reef. It soon became evident to every one on board that the Walrus had not many hours to live -- perhaps not many minutes -- for the squall to which the Captain had referred was rapidly bearing down, and each successive thud became more violent than the previous one. Knowing their danger full well, the men worked with a will and in a few minutes three boats, well provisioned, were floating on the sea.

The need for haste soon became apparent, for the depth of water alongside was so insufficient that the long-boat -- drawing as she did considerably more water than the others -- touched twice when the swells let her drop into their hollows.

It was arranged that Charlie should go in the long-boat with the captain, Raywood the passenger, and ten men of the crew. The remainder were to be divided between the other two boats which were to be in charge of the first and second officers respectively.

"Jump in, Brooke," cried the Captain, as he sat in the stern-sheets looking up at our hero, who was busily engaged assisting the first mate to complete the arrangements of his boat, "we've struck twice already. I must shove off. Is Raywood ready?"

"He's in the cabin looking for something, sir; I'll run and fetch him."

"Stay! We've touched again!" shouted the Captain. "You an' Raywood can come off with one o' the other boats. I'll take you on board when in deep water -- shove off, lads."

"Jump in with me, sir," said the first mate, as he hastily descended the side.

"Come along, Raywood," shouted Charlie, as he followed. "No time to lose!"

The passenger rushed on deck, scrambled down the side, and took his seat beside Charlie, just as the long threatened squall burst upon them.

The painter was cut, and they drifted into deep water with the second mate's boat, which had already cast off.

Fortunate was it for the whole crew that Captain Stride had provided for every emergency, and that, among other safeguards, he had put several tarpaulins into each boat, for with these they were enabled to form a covering which turned off the waves and prevented their being swamped. The squall turned out to be a very severe one, and in the midst of it the three boats were so far separated that the prospect of their being able to draw together again until evening was very remote. Indeed the waves soon ran so high that it required the utmost attention of each steersman to keep his craft afloat, and when at last the light began to fade the boats were almost out of sight of each other.

"No chance, I fear, of our ever meeting again," remarked the mate, as he cast a wistful look at the southern horizon where the sail of the long-boat could be barely seen like the wing of a sea-gull. "Your lot has been cast with us, Mr Brooke, so you'll have to make the best of it."

"I always try to make the best of things," replied Charlie. "My chief regret at present is that Raywood and I, being two extra hands, will help to consume your provisions too fast."

"Luckily my appetite is a poor one," said Raywood, with a faint smile; "and it's not likely to improve in the circumstances."

"I'm not so sure o' that sir," returned the mate, with an air that was meant to be reassuring; "fresh air and exposure have effected wonders before now in the matter of health -- so they say. Another pull on the halyards, Dick; that looks like a fresh squall. Mind your sheets, Will Ward."

A prompt "Ay, ay, sir" from Dick Darvall and the cabin-boy showed that each was alive to the importance of the duty required of him, while the other men -- of whom there were six -- busied themselves in making the tarpaulin coverings more secure, or in baling out the water which, in spite of them, had found its way into the boat.

Charlie rose and seated himself on the thwart beside the fine-looking seaman Dick Darvall, so as to have a clearer view ahead under the sail.

"Long-boat nowhere to be seen now," he murmured half to himself after a long look.

"No, sir -- nor the other boat either," said Darvall in a quiet voice. "We shall never see 'em no more."

"I hope you are wrong," returned Charlie; "indeed I feel sure that the weather will clear during the night, and that we shall find both boats becalmed not far off."

"Maybe so, sir," rejoined the sailor, in the tone of one willing to be, but not yet, convinced.

Our hero was right as to the first, but not as to the second, point. The weather did clear during the night, but when the sun arose next morning on a comparatively calm sea neither of the other boats was to be seen. In fact every object that could arrest the eye had vanished from the scene, leaving only a great circular shield of blue, of which their tiny craft formed the centre.



Chapter Seven.

Adrift On The Sea.

"You are ill, Will Ward," was Dick Darvall's first remark when there was sufficient daylight to distinguish faces.

"You're another!" was the cabin-boy's quick, facetious retort, which caused Darvall to smile and had the effect of rousing the half-sleeping crew.

"But you are ill, my boy," repeated the seaman earnestly.

"No, Dick, not exactly ill," returned Will, with a faint smile, "but I'm queer."

Each man had spent that stormy night on the particular thwart on which he had chanced to sit down when he first entered the boat, so that all were looking more or less weary, but seamen are used to uncomfortable and interrupted slumbers. They soon roused themselves and began to look about and make a few comments on the weather. Some, recurring naturally to their beloved indulgence, pulled out their pipes and filled them.

"Have 'ee a light, Jim?" asked a rugged man, in a sleepy tone, of a comrade behind him.

"No, Jack, I haven't" answered Jim, in a less sleepy tone, slapping all his pockets and thrusting his hands into them.

"Have you, Dick?" asked the rugged man in some anxiety.

"No, I haven't," replied Darvall, in a very serious voice, as he also took to slapping his pockets; "no -- nor baccy!"

It was curious to note at this point how every seaman in that boat became suddenly sympathetic and wide awake, and took to hasty, anxious examination of all his pockets -- vest jacket, and trousers. The result was the discovery of a good many clay pipes, more or less blackened and shortened, with a few plugs of tobacco, but not a single match, either fusee or congreve. The men looked at each other with something akin to despair.

"Was no matches putt on board wi' the grub an' other things?" asked Jim in a solemn tone.

"And no tobacco?" inquired the mate.

No one could answer in the affirmative. A general sigh -- like a miniature squall -- burst from the sailors, and relieved them a little. Jim put his pipe between his lips, and meekly began, if we may say so, to smoke his tobacco dry. At an order from the mate the men got out the oars and began to pull, for there was barely enough wind to fill the sail.

"No rest for us, lads, 'cept when it blows," said the mate. "The nearest land that I know of is five hundred miles off as the crow flies. We've got a compass by good luck, so we can make for it, but the grub on board won't hold out for quarter o' that distance, so, unless we fall in with a ship, or fish jump aboard of us, ye know what's before us."

"Have we any spirits aboard?" asked the rugged man, in a growling, somewhat sulky, voice.

"Hear -- hear!" exclaimed Jim.

"No, Jack," returned the mate; "at least not for the purpose o' lettin' you have a short life an' a merry one. Now, look here, men: it has pleased Providence to putt you an' me in something of a fix, and I shouldn't wonder if we was to have some stiffish experiences before we see the end of it. It has also pleased Providence to putt me here in command. You know I'm not given to boastin', but there are times when it is advisable to have plain speakin'. There is a small supply of spirits aboard, and I just want to tell 'ee -- merely as a piece of useful information, and to prevent any chance o' future trouble -- that as I've got charge o' them spirits I mean to keep charge of 'em."

The mate spoke in a low, soft voice, without the slightest appearance of threat or determination in his manner, but as he concluded he unbuttoned his pilot-cloth coat and pointed to the butt of a revolver which protruded from one of his vest pockets.

The men made no reply, but instinctively glanced at the two biggest and strongest men in the boat. These were Charlie Brooke and Dick Darvall. Obviously, before committing themselves further, they wished, if possible, to read in the faces of these two what they thought of the mate's speech. They failed to read much, if anything at all, for Charlie's eyes were fixed in dreamy expressionless abstraction on the horizon, and Dick was gazing up into the clouds, with a look of intense benignity -- suggesting that he was holding pleasant intercourse with any celestial creatures who might be resident there.

Without a word the whole crew bent to their oars, and resigned themselves to the inevitable. Perhaps if each man had expressed his true feelings at that moment he would have said that he was glad to know there was a firm hand at the helm. For there are few things more uncomfortable in any community, large or small, than the absence of discipline, or the presence of a weak will in a position of power.

"But I say, Will," remarked Darvall, who pulled the stroke-oar, "you really do look ill. Is anything the matter with 'ee?"

"Nothin', Dick; 'cept that I'm tired," answered the cabin-boy.

"Breakfast will put that right" said our hero in an encouraging tone. "Let's feel your pulse. Hm. Well, might be slower. Come, Captain," he added, giving the mate his new title as he turned to him, "will you allow me to prescribe breakfast for this patient?"

"Certainly, Doctor," returned the mate cheerily. "Come, lads, we'll all have breakfast together."

In a few minutes the biscuit and salt junk barrels were opened, and the mate measured out an exactly equal proportion of food to each man. Then, following the example of a celebrated commander, and in order to prevent dissatisfaction on the part of any with his portion, he caused one of the men to turn his back on the food, and, pointing to one of the portions said, "Who shall have this?"

"The Doctor, sir," returned the man promptly.

The portion was immediately handed to Charlie Brooke amid a general laugh.

Thus every portion was disposed of, and the men sat down to eat in good humour, in spite of the too evident fact that they had been at once placed on short allowance, for, when each had finished, he assuredly wished for more, though no one ventured to give expression to the wish.

The only exception was the little cabin-boy, who made a brave attempt to eat, but utterly failed at the second mouthful.

"Come, Will," said Charlie in a kindly tone, pretending to misunderstand the state of matters, "don't try to deceive yourself by prolonging your breakfast. That won't make more of it. See, here, I'm not up to eating much to-day, somehow, so I'll be greatly obliged if you will dispose of half of mine as well as your own. Next time I am hungry, and you are not, I'll expect you to do the same."

But Will Ward could not be thus induced to eat. He was really ill, and before night was in a high fever. You may be sure that Dr Brooke, as every one now called him, did his best to help the little sufferer, but, of course, he could do very little, for all the medicines which he had prepared had been put into the long-boat, and, in a small open boat with no comforts, no medicines, and on short allowance of food, little could be done, except to give the boy a space of the floor on which to lie, to shield him from spray, and to cover him with blankets.

For a week the boat was carried over the sea by a fresh, steady breeze, during which time the sun shone out frequently, so that things seemed not so wretched as one might suppose to the shipwrecked mariners. Of course the poor cabin-boy was an exception. Although his feverish attack was a slight one he felt very weak and miserable after it. His appetite began to return, however, and it was evident that the short daily allowance would be insufficient for him. When this point was reached Dick Darvall one day, when rations were being served out, ventured to deliver an opinion.

"Captain and mates all," he said, while a sort of bashful smile played upon his sunburnt features, "it do seem to me that we should agree, each man, to give up a share of our rations to little Will Ward, so that he may be able to feed up a bit an' git the better o' this here sickness. We won't feel the want of such a little crumb each, an' he'll be ever so much the better for it."

"Agreed," chorused the men, apparently without exception.

"All right, lads," said the mate, while a rare smile lighted up for a moment his usually stern countenance; "when the need for such self-denial comes I'll call on ye to exercise it, but it ain't called for yet, because I've been lookin' after the interests o' Will Ward while he's been ill. Justice, you see, stands first o' the virtues in my mind, an' it's my opinion that it wouldn't be justice, but something very much the reverse, if we were to rob the poor boy of his victuals just because he couldn't eat them."

"Right you are, sir," interposed Dick Darvall.

"Well, then, holdin' these views," continued the mate, "I have put aside Will Ward's share every time the rations were served, so here's what belongs to him -- in this keg for the meat, and this bag for the biscuit --  ready for him to fall-to whenever his twist is strong enough."

There were marks of hearty approval, mingled with laughter, among the men on hearing this, but they stopped abruptly and listened for more on observing a perplexed look on their leader's face.

"But there's something that puzzles me about it, lads," resumed the mate, "and it is this, that the grub has somehow accumulated faster than I can account for, considering the smallness o' the addition to the lot each time."

On hearing this the men were a little surprised, but Charlie Brooke burst into a short laugh.

"What!" he exclaimed, "you don't mean to say that the victuals have taken root and begun to grow, do you?"

"I don't mean to say anything," returned the mate quietly; "but I'm inclined to think a good deal if you've no objection, Doctor."

"How d'ee feel now, Will?" said Charlie, stooping forward at the moment, for he observed that the boy -- whose bed was on the floor at his feet --  had moved, and was gazing up at him with eyes that seemed to have grown enormously since their owner fell sick.

"I feel queer -- and -- and -- I'm inclined to think, too," returned Will in a faint voice.

Nothing more was said at that time, for a sudden shift in the wind necessitated a shift of the sail, but Dick Darvall nodded his head significantly, and it came to be understood that "Doctor" Brooke had regularly robbed himself of part of his meagre allowance in order to increase the store of the cabin-boy. Whether they were right in this conjecture has never been distinctly ascertained. But all attempts to benefit the boy were soon after frustrated, for, while life was little more than trembling in the balance with Will Ward, a gale burst upon them which sealed his fate.

It was not the rougher motion of the boat that did it, for the boy was used to that; nor the flashing of the salt spray inboard, for his comrades guarded him to some extent from that. During the alarm caused by a wave which nearly swamped the boat two of the crew in their panic seized the first things that came to hand and flung them overboard to prevent their sinking, while the rest baled with cans and sou'-westers for their lives. The portion of lading thus sacrificed turned out to be the staff of life -- the casks of biscuit and pork!

It was a terrible shock to these unfortunates when the full extent of the calamity was understood, and the firmness of the mate, with a sight of the revolvers alone prevented summary vengeance being executed on the wretched men who had acted so hastily in their blind terror.

Only a small keg of biscuit remained to them. This was soon expended, and then the process of absolute starvation began. Every nook and cranny of the boat was searched again and again in the hope of something eatable being found, but only a small pot of lard -- intended probably to grease the tackling -- was discovered. With a dreadful expression in their eyes some of the men glared at it, and there would, no doubt, have been a deadly struggle for it if the mate had not said, "Fetch it here," in a voice which none dared to disobey.

It formed but a mouthful to each, yet the poor fellows devoured it with the greed of ravening wolves, and carefully licked their fingers when it was done. The little cabin-boy had three portions allotted to him, because Charlie Brooke and Dick Darvall added their allowance to his without allowing him to be aware of the fact.

But the extra allowance and kindness, although they added greatly to his comfort, could not stay the hand of Death. Slowly but surely the Destroyer came and claimed the young life. It was a sweet, calm evening when the summons came. The sea was like glass, with only that long, gentle swell which tells even in the profoundest calm of Ocean's instability. The sky was intensely blue, save on the western horizon, where the sun turned it into gold. It seemed as if all Nature were quietly indifferent to the sufferings of the shipwrecked men, some of whom had reached that terrible condition of starvation when all the softer feelings of humanity seem dead, for, although no whisper of their intention passed their lips, their looks told all too plainly that they awaited the death of the cabin-boy with impatience, that they might appease the intolerable pangs of hunger by resorting to cannibalism.

Charlie Brooke, who had been comforting the dying lad all day, and whispering to him words of consolation from God's book from time to time, knew well what those looks meant. So did the mate, who sat grim, gaunt and silent at his post, taking no notice apparently of what went on around him. Fortunately the poor boy was too far gone to observe the looks of his mates.

There was a can of paraffin oil, which had been thrown into the boat under the impression that it was something else. This had been avoided hitherto by the starving men, who deemed it to be poisonous. That evening the man called Jim lost control of himself, seized the can, and took a long draught of the oil. Whether it was the effect of that we cannot tell, but it seemed to drive him mad, for no sooner had he swallowed it than he uttered a wild shout, drew his knife, sprang up and leaped towards the place where the cabin-boy lay.

The mate, who had foreseen something of the kind, drew and levelled his revolver, but before he could fire Charlie had caught the uplifted arm, wrested the knife from the man, and thrust him violently back. Thus foiled Jim sprang up again and with a maniac's yell leaped into the sea, and swam resolutely away.

Even in their dire extremity the sailors could not see a comrade perish with indifference. They jumped up, hastily got out the oars, and pulled after him, but their arms were very weak; before they could overtake him the man had sunk to rise no more.

It was while this scene was being enacted that the spirit of the cabin-boy passed away. On ascertaining that he was dead Charlie covered him with a tarpaulin where he lay, but no word was uttered by any one, and the mate, with revolver still in hand, sat there -- grim and silent --  holding the tiller as if steering, and gazing sternly on the horizon. Yet it was not difficult to divine the thoughts of those unhappy and sorely tried men. Some by their savage glare at the cover that concealed the dead body showed plainly their dreadful desires. Brooke, Darvall, and the mate showed as clearly by their compressed lips and stern brows that they would resist any attempt to gratify these.

Suddenly the mate's brow cleared, and his eyes opened wide as he muttered, under his breath, "A sail!"

"A sail! a sail!" shrieked the man in the bow at the same moment, as he leaped up and tried to cheer, but he only gasped and fell back in a swoon into a comrade's arms.

It was indeed a sail, which soon grew larger, and ere long a ship was descried bearing straight towards them before a very light breeze. In less than an hour the castaways stood upon her deck -- saved.



Chapter Eight.

Ingratitude.

A year or more passed away, and then there came a cablegram from New York to Jacob Crossley, Esquire, from Captain Stride. The old gentleman was at breakfast when he received it, and his housekeeper, Mrs Bland, was in the act of setting before him a dish of buttered toast when he opened the envelope. At the first glance he started up, overturned his cup of coffee, without paying the least attention to the fact, and exclaimed with emphasis -- "As I expected. It is lost!"

"'Ow could you expect it, sir, to be anythink else, w'en you've sent it all over the table-cloth?" said Mrs Bland, in some surprise.

"It is not that, Mrs Bland," said Mr Crossley, in a hurried manner; "it is my ship the Walrus. Of course I knew long ago that it must have been lost," continued the old gentleman, speaking his thoughts more to himself than to the housekeeper, who was carefully spooning up the spilt coffee, "but the best of it is that the Captain has escaped."

"Well, I'm sure, sir," said Mrs Bland, condescending to be interested, and to ignore, if not to forget, the coffee, "I'm very glad to 'ear it, sir, for Captain Stride is a pleasant cheery sort of man, and would be agreeable company if 'e didn't use so much sea-langwidge, and speak so much of 'is missis. An' I'm glad to 'ear it too, sir, on account o' that fine young man that sailed with 'im -- Mr Book, I think, was -- "

"No, Mrs Bland, it was Brooke; but that's the worst of the business," said the old gentleman; "I'm not quite sure whether young Brooke is among the saved. Here is what the telegram says: -- 

"'From Captain Stride to Jacob Crossley. Just arrived, (that's in New York, Mrs Bland); Walrus lost. All hands left her in three boats.

"'Our boat made uninhabited island, and knocked to pieces. Eight months on the island. Rescued by American barque. Fate of other boats unknown. Will be home within a couple of weeks.'"

"Why, it sounds like Robinson Crusoe, sir, don't it? which I read when I was quite a gurl, but I don't believe it myself though they do say it's all true. Young Mr Leather will be glad to 'ear the good noos of 'is friend -- "

"But this is not good news of his friend; it is only uncertain news," interrupted the old gentleman quickly. "Now I think of it, Mrs Bland, Mr Leather is to call here by appointment this very morning, so you must be particularly careful not to say a word to him about this telegram, or Captain Stride, or anything I have told you about the lost ship -- you understand, Mrs Bland?"

"Certainly, sir," said the housekeeper, somewhat hurt by the doubt thus implied as to the capacity of her understanding. "Shall I bring you some more toast, sir?" she added, with the virtuous feeling that by this question she was returning good for evil.

"No, thank you. Now, Mrs Bland, don't forget. Not a word about this to any one."

"'Ooks an' red-'ot pincers wouldn't draw a syllable out of me, sir," returned the good woman, departing with an offended air, and leaving her master to understand that, in her opinion, such instruments might have a very different effect upon him.

"Ass that I was to speak of it to her at all," muttered Mr Crossley, walking up and down the room with spectacles on forehead, and with both hands in his trousers-pockets creating disturbance among the keys and coppers. "I might have known that she could not hold her tongue. It would never do to let Mrs Brooke remain on the tenter-hooks till Stride comes home to clear the matter up. Poor Mrs Brooke! No wonder she is almost broken down. This hoping against hope is so wearing. And she's so lonely. To be sure, sweet May Leather runs out and in like a beam of sunshine; but it must be hard, very hard, to lose an only son in this way. It would be almost better to know that he was dead. H'm! and there's that good-for-nothing Shank. The rascal! and yet he's not absolutely good for nothing -- if he would only give up drink. Well, while there's life there's hope, thank God! I'll give him another trial."

The old man's brow was severely wrinkled while he indulged in these mutterings, but it cleared, and a kindly look beamed on his countenance as he gave vent to the last expression.

Just then the door bell rang. Mr Crossley resumed the grave look that was habitual to hint and next minute Shank Leather was ushered into the room.

The youth was considerably changed since we last met him. The year which had passed had developed him into a man, and clothed his upper lip with something visible to the naked eye. It had also lengthened his limbs, deepened his chest, and broadened his shoulders. But here the change for the better ended. In that space of time there had come over him a decided air of dissipation, and the freshness suitable to youth had disappeared.

With a look that was somewhat defiant he entered the room and looked boldly at his employer.

"Be seated, Mr Leather," said the old gentleman in a voice so soft that the young man evidently felt abashed, but he as evidently steeled himself against better feelings, for he replied -- 

"Thank you, Mr Crossley, I'd rather stand."

"As you please," returned the other, restraining himself. "I sent for you, Mr Leather, to tell you that I have heard with sincere regret of your last outbreak, and -- "

"Yes, sir," said Shank, rudely interrupting, "and I came here not so much to hear what you have to say about my outbreak -- as you are pleased to style a little jollification -- as to tell you that you had better provide yourself with another clerk, for I don't intend to return to your office. I've got a better situation."

"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Crossley in surprise.

"Yes, indeed," replied Shank insolently.

It was evident that the youth was, even at that moment, under the influence of his great enemy, else his better feelings would have prevented him from speaking so rudely to a man who had never shown him anything but kindness. But he was nettled by some of his bad companions having taunted him with his slavery to his besetting sin, and had responded to Mr Crossley's summons under the impression that he was going to get what he styled a "wigging." He was therefore taken somewhat aback when the old gentleman replied to his last remark gently.

"I congratulate you, Mr Leather, on getting a better situation (if it really should turn out to be better), and I sincerely hope it may -- for your mother's sake as well as your own. This therefore disposes of part of my object in asking you to call -- which was to say that I meant to pass over this offence and retain you in my employment. But it does not supersede the necessity of my urging you earnestly to give up drink, not so much on the ground that it will surely lead you to destruction as on the consideration that it grieves the loving Father who has bestowed on you the very powers of enjoyment which you are now prostituting, and who is at this moment holding out His hands to you and waiting to be gracious."

The old man stopped abruptly, and Shank stood with eyes fixed on the floor and frowning brow.

"Have you anything more to say to me?" asked Mr Crossley.

"Nothing."

"Then good-morning. As I can do nothing else to serve you, I will pray for you."

Shank found himself in the street with feelings of surprise strong upon him.

"Pray for me!" he muttered, as he walked slowly along. "It never occurred to me before that he prayed at all! The old humbug has more need to pray for himself!"



Chapter Nine.

Shank Reveals Something More Of His Character.

Taking his way to the railway station Shank Leather found himself ere long at his mother's door.

He entered without knocking.

"Shank!" exclaimed Mrs Leather and May in the same breath.

"Ay, mother, it's me. A bad shilling, they say, always turns up. I always turn up, therefore I am a bad shilling! Sound logic that, eh, May?"

"I'm glad to see you, dear Shank," said careworn Mrs Leather, laying her knitting-needles on the table; "you know I'm always glad to see you, but I'm naturally surprised, for this visit is out of your regular time."

"Has anything happened?" asked May anxiously. And May looked very sweet, almost pretty, when she was anxious. A year had refined her features, developed her mind and body, and almost converted her into a little woman. Indeed, mentally, she had become more of a woman than many girls in her neighbourhood who were much older. This was in all likelihood one of the good consequences of adversity.

"Ay, May, something has happened," answered the youth, flinging himself gaily into an arm-chair and stretching out his legs towards the fire; "I have thrown up my situation. Struck work. That's all."

"Shank!"

"Just so. Don't look so horrified, mother; you've no occasion to, for I have the offer of a better situation. Besides -- ha! ha! old Crossley --  close-fisted, crabbed, money-making, skin-flint old Crossley -- is going to pray for me. Think o' that, mother -- going to pray for me!"

"Shank, dear boy," returned his mother, "don't jest about religious things."

"You don't call old Crossley a religious thing, do you? Why, mother, I thought you had more respect for him than that comes to; you ought at least to consider his years!"

"Come, Shank," returned Mrs Leather, with a deprecating smile, "be a good boy and tell me what you mean -- and about this new situation."

"I just mean that my friend and chum and old schoolfellow Ralph Ritson --  jovial, dashing, musical, handsome Ralph -- you remember him -- has got me a situation in California."

"Ralph Ritson?" repeated Mrs Leather, with a little sigh and an uneasy glance at her daughter, whose face had flushed at the mention of the youth's name.

"Yes," continued Shank, in a graver tone, for he had observed the flush on May's face. "Ralph's father, who is manager of a gold mine in California, has asked his son to go out and assist him at a good salary, and to take a clerk out with him -- a stout vigorous fellow, well up in figures, book-keeping, carpenting, etcetera, and ready to turn his hand to anything, and Ralph has chosen me! What d'ee think o' that?"

From her silence and expression it was evident that the poor lady's thoughts were not quite what her son had hoped.

"Why don't you congratulate me, mother?" he asked, somewhat petulantly.

"Would it not be almost premature," she replied, with a forced smile, "to congratulate you before I know anything about the salary or the prospects held out to you? Besides, I cannot feel as enthusiastic about your friend Ralph as you do. I don't doubt that he is a well-meaning youth, but he is reckless. If he had only been a man like your former friend, poor Charlie Brooke, it would have been different, but -- "

"Well, mother, it's of no use wishing somebody to be like somebody else. We must just take folk as we find them, and I find Ralph Ritson a remarkably fine, sensible fellow, who has a proper appreciation of his friends. And he's not a bad fellow. He and Charlie Brooke were fond of each other when we were all schoolboys together -- at least he was fond of Charlie, like everybody else. But whether we like him or not does not matter now, for the thing is fixed. I have accepted his offer, and thrown old Jacob overboard."

"Dear Shank, don't be angry if I am slow to appreciate this offer," said the poor lady, laying aside her knitting and clasping her hands before her on the table, as she looked earnestly into her son's face, "but you must see that it has come on me very suddenly, and I'm so sorry to hear that you have parted with good old Mr Crossley in anger -- "

"We didn't part in anger," interrupted Shank. "We were only a little less sweet on each other than usual. There was no absolute quarrel. D'you think he'd have promised to pray for me if there was?"

"Have you spoken yet to your father?" asked the lady.

"How could I? I've not seen him since the thing was settled. Besides, what's the use? He can do nothing for me, an' don't care a button what I do or where I go."

"You are wrong, Shank, in thinking so. I know that he cares for you very much indeed. If he can do nothing for you now, he has at least given you your education, without which you could not do much for yourself."

"Well, of course I shall tell him whenever I see him," returned the youth, somewhat softened; "and I'm aware he has a sort of sneaking fondness for me; but I'm not going to ask his advice, because he knows nothing about the business. Besides, mother, I am old enough to judge for myself, and mean to take the advice of nobody."

"You are indeed old enough to judge for yourself," said Mrs Leather, resuming her knitting, "and I don't wish to turn you from your plans. On the contrary, I will pray that God's blessing and protection may accompany you wherever you go, but you should not expect me to be instantaneously jubilant over an arrangement which will take you away from me, for years perhaps."

This last consideration seemed to have some weight with the selfish youth.

"Well, well, mother," he said, rising, "don't take on about that. Travelling is not like what it used to be. A trip over the Atlantic and the Rocky Mountains is nothing to speak of now -- a mere matter of a few weeks -- so that a fellow can take a run home at any time to say 'How do' to his people. I'm going down now to see Smithers and tell him the news."

"Stay, I'll go with you -- a bit of the way," cried May, jumping up and shaking back the curly brown hair which still hung in native freedom --  and girlish fashion -- on her shoulders.

May had a charming and rare capacity for getting ready to go out at a moment's notice. She merely threw on a coquettish straw hat, which had a knack of being always at hand, and which clung to her pretty head with a tenacity that rendered strings or elastic superfluous. One of her brother's companions -- we don't know which -- was once heard to say with fervour that no hat would be worth its ribbons that didn't cling powerfully to such a head without assistance! A shawl too, or cloak, was always at hand, somehow, and had this not been so May would have thrown over her shoulders an antimacassar or table-cloth rather than cause delay, -- at least we think so, though we have no absolute authority for making the statement.

"Dear Shank," she said, clasping both hands over his arm as they walked slowly down the path that led to the shore, "is it really all true that you have been telling us? Have you fixed to go off with -- with Mr Ritson to California?"

"Quite true; I never was more in earnest in my life. By the way, sister mine, what made you colour up so when Ralph's name was mentioned? There, you're flushing again! Are you in love with him?"

"No, certainly not," answered the girl, with an air and tone of decision that made her brother laugh.

"Well, you needn't flare up so fiercely. You might be in love with a worse man. But why, then, do you blush?"

May was silent, and hung down her head.

"Come, May, you've never had any secrets from me. Surely you're not going to begin now -- on the eve of my departure to a foreign land?"

"I would rather not talk about him at all," said the girl, looking up entreatingly.

But Shank looked down upon her sternly. He had assumed the parental role. "May, there is something in this that you ought not to conceal. I have a right to know it, as your brother -- your protector."

Innocent though May was, she could not repress a faint smile at the idea of a protector who had been little else than a cause of anxiety in the past, and was now about to leave her to look after herself, probably for years to come. But she answered frankly, while another and a deeper blush overspread her face -- 

"I did not mean to speak of it, Shank, as you knew nothing, and I had hoped would never know anything about it, but since you insist, I must tell you that -- that Mr Ritson, I'm afraid, loves me at least he -- "

"Afraid! loves you! How do you know?" interrupted Shank quickly.

"Well, he said so -- the last time we met."

"The rascal! Had he the audacity to ask you to marry him? -- him -- a beggar, without a sixpence except what his father gives him?"

"No, Shank, I would not let him get the length of that. I told him I was too young to -- to think about such matters at all, and said that he must not speak to me again in such a way. But I was so surprised, flurried, and distressed, that I don't clearly remember what I said."

"And what did he say?" asked Shank, forgetting the parental role for a moment, and looking at May with a humorous smile.

"Indeed I can hardly tell. He made a great many absurd protestations, begged me to give him no decided answer just then, and said something about letting him write to me, but all I am quite sure of is that at last I had the courage to utter a very decided No, and then ran away and left him."

"That was too sharp, May. Ralph is a first-rate fellow, with capital prospects. His father is rich and can give him a good start in life. He may come back in a few years with a fortune -- not a bad kind of husband for a penniless lass."

"Shank!" exclaimed May, letting go her brother's arm and facing him with flashing eyes and heightened colour, "do you really think that a fortune would make me marry a man whom I did not love?"

"Certainly not, my dear sis," said the youth, taking May's hand and drawing it again through his arm with an approving smile. "I never for a moment thought you capable of such meanness, but that is a very different thing from slamming the door in a poor fellow's face. You're not in love with anybody else. Ralph is a fine handsome young fellow. You might grow to like him in time -- and if you did, a fortune, of course, would be no disadvantage. Besides, he is to be my travelling companion, and might write to you about me if I were ill, or chanced to meet with an accident and were unable to write myself -- don't you know?"

"He could in that case write to mother," said May, simply.

"So he could!" returned Shank, laughing. "I never thought o' that, my sharp sister."

They had reached the shore by that time. The tide was out; the sea was calm and the sun glinted brightly on the wavelets that sighed rather than broke upon the sands.

For some distance they sauntered in silence by the margin of the sea. The mind of each was busy with the same thought. Each was aware of that, and for some time neither seemed able to break the silence. The timid girl recovered her courage before the self-reliant man!

"Dear Shank," she said, pressing his arm, "you will probably be away for years."

"Yes, May -- at least for a good long time."

"Oh forgive me, brother," continued the girl, with sudden earnestness, "but -- but -- you know your -- your weakness -- "

"Ay, May, I know it. Call it sin if you will -- and my knowledge of it has something to do with my present determination, for, weak though I am, and bad though you think me -- "

"But I don't think you bad, dear Shank," cried May, with tearful eyes; "I never said so, and never thought so, and -- "

"Come, come, May," interrupted the youth, with something of banter in his manner, "you don't think me good, do you?"

"Well, no -- not exactly," returned May, faintly smiling through her tears.

"Well, then, if I'm not good I must be bad, you know. There's no half-way house in this matter."

"Is there not, Shank? Is there not very good and very bad?"

"Oh, well, if you come to that there's pretty-good, and rather-bad, and a host of other houses between these, such as goodish and baddish, but not one of them can be a half-way house."

"Oh yes, one of them can -- must be."

"Which one, you little argumentative creature?" asked Shank.

"Why, middling-good of course."

"Wrong!" cried her brother, "doesn't middling-bad stand beside it, with quite as good a claim to be considered half-way? However, I won't press my victory too far. For the sake of peace we will agree that these are semi-detached houses in one block -- and that will block the subject. But, to be serious again," he added, stopping and looking earnestly into his sister's face, "I wanted to speak to you on this weakness -- this sin -- and I thank you for breaking the ice. The truth is that I have felt for a good while past that conviviality -- "

"Strong drink, brother, call it by its right name," said May, gently pressing the arm on which she leaned.

"Well -- have it so. Strong drink has been getting the better of me -- mind I don't admit it has got the better of me yet -- only is getting -- and convivial comrades have had a great deal to do with it. Now, as you know, I'm a man of some decision of character, and I had long ago made up my mind to break with my companions. Of course I could not very well do this while -- while I was -- well, no matter why, but this offer just seemed to be a sort of godsend, for it will enable me to cut myself free at once, and the sea breezes and Rocky Mountain air and gold-hunting will, I expect, take away the desire for strong drink altogether."

"I hope it will -- indeed I am sure it will if it is God's way of leading you," said May, with an air of confidence.

"Well, I don't know whether it is God who is leading me or -- "

"Did you not call it a god-send just now -- "

"Oh, but that's a mere form of speech, you know. However, I do know that it was on this very beach where we now stand that a friend led me for the first time to think seriously of this matter -- more than a year ago."

"Indeed -- who was it?" asked May eagerly.

"My chum and old school-fellow, poor Charlie Brooke," returned Shank, in a strangely altered voice.

Then he went on to tell of the conversation he and his friend had had on that beach, and it was not till he had finished that he became aware that his sister was weeping.

"Why, May, you're crying. What's the matter?"

"God bless him!" said May in fervent yet tremulous tones as she looked up in her brother's face. "Can you wonder at my feeling so strongly when you remember how kind Charlie always was to you -- to all of us indeed -- ever since he was a little boy at school with you; what a true-hearted and steady friend he has always been. And you called him poor Charlie just now, as if he were dead."

"True indeed, it is very, very sad, for we have great reason to fear the worst, and I have strong doubt that I shall never see my old chum again. But I won't give up hope, for it is no uncommon thing for men to be lost at sea, for years even, and to turn up at last, having been cast away on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe, or something of that sort."

The thoughts which seemed to minister consolation to Shank Leather did not appear to afford much comfort to his sister, who hung her head and made no answer, while her companion went on -- 

"Yes, May, and poor Charlie was the first to make me feel as if I were a little selfish, though that as you know, is not one of my conspicuous failings! His straightforwardness angered me a little at first, but his kindness made me think much of what he said, and -- well, the upshot of it all is that I am going to California."

"I am glad -- so glad and thankful he has had so much influence over you, dear Shank, and now, don't you think -- that -- that if Charlie were with you at this moment he would advise you not to go to Mr Smithers to consult about your plans?"

For a few moments the brother's face betrayed a feeling of annoyance, but it quickly cleared away.

"You are right, May. Smithers is too much of a convivial harum-scarum fellow to be of much use in the way of giving sound advice. I'll go to see Jamieson instead. You can have no objection to him -- surely. He's a quiet, sober sort of man, and never tries to tempt people or lead them into mischief -- which is more than can be said of the other fellow."

"That is a very negative sort of goodness," returned May, smiling. "However, if you must go to see some one, Jamieson is better than Smithers; but why not come home and consult with mother and me?"

"Pooh! what can women know about such matters? No, no, May, when a fellow has to go into the pros and cons of Californian life it must be with men."

"H'm! the men you associate with, having been at school and the desk all their lives up till now, must be eminently fitted to advise on Californian life! That did not occur to me at the first blush!" said May demurely.

"Go home, you cynical baggage, and help mother to knit," retorted Shank, with a laugh. "I intend to go and see Jamieson."

And he went. And the negatively good Jamieson, who never led people into temptation, had no objection to be led into that region himself, so they went together to make a passing call -- a mere look in -- on Smithers, who easily induced them to remain. The result was that the unselfish man with decision of character returned home in the early hours of morning -- "screwed."



Chapter Ten.

Home-Coming And Unexpected Surprises.

Upwards of another year passed away, and at the end of that time a ship might have been seen approaching one of the harbours on the eastern seaboard of America. Her sails were worn and patched. Her spars were broken and spliced. Her rigging was ragged and slack, and the state of her hull can be best described by the word 'battered.' Everything in and about her bore evidence of a prolonged and hard struggle with the elements, and though she had at last come off victorious, her dilapidated appearance bore strong testimony to the deadly nature of the fight.

Her crew presented similar evidence. Not only were their garments ragged, threadbare, and patched, but the very persons of the men seemed to have been riven and battered by the tear and wear of the conflict. And no wonder; for the vessel was a South Sea whaler, returning home after a three years' cruise.

At first she had been blown far out of her course; then she was very successful in the fishing, and then she was stranded on the reef of a coral island in such a position that, though protected from absolute destruction by the fury of the waves, she could not be got off for many months. At last the ingenuity and perseverance of one of her crew were rewarded by success. She was hauled once more into deep water and finally returned home.

The man who had been thus successful in saving the ship, and probably the lives of his mates -- for it was a desolate isle, far out of the tracks of commerce -- was standing in the bow of the vessel, watching the shore with his companions as they drew near. He was a splendid specimen of manhood, clad in a red shirt and canvas trousers, while a wide-awake took the place of the usual seafaring cap. He stood head and shoulders above his fellows.

Just as the ship rounded the end of the pier, which formed one side of the harbour, a small boat shot out from it. A little boy sculled the boat, and, apparently, had been ignorant of the ship's approach, for he gave a shout of alarm on seeing it, and made frantic efforts to get out of its way. In his wild attempts to turn the boat he missed a stroke and went backwards into the sea.

At the same moment the lookout on the ship gave the order to put the helm hard a-starboard in a hurried shout.

Prompt obedience caused the ship to sheer off a little, and her side just grazed the boat. All hands on the forecastle gazed down anxiously for the boy's reappearance.

Up he came next moment with a bubbling cry and clutching fingers.

"He can't swim!" cried one.

"Out with a lifebelt!" shouted another.

Our tall seaman bent forward as they spoke, and, just as the boy sank a second time, he shot like an arrow into the water.

"He's all safe now," remarked a seaman quietly, and with a nod of satisfaction, even before the rescuer had reappeared.

And he was right. The red-shirted sailor rose a moment later with the boy in his arms. Chucking the urchin into the boat he swam to the pier-head with the smooth facility and speed of an otter, climbed the wooden piles with the ease of an athlete, walked rapidly along the pier, and arrived at the head of the harbour almost as soon as his own ship.

"That's the tenth life he's saved since he came aboard -- to say nothin' o' savin' the ship herself," remarked the Captain to an inquirer, after the vessel had reached her moorings. "An' none o' the lives was as easy to manage as that one. Some o' them much harder."

We will follow this magnificent seaman for a time, good reader.

Having obtained permission to quit the South Sea whaler he walked straight to the office of a steam shipping company, and secured a fore-cabin passage to England. He went on board dressed as he had arrived, in the red shirt, ducks, and wide-awake -- minus the salt water. The only piece of costume which he had added to his wardrobe was a huge double-breasted pilot-cloth coat, with buttons the size of an egg-cup. He was so unused, however, to such heavy clothing that he flung it off the moment he got on board the steamer, and went about thereafter in his red flannel shirt and ducks. Hence he came to be known by every one as Red Shirt.

This man, with his dark-blue eyes, deeply bronzed cheeks, fair hair, moustache, and beard, and tall herculean form, was nevertheless so soft and gentle in his manners, so ready with his smile and help and sympathy, that every man, woman, and child in the vessel adored him before the third day was over. Previous to that day, many of the passengers, owing to internal derangements, were incapable of any affection, except self-love, and to do them justice they had not much even of that!

Arrived at Liverpool, Red Shirt, after seeing a poor invalid passenger safely to his abode in that city, and assisting one or two families with young children to find the stations, boats, or coaches that were more or less connected with their homes, got into a third-class carriage for London. On reaching the metropolis he at once took a ticket for Sealford.

Just as the train was on the point of starting, two elderly gentlemen came on the platform, in that eager haste and confusion of mind characteristic of late passengers.

"This way, Captain," cried one, hailing the other, and pointing energetically with his brown silk umbrella to the Sealford carriages.

"No, no. It's at the next platform," returned the Captain frantically.

"I say it is here," shouted the first speaker sternly. "Come, sir, obey orders!"

They both made for an open carriage-door. It chanced to be a third class. A strong hand was held out to assist them in.

"Thank you," said the eldest elderly gentleman -- he with the brown silk umbrella -- turning to Red Shirt as he sat down and panted slightly.

"I feared that we'd be late, sir," remarked the other elderly gentleman on recovering breath.

"We are not late, Captain, but we should have been late for certain, if your obstinacy had held another half minute."

"Well, Mr Crossley, I admit that I made a mistake about the place, but you must allow that I made no mistake about the hour. I was sure that my chronometer was right. If there's one thing on earth that I can trust to as reg'lar as the sun, it is this chronometer (pulling it out as he spoke), and it never fails. As I always said to my missus, 'Maggie,' I used to say, 'when you find this chronometer fail -- ' 'Oh! bother you an' your chronometer,' she would reply, takin' the wind out o' my sails -- for my missus has a free-an'-easy way o' doin' that -- "

"You've just come off a voyage, young sir, if I mistake not," said Crossley, turning to Red Shirt, for he had quite as free-and-easy a way of taking the wind out of Captain Stride's sails as the "missus."

"Yes; I have just returned," answered Red Shirt, in a low soft voice, which scarcely seemed appropriate to his colossal frame. His red garment, by the way, was at the time all concealed by the pilot-coat, excepting the collar.

"Going home for a spell, I suppose?" said Crossley.

"Yes."

"May I ask where you last hailed from?" said Captain Stride, with some curiosity, for there was something in the appearance of this nautical stranger which interested him.

"From the southern seas. I have been away a long while in a South Sea whaler."

"Ah, indeed? -- a rough service that."

"Rather rough; but I didn't enter it intentionally. I was picked up at sea, with some of my mates, in an open boat, by the whaler. She was on the outward voyage, and couldn't land us anywhere, so we were obliged to make up our minds to join as hands."

"Strange!" murmured Captain Stride. "Then you were wrecked somewhere --  or your ship foundered, mayhap -- eh?"

"Yes, we were wrecked -- on a coral reef."

"Well now, young man, that is a strange coincidence. I was wrecked myself on a coral reef in the very same seas, nigh three years ago. Isn't that odd?"

"Dear me, this is very interesting," put in Mr Crossley; "and, as Captain Stride says, a somewhat strange coincidence."

"Is it so very strange, after all," returned Red Shirt, "seeing that the Pacific is full of sunken coral reefs, and vessels are wrecked there more or less every year?"

"Well, there's some truth in that," observed the Captain. "Did you say it was a sunk reef your ship struck on?"

"Yes; quite sunk. No part visible. It was calm weather at the time, and a clear night."

"Another coincidence!" exclaimed Stride, becoming still more interested. "Calm and clear, too, when I was wrecked!"

"Curious," remarked Red Shirt in a cool indifferent tone, that began to exasperate the Captain.

"Yet, after all, there are a good many calm and clear nights in the Pacific, as well as coral reefs."

"Why, young man," cried Stride in a tone that made old Crossley smile, "you seem to think nothing at all of coincidences. It's very seldom --  almost never -- that one hears of so many coincidences happening on this side o' the line all at once -- don't you see."

"I see," returned Red Shirt; "and the same, exactly, may be said of the other side o' the line. I very seldom -- almost never -- heard of so many out there; which itself may be called a coincidence, d'ee see? a sort of negative similarity."

"Young man, I would suspect you were jesting with me," returned the Captain, "but for the fact that you told me of your experiences first, before you could know that mine would coincide with them so exactly."

"Your conclusions are very just, sir," rejoined Red Shirt, with a grave and respectful air; "but of course coincidences never go on in an unbroken chain. They must cease sooner or later. We left our wreck in three boats. No doubt you -- "

"There again!" cried the Captain in blazing astonishment, as he removed his hat and wiped his heated brow, while Mr Crossley's eyes opened to their widest extent. "We left our wreck in three boats! My ship's name was -- "

"The Walrus," said Red Shirt quietly, "and her Captain's name was Stride!"

Old Crossley had reached the stage that is known as petrified with astonishment. The Captain, being unable to open his eyes wider, dropped his lower jaw instead.

"Surely," continued Red Shirt, removing his wide-awake, and looking steadily at his companions, "I must have changed very much indeed when two of my -- "

"Brooke!" exclaimed Crossley, grasping one of the sailor's hands.

"Charlie!" gasped the Captain, seizing the other hand.

What they all said after reaching this point it is neither easy nor necessary to record. Perhaps it may be as well to leave it to the reader's vivid imagination. Suffice it to say, that our hero irritated the Captain no longer by his callous indifference to coincidences. In the midst of the confusion of hurried question and short reply, he pulled them up with the sudden query anxiously put -- 

"But now, what of my mother?"

"Well -- excellently well in health, my boy," said Crossley, "but woefully low in spirits about yourself -- Charlie. Yet nothing will induce her to entertain the idea that you have been drowned. Of course we have been rather glad of this -- though most of our friends, Charlie, have given you up for lost long ago. May Leather, too, has been much the same way of thinking, so she has naturally been a great comfort to your mother."

"God bless her for that. She's a good little girl," said Charlie.

"Little girl," repeated both elderly gentlemen in a breath, and bursting into a laugh. "You forget, lad," said the Captain, "that three years or so makes a considerable change in girls of her age. She's a tall, handsome young woman now; ay, and a good-looking one too. Almost as good-lookin' as what my missus was about her age -- an' not unlike my little Mag in the face -- the one you rescued, you remember -- who is also a strappin' lass now."

"I'm very glad to hear they are well, Captain," said Charlie; "and, Shank, what of -- "

He stopped, for the grave looks of his friends told him that something was wrong.

"Gone to the dogs," said the Captain.

"Nay, not quite gone -- but going -- fast."

"And the father?"

"Much as he was, Charlie, only somewhat more deeply sunk. The fact is," continued Crossley, "it is this very matter that takes us down to Sealford to-day. We have just had fresh news of Shank -- who is in America -- and I want to consult with Mrs Leather about him. You see I have agents out there who may be able to help us to save him."

"From drink, I suppose," interposed our hero.

"From himself, Charlie, and that includes drink and a great deal more. I dare say you are aware -- at least, if you are not, I now tell you -- that I have long taken great interest in Mrs Leather and her family, and would go a long way, and give a great deal, to save Shank. You know --  no, of course you don't, I forgot -- that he threw up his situation in my office -- Withers and Company. (Ay, you may smile, my lad, but we humbugged you and got the better of you that time. Didn't we, Captain?) Well, Shank was induced by that fellow Ralph Ritson to go away to some gold-mine or other worked by his father in California, but when they reached America they got news of the failure of the Company and the death of old Ritson. Of course the poor fellows were at once thrown on their own resources, but, instead of facing life like men, they took to gambling. The usual results followed. They lost all they had and went off to Texas or some such wild place, and for a long time were no more heard of. At last, just the other day, a letter came from Ritson to Mrs Leather, telling her that her son is very ill -- perhaps dying -- in some out o' the way place. Ritson was nursing him, but, being ill himself, unable to work, and without means, it would help them greatly if some money could be sent -- even though only a small sum."

Charlie Brooke listened to this narrative with compressed brows, and remained silent a few seconds. "My poor chum!" he exclaimed at length. Then a flash of fire seemed to gleam in his blue eyes as he added, "If I had that fellow Ritson by the -- "

He stopped abruptly, and the fire in the eyes died out, for it was no part of our hero's character to boast -- much less to speak harshly of men behind their backs.

"Has money been sent?" he asked.

"Not yet. It is about that business that I'm going to call on poor Mrs Leather now. We must be careful, you see. I have no reason, it is true, to believe that Ritson is deceiving us, but when a youth of no principle writes to make a sudden demand for money, it behoves people to think twice before they send it."

"Ay, to think three times -- perhaps even four or five," broke in the Captain, with stern emphasis. "I know Ralph Ritson well, the scoundrel, an' if I had aught to do wi' it I'd not send him a penny. As I said to my -- "

"Does your mother know of your arrival?" asked Mr Crossley abruptly.

"No; I meant to take her by surprise."

"Humph! Just like you young fellows. In some things you have no more brains than geese. Being made of cast-iron and shoe-leather you assume that everybody else is, or ought to be, made of the same raw material. Don't you know that surprises of this sort are apt to kill delicate people?"

Charlie smiled by way of reply.

"No, sir," continued the old gentleman firmly, "I won't let you take her by surprise. While I go round to the Leathers my good friend Captain Stride will go in advance of you to Mrs Brooke's and break the news to her. He is accustomed to deal with ladies."

"Right you are, sir," said the gratified Captain, removing his hat and wiping his brow. "As I said, no later than yesterday to -- "

A terrific shriek from the steam-whistle, and a plunge into the darkness of a tunnel stopped -- and thus lost to the world for ever -- what the Captain said upon that occasion.



Chapter Eleven.

Tells Of Happy Meetings And Serious Consultations.

Whether Captain Stride executed his commission well or not we cannot tell, and whether the meeting of Mrs Brooke with her long-lost son came to near killing or not we will not tell. Enough to know that they met, and that the Captain -- with that delicacy of feeling so noticeable in seafaring men -- went outside the cottage door and smoked his pipe while the meeting was in progress. After having given sufficient time, as he said, "for the first o' the squall to blow over," he summarily snubbed his pipe, put it into his vest pocket, and re-entered.

"Now, missus, you'll excuse me, ma'am, for cuttin' in atween you, but this business o' the Leathers is pressin', an' if we are to hold a confabulation wi' the family about it, why -- "

"Ah, to be sure, Captain Stride is right," said Mrs Brooke, turning to her stalwart son, who was seated on the sofa beside her. "This is a very, very sad business about poor Shank. You had better go to them, Charlie. I will follow you in a short time."

"Mr Crossley is with them at this moment. I forgot to say so, mother."

"Is he? I'm very glad of that," returned the widow. "He has been a true friend to us all. Go, Charlie. But stay. I see May coming. The dear child always comes to me when there is anything good or sorrowful to tell. But she comes from the wrong direction. Perhaps she does not yet know of Mr Crossley's arrival."

"May! Can it be?" exclaimed Charlie in an undertone of surprise as he observed, through the window, the girl who approached.

And well might he be surprised, for this, although the same May, was very different from the girl he left behind him. The angles of girlhood had given place to the rounded lines of young womanhood. The rich curly brown hair, which used to whirl wildly in the sea-breezes, was gathered up in a luxuriant mass behind her graceful head, and from the forehead it was drawn back in two wavy bands, in defiance of fashion, which at that time was beginning to introduce the detestable modern fringe. Perhaps we are not quite un-biassed in our judgment of the said fringe, far it is intimately associated in our mind with the savages of North America, whose dirty red faces, in years past, were wont to glower at us from beneath just such a fringe, long before it was adopted by the fair dames of England!

In other respects, however, May was little changed, except that the slightest curl of sadness about her eyebrows made her face more attractive than ever, as she nodded pleasantly to the Captain, who had hastened to the door to meet her.

"So glad to see you, Captain Stride," she said, shaking hands with unfeminine heartiness. "Have you been to see mother? I have just been having a walk before -- "

She stopped as if transfixed, for at that moment she caught sight of Charlie and his mother through the open door.

Poor May flushed to the roots of her hair; then she turned deadly pale, and would have fallen had not the gallant Captain caught her in his arms. But by a powerful effort of will she recovered herself in time to avoid a scene.

"The sight of you reminded me so strongly of our dear Shank!" she stammered, when Charlie, hastening forward, grasped both her hands and shook them warmly. "Besides -- some of us thought you were dead."

"No wonder you thought of Shank," returned Charlie, "for he and I used to be so constantly together. But don't be cast down, May. We'll get Shank out of his troubles yet."

"Yes, and you know he has Ritson with him," said Mrs Brooke; "and he, although not quite as steady as we could wish, will be sure to care for such an old friend in his sickness. But you'd better go, Charlie, and see Mrs Leather. They will be sure to want you and Captain Stride. May will remain here with me. Sit down beside me, dear, I want to have a chat with you."

"Perhaps, ma'am, if I make so bold," interposed the Captain, "Mr Crossley may want to have Miss May also at the council of war."

"Mr Crossley! is he with my mother?" asked the girl eagerly.

"Yes, Miss May, he is."

"Then I must be there. Excuse me, dear Mrs Brooke."

And without more ado May ran out of the house. She was followed soon after by Charlie and the Captain, and Mrs Brooke was left alone, expressing her thankfulness and joy of heart in a few silent tears over her knitting.

There was a wonderful similarity in many respects between Mrs Brooke and her friend Mrs Leather. They both knitted -- continuously and persistently. This was a convenient if not a powerful bond, for it enabled them to sit for hours together -- busy, yet free to talk. They were both invalids -- a sympathetic bond of considerable strength. They held the same religious views -- an indispensable bond where two people have to be much together, and are in earnest. They were both poor -- a natural bond which draws people of a certain kind very close together, physically as well as spiritually -- and both, up to this time at least, had long-absent and semi-lost sons. Even in the matter of daughters they might be said, in a sense, to be almost equal, for May, loving each, was a daughter to both. Lastly, in this matter of similarity, the two ladies were good -- good as gold, according to Captain Stride, and he ought to have been an authority, for he frequently visited them and knew all their affairs. Fortunately for both ladies, Mrs Brooke was by far the stronger-minded -- hence they never quarrelled!

In Mrs Leather's parlour a solemn conclave was seated round the parlour table. They were very earnest, for the case under consideration was urgent, as well as very pitiful. Poor Mrs Leather's face was wet with tears, and the pretty brown eyes of May were not dry. They had had a long talk over the letter from Ritson, which was brief and to the point but meagre as to details.

"I rather like the letter, considering who wrote it," observed Mr Crossley, laying it down after a fourth perusal. "You see he makes no whining or discontented reference to the hardness of their luck, which young scapegraces are so fond of doing; nor does he make effusive professions of regret or repentance, which hypocrites are so prone to do. I think it bears the stamp of being genuine on the face of it. At least it appears to be straightforward."

"I'm so glad you think so, Mr Crossley," said Mrs Leather; "for Mr Ritson is such a pleasant young man -- and so good-looking, too!"

The old gentleman and the Captain both burst into a laugh at this.

"I'm afraid," said the former, "that good looks are no guarantee for good behaviour. However, I have made up my mind to send him a small sum of money -- not to Shank, Mrs Leather, so you need not begin to thank me. I shall send it to Ritson."

"Well, thank you all the same," interposed the lady, taking up her knitting and resuming operations below the table, gazing placidly all the while at her friends like some consummate conjuror, "for Ralph will be sure to look after Shank."

"The only thing that puzzles me is, how are we to get it sent to such an out-o'-the-way place -- Traitor's Trap! It's a bad name, and the stupid fellow makes no mention of any known town near to it, though he gives the post-office. If I only knew its exact whereabouts I might get some one to take the money to him, for I have agents in many parts of America."

After prolonged discussion of the subject, Mr Crossley returned to town to make inquiries, and the Captain went to take his favourite walk by the sea-shore, where he was wont, when paying a visit to Sealford, to drive the Leathers' little dog half-mad with delight by throwing stones into the sea for Scraggy to go in for -- which he always did, though he never fetched them out.

In the course of that day Charlie Brooke left his mother to take a stroll, and naturally turned in the direction of the sea. When half-way through the lane with the high banks on either side he encountered May.

"What a pleasant pretty girl she has become!" was his thought as she drew near.

"Nobler and handsomer than ever!" was hers as he approached.

The thoughts of both sent a flush to the face of each, but the colour scarcely showed through the bronzed skin of the man.

"Why, what a woman you have grown, May!" said Charlie, grasping her hand, and attempting to resume the old familiar terms -- with, however, imperfect success.

"Isn't that natural?" asked May, with a glance and a little laugh.

That glance and that little laugh, insignificant in themselves, tore a veil from the eyes of Charlie Brooke. He had always been fond of May Leather, after a fashion. Now it suddenly rushed upon him that he was fond of her after another fashion! He was a quick thinker and just reasoner. A poor man without a profession and no prospects has no right to try to gain the affections of a girl. He became grave instantly.

"May," he said, "will you turn back to the shore with me for a little? I want to have a talk about Shank. I want you to tell me all you know about him. Don't conceal anything. I feel as if I had a right to claim your confidence, for, as you know well, he and I have been like brothers since we were little boys."

May had turned at once, and the tears filled her eyes as she told the sad story. It was long, and the poor girl was graphic in detail. We can give but the outline here.

Shank had gone off with Ritson not long after the sailing of the Walrus. On reaching America, and hearing of the failure of the company that worked the gold mine, and of old Ritson's death, they knew not which way to turn. It was a tremendous blow, and seemed to have rendered them reckless, for they soon took to gambling. At first they remained in New York, and letters came home pretty regularly, in which Shank always expressed hopes of getting more respectable work. He did not conceal their mode of gaining a livelihood, but defended it on the ground that "a man must live!"

For a time the letters were cheerful. The young men were "lucky." Then came a change of luck, and a consequent change in the letters, which came less frequently. At last there arrived one from Shank, both the style and penmanship of which told that he had not forsaken the great curse of his life -- strong drink. It told of disaster, and of going off to the "Rockies" with a party of "discoverers," though what they were to discover was not mentioned.

"From that date till now," said May in conclusion, "we have heard nothing about them till this letter came from Mr Ritson, telling of dear Shank being so ill, and asking for money."

"I wish any one were with Shank rather than that man," said Charlie sternly; "I have no confidence in him whatever, and I knew him well as a boy."

"Nevertheless, I think we may trust him. Indeed I feel sure he won't desert his wounded comrade," returned May, with a blush.

The youth did not observe the blush. His thoughts were otherwise engaged, and his eyes were at the moment fixed on a far-off part of the shore, where Captain Stride could be seen urging on the joyful Scraggy to his fruitless labours.

"I wish I could feel as confident of him as you do, May. However, misfortune as well as experience may have made him a wiser, perhaps a better, man. But what troubles me most is the uncertainty of the money that Mr Crossley is going to send ever reaching its destination."

"Oh! if we only knew some one in New York who would take it to them," said May, looking piteously at the horizon, as if she were apostrophising some one on the other side of the Atlantic.

"Why, you talk as if New York and Traitor's Trap were within a few miles of each other," said Charlie, smiling gently. "They are hundreds of miles apart."

"Well, I suppose they are. But I feel so anxious about Shank when I think of the dear boy lying ill, perhaps dying, in a lonely place far far away from us all, and no one but Mr Ritson to care for him! If I were only a man I would go to him myself."

She broke down at this point, and put her handkerchief to her face.

"Don't cry, May," began the youth in sore perplexity, for he knew not how to comfort the poor girl in the circumstances, but fortunately Captain Stride caught sight of them at the moment, and gave them a stentorian hail.

"Hi! halloo! back your to-o-o-ps'ls. I'll overhaul ye in a jiffy."

How long a nautical jiffy may be we know not, but, in a remarkably brief space of time, considering the shortness and thickness of his sea-legs, the Captain was alongside, blowing, as he said, "like a grampus."

That night Charlie Brooke sat with his mother in her parlour. They were alone -- their friends having considerately left them to themselves on this their first night.

They had been talking earnestly about past and present, for the son had much to learn about old friends and comrades, and the mother had much to tell.

"And now, mother," said Charlie, at the end of a brief pause, "what about the future?"

"Surely, my boy, it is time enough to talk about that to-morrow, or next day. You are not obliged to think of the future before you have spent even one night in your old room."

"Not absolutely obliged, mother. Nevertheless, I should like to speak about it. Poor Shank is heavy on my mind, and when I heard all about him to-day from May, I -- . She's wonderfully improved, that girl, mother. Grown quite pretty?"

"Indeed she is -- and as good as she's pretty," returned Mrs Brooke, with a furtive glance at her son.

"She broke down when talking about Shank to-day, and I declare she looked quite beautiful! Evidently Shank's condition weighs heavily on her mind."

"Can you wonder, Charlie?"

"Of course not. It's natural, and I quite sympathised with her when she exclaimed, 'If I were only a man I would go to him myself.'"

"That's natural too, my son. I have no doubt she would, poor dear girl, if she were only a man."

"Do you know, mother, I've not been able to get that speech out of my head all this afternoon. 'If I were a man -- if I were a man,' keeps ringing in my ears like the chorus of an old song, and then -- "

"Well, Charlie, what then?" asked Mrs Brooke, with a puzzled glance.

"Why, then, somehow the chorus has changed in my brain and it runs -- 'I am a man! I am a man!'"

"Well?" asked the mother, with an anxious look.

"Well -- that being so, I have made up my mind that I will go out to Traitor's Trap and carry the money to Shank, and look after him myself. That is, if you will let me."

"O Charlie! how can you talk of it?" said Mrs Brooke, with a distressed look. "I have scarcely had time to realise the fact that you have come home, and to thank God for it, when you begin to talk of leaving me again -- perhaps for years, as before."

"Nay, mother mine, you jump to conclusions too hastily. What I propose is not to go off again on a long voyage, but to take a run of a few days in a first-class steamer across what the Americans call the big fish-pond; then go across country comfortably by rail; after that hire a horse and have a gallop somewhere or other; find out Shank and bring him home. The whole thing might be done in a few weeks; and no chance, almost, of being wrecked."

"I don't know, Charlie," returned Mrs Brooke, in a sad tone, as she laid her hand on her son's arm and stroked it. "As you put it, the thing sounds all very easy, and no doubt it would be a grand, a noble thing to rescue Shank -- but -- but, why talk of it to-night, my dear boy? It is late. Go to bed, Charlie, and we will talk it over in the morning."

"How pleasantly familiar that 'Go to bed, Charlie,' sounds," said the son, laughing, as he rose up.

"You did not always think it pleasant," returned the good lady, with a sad smile.

"That's true, but I think it uncommonly pleasant now. Good-night, mother."

"Good-night, my son, and God bless you."



Chapter Twelve.

Changes The Scene Considerably!

We must transport our reader now to a locality somewhere in the region lying between New Mexico and Colorado. Here, in a mean-looking out-of-the-way tavern, a number of rough-looking men were congregated, drinking, gambling, and spinning yarns. Some of them belonged to the class known as cow-boys -- men of rugged exterior, iron constitutions, powerful frames, and apparently reckless dispositions, though underneath the surface there was considerable variety of character to be found.

The landlord of the inn -- if we may so call it, for it was little better than a big shanty -- was known by the name of David. He was a man of cool courage. His customers knew this latter fact well, and were also aware that, although he carried no weapon on his person, he had several revolvers in handy places under his counter, with the use of which he was extremely familiar and expert.

In the midst of a group of rather noisy characters who smoked and drank in one corner of this inn or shanty, there was seated on the end of a packing-case, a man in the prime of life, who, even in such rough company, was conspicuously rugged. His leathern costume betokened him a hunter, or trapper, and the sheepskin leggings, with the wool outside, showed that he was at least at that time a horseman. Unlike most of his comrades, he wore Indian moccasins, with spurs strapped to them. Also a cap of the broad-brimmed order. The point about him that was most striking at first sight was his immense breadth of shoulder and depth of chest, though in height he did not equal many of the men around him. As one became acquainted with the man, however, his massive proportions had not so powerful an effect on the mind of an observer as the quiet simplicity of his expression and manner. Good-nature seemed to lurk in the lines about his eyes and the corners of his mouth, which latter had the peculiarity of turning down instead of up when he smiled; yet withal there was a stern gravity about him that forbade familiarity.

The name of the man was Hunky Ben, and the strangest thing about him --  that which puzzled these wild men most -- was that he neither drank nor smoked nor gambled! He made no pretence of abstaining on principle. One of the younger men, who was blowing a stiff cloud, ventured to ask him whether he really thought these things wrong.

"Well, now," he replied quietly, with a twinkle in his eye, "I'm no parson, boys, that I should set up to diskiver what's right an' what's wrong. I've got my own notions on them points, you bet, but I'm not goin' to preach 'em. As to smokin', I won't make a smoked herrin' o' my tongue to please anybody. Besides, I don't want to smoke, an' why should I do a thing I don't want to just because other people does it? Why should I make a new want when I've got no end o' wants a'ready that's hard enough to purvide for? Drinkin's all very well if a man wants Dutch courage, but I don't want it -- no, nor French courage, nor German, nor Chinee, havin' got enough o' the article home-growed to sarve my purpus. When that's used up I may take to drinkin' -- who knows? Same wi' gamblin'. I've no desire to bust up any man, an' I don't want to be busted up myself, you bet. No doubt drinkin', smokin', an' gamblin' makes men jolly -- them at least that's tough an' that wins! -- but I'm jolly without 'em, boys, -- jolly as a cottontail rabbit just come of age."

"An' ye look it, old man," returned the young fellow, puffing cloudlets with the utmost vigour; "but come, Ben, won't ye spin us a yarn about your frontier life?"

"Yes, do, Hunky," cried another in an entreating voice, for it was well known all over that region that the bold hunter was a good story-teller, and as he had served a good deal on the frontier as guide to the United States troops, it was understood that he had much to tell of a thrilling and adventurous kind; but although the men about him ceased to talk and looked at him with expectancy, he shook his head, and would not consent to be drawn out.

"No, boys, it can't be done to-day," he said; "I've no time, for I'm bound for Quester Creek in hot haste, an' am only waitin' here for my pony to freshen up a bit. The Redskins are goin' to give us trouble there by all accounts."

"The red devils!" exclaimed one of the men, with a savage oath; "they're always givin' us trouble."

"That," returned Hunky Ben, in a soft voice, as he glanced mildly at the speaker, -- "that is a sentiment I heer'd expressed almost exactly in the same words, though in Capatchee lingo, some time ago by a Redskin chief -- only he said it was pale-faced devils who troubled him. I wonder which is worst. They can't both be worst, you know!"

This remark was greeted with a laugh, and a noisy discussion thereupon began as to the comparative demerits of the two races, which was ere long checked by the sound of a galloping horse outside. Next moment the door opened, and a very tall man of commanding presence and bearing entered the room, took off his hat, and looked round with a slight bow to the company.

There was nothing commanding, however, in the quiet voice with which he asked the landlord if he and his horse could be put up there for the night.

The company knew at once, from the cut of the stranger's tweed suit, as well as his tongue, that he was an Englishman, not much used to the ways of the country -- though, from the revolver and knife in his belt, and the repeating rifle in his hand, he seemed to be ready to meet the country on its own terms by doing in Rome as Rome does.

On being told that he could have a space on the floor to lie on, which he might convert into a bed if he had a blanket with him, he seemed to make up his mind to remain, asked for food, and while it was preparing went out to attend to his horse. Then, returning, he went to a retired corner of the room, and flung himself down at full length on a vacant bench, as if he were pretty well exhausted with fatigue.

The simple fare of the hostelry was soon ready; and when the stranger was engaged in eating it, he asked a cow-boy beside him how far it was to Traitor's Trap.

At the question there was a perceptible lull in the conversation, and the cow-boy, who was a very coarse forbidding specimen of his class, said that he guessed Traitor's Trap was distant about twenty mile or so.

"Are you goin' thar, stranger?" he asked, eyeing his questioner curiously.

"Yes, I'm going there," answered the Englishman; "but from what I've heard of the road, at the place where I stayed last night, I don't like to go on without a guide and daylight -- though I would much prefer to push on to-night if it were possible."

"Wall, stranger, whether possible or not," returned the cow-boy, "it's an ugly place to go past, for there's a gang o' cut-throats there that's kep' the country fizzin' like ginger-beer for some time past. A man that's got to go past Traitor's Trap should go by like a greased thunderbolt, an' he should never go alone."

"Is it, then, such a dangerous place?" asked the Englishman, with a smile that seemed to say he thought his informant was exaggerating.

"Dangerous!" exclaimed the cow-boy. "Ay, an will be as long as Buck Tom an' his boys are unhung. Why, stranger, I'd get my life insured, you bet, before I'd go thar again -- except with a big crowd o' men. It was along in June last year I went up that way; there was nobody to go with me, an' I was forced to do it by myself -- for I had to go -- so I spunked up, saddled Bluefire, an' sloped. I got on lovely till I came to a pass just on t'other side o' Traitor's Trap, when I began to cheer up, thinkin' I'd got off square; but I hadn't gone another hundred yards when up starts Buck Tom an' his men with 'hands up.' I went head down flat on my saddle instead, I was so riled. Bang went a six-shooter, an' the ball just combed my back hair. I suppose Buck was so took by surprise at a single man darin' to disobey his orders that he missed. Anyhow I socked spurs into Bluefire, an' made a break for the open country ahead. They made after me like locomotives wi' the safety-valves blocked, but Bluefire was more'n a match for 'em. They kep' blazin' away all the time too, but never touched me, though I heard the balls whistlin' past for a good while. Bluefire an' me went, you bet, like a nor'-easter in a passion, an' at last they gave it up. No, stranger, take my advice an' don't go past Traitor's Trap alone. I wouldn't go there at all if I could help it."

"I don't intend to go past it. I mean to go into it," said the Englishman, with a short laugh, as he laid down his knife and fork, having finished his slight meal; "and, as I cannot get a guide, I shall be forced to go alone."

"Stranger," said the cow-boy in surprise, "d'ye want to meet wi' Buck Tom?"

"Not particularly."

"An' are ye aware that Buck Tom is one o' the most hardened, sanguinacious blackguards in all Colorado?"

"I did not know it before, but I suppose I may believe it now."

As he spoke the Englishman rose and went out to fetch the blanket which was strapped to his saddle. In going out he brushed close past a man who chanced to enter at the same moment.

The newcomer was also a tall and strikingly handsome man, clothed in the picturesque garments of the cow-boy, and fully armed. He strode up to the counter, with an air of proud defiance, and demanded drink. It was supplied him. He tossed it off quickly, without deigning a glance at the assembled company. Then in a deep-toned voice he asked -- 

"Has the Rankin Creek Company sent that account and the money?"

Profound silence had fallen on the whole party in the room the moment this man entered. They evidently looked at him with profound interest if not respect.

"Yes, Buck Tom," answered the landlord, in his grave off-hand manner; "They have sent it, and authorised me to pay you the balance."

He turned over some papers for a few minutes, during which Buck Tom did not condescend to glance to one side or the other, but kept his eye fixed sternly on the landlord.

At that moment the Englishman re-entered, went to his corner, spread his blanket on the floor, lay down, put his wide-awake over his eyes, and resigned himself to repose, apparently unaware that anything special was going on, and obtusely blind to the quiet but eager signals wherewith the cow-boy was seeking to direct his attention to Buck Tom.

In a few minutes the landlord found the paper he wanted, and began to look over it.

"The company owes you," he said, "three hundred dollars ten cents for the work done," said the landlord slowly.

Buck nodded his head as if satisfied with this.

"Your account has run on a long while," continued the landlord, "and they bid me explain that there is a debit of two hundred and ninety-nine dollars against you. Balance in your favour one dollar ten cents."

A dark frown settled on Buck Tom's countenance, as the landlord laid the balance due on the counter, and for a few moments he seemed in uncertainty as to what he should do, while the landlord stood conveniently near to a spot where one of his revolvers lay. Then Buck turned on his heel, and was striding towards the door, when the landlord called him back.

"Excuse my stopping you, Buck Tom," he said, "but there's a gentleman here who wants a guide to Traitor's Trap. Mayhap you wouldn't object to -- "

"Where is he?" demanded Buck, wheeling round, with a look of slight surprise.

"There," said the landlord, pointing to the dark corner where the big Englishman lay, apparently fast asleep, with his hat pulled well down over his eyes.

Buck Tom looked at the sleeping figure for a few moments.

"H'm! well, I might guide him," he said, with something of a grim smile, "but I'm travelling too fast for comfort. He might hamper me. By the way," he added, looking back as he laid his hand on the door, "you may tell the Rankin Creek Company, with my compliments, to buy a new lock to their office door, for I intend to call on them some day soon and balance up that little account on a new system of 'rithmetic! Tell them I give 'em leave to clap the one dollar ten cents to the credit of their charity account."

Another moment and Buck Tom was gone. Before the company in the tavern had quite recovered the use of their tongues, the hoofs of his horse were heard rattling along the road which led in the direction of Traitor's Trap.

"Was that really Buck Tom?" asked Hunky Ben, in some surprise.

"Ay -- or his ghost," answered the landlord.

"I can swear to him, for I saw him as clear as I see you the night he split after me," said the cowboy, who had warned the Englishman.

"Why didn't you put a bullet into him to-night, Crux?" asked a comrade.

"Just so -- you had a rare chance," remarked another of the cow-boys, with something of a sneer in his tone.

"Because I'm not yet tired o' my life," replied Crux, indignantly. "Back Tom has got eyes in the back o' his head, I do believe, and shoots dead like a flash -- "

"Not that time he missed you at Traitor's Trap, I think," said the other.

"Of course not -- 'cause we was both mounted that time, and scurryin' over rough ground like wild-cats. The best o' shots would miss thar an' thus. Besides, Buck Tom took nothin' from me, an' ye wouldn't have me shoot a man for missin' me -- surely. If you're so fond o' killin', why didn't you shoot him yourself? -- you had a rare chance!"

Crux grinned -- for his ugly mouth could not compass a smile -- as he thought thus to turn the tables on his comrade.

"Well, he's got clear off, anyhow, returned the comrade, an' it's a pity, for -- "

He was interrupted by the Englishman raising himself and asking in a sleepy tone if there was likely to be moonlight soon.

The company seemed to think him moon-struck to ask such a question, but one of them replied that the moon was due in half an hour.

"You've lost a good chance, sir," said Crux, who had a knack of making all his communications as disagreeably as possible, unless they chanced to be unavoidably agreeable, in which case he made the worst of them. "Buck Tom hisself has just bin here, an' might have agreed to guide you to Traitor's Trap if you'd made him a good offer."

"Why did you not awake me?" asked the Englishman in a reproachful tone, as he sprang up, grasped his blanket hastily, threw down a piece of money on the counter, and asked if the road wasn't straight and easy for a considerable distance.

"Straight as an arrow for ten mile," said the landlord, as he laid down the change which the Englishman put into an apparently well-filled purse.

"I'll guide you, stranger, for five dollars," said Crux.

"I want no guide," returned the other, somewhat brusquely, as he left the room.

A minute or two later he was heard to pass the door on horseback at a sharp trot.

"Poor lad, he'll run straight into the wolf's den; but why he wants to do it puzzles me," remarked the landlord, as he carefully cleaned a tankard. "But he would take no warning."

"The wolf doesn't seem half as bad as he's bin painted," said Hunky Ben, rising and offering to pay his score.

"Hallo, Hunky -- not goin' to skip, are ye?" asked Crux.

"I told ye I was in a hurry. Only waitin' to rest my pony. My road is the same as the stranger's, at least part o' the way. I'll overhaul an' warn him."

A few minutes more and the broad-shouldered scout was also galloping along the road or track which led towards the Rocky mountains in the direction of Traitor's Trap.



Chapter Thirteen.

Hunky Ben Is Sorely Perplexed.

It was one of Hunky Ben's few weaknesses to take pride in being well mounted. When he left the tavern he bestrode one of his best steeds -- a black charger of unusual size, which he had purchased while on a trading trip in Texas -- and many a time had he ridden it while guiding the United States troops in their frequent expeditions against ill-disposed Indians. Taken both together it would have been hard to equal, and impossible to match, Hunky Ben and his coal-black mare.

From the way that Ben rode, on quitting the tavern, it might have been supposed that legions of wild Indians were at his heels. But after going about a few miles at racing speed he reined in, and finally pulled up at a spot where a very slight pathway diverged. Here he sat quite still for a few minutes in meditation. Then he muttered softly to himself -- for Ben was often and for long periods alone in the woods and on the plains, and found it somewhat "sociable-like" to mutter his thoughts audibly:

"You've not cotched him up after all, Ben," he said. "Black Polly a'most equals a streak o' lightnin', but the Britisher got too long a start o' ye, an' he's clearly in a hurry. Now, if I follow on he'll hear your foot-falls, Polly, an' p'raps be scared into goin' faster to his doom. Whereas, if I go off the track here an' drive ahead so as to git to the Blue Fork before him, I'll be able to stop the Buck's little game, an' save the poor fellow's life. Buck is sure to stop him at the Blue Fork, for it's a handy spot for a road-agent, [a highwayman] and there's no other near."

Hunky Ben was pre-eminently a man of action. As he uttered or thought the last word he gave a little chirp which sent Black Polly along the diverging track at a speed which almost justified the comparison of her to lightning.

The Blue Fork was a narrow pass or gorge in the hills, the footpath through which was rendered rugged and dangerous for cattle because of the rocks that had fallen during the course of ages from the cliffs on either side. Seen from a short distance off on the main track the mountains beyond had a brilliantly blue appearance, and a few hundred yards on the other side of the pass the track forked -- hence the name. One fork led up to Traitor's Trap, the other to the fort of Quester Creek, an out-post of United States troops for which Hunky Ben was bound with the warning that the Redskins were contemplating mischief. As Ben had conjectured, this was the spot selected by Buck Tom as the most suitable place for waylaying his intended victim. Doubtless he supposed that no Englishman would travel in such a country without a good deal of money about him, and he resolved to relieve him of it.

It was through a thick belt of wood that the scout had to gallop at first, and he soon outstripped the traveller who kept to the main and, at that part, more circuitous road, and who was besides obliged to advance cautiously in several places. On nearing his destination, however, Ben pulled up, dismounted, fastened his mare to a tree, and proceeded the rest of the way on foot at a run, carrying his repeating rifle with him. He had not gone far when he came upon a horse. It was fastened, like his own, to a tree in a hollow.

"Ho! ho!" thought Ben, "you prefer to do yer dirty work on foot, Mr Buck! Well, you're not far wrong in such a place."

Advancing now with great caution, the scout left the track and moved through the woods more like a visible ghost than a man, for he was well versed in all the arts and wiles of the Indian, and his moccasined feet made no sound whatever. Climbing up the pass at some height above the level of the road, so that he might be able to see all that took place below, he at last lay down at full length, and drew himself in snake fashion to the edge of the thicket that concealed him. Pushing aside the bushes gently he looked down, and there, to his satisfaction, beheld the man he was in search of, not thirty yards off.

Buck Tom was crouching behind a large mass of rock close to the track, and so lost in the dark shadow of it that no ordinary man could have seen him; but nothing could escape the keen and practised eye of Hunky Ben. He could not indeed make out the highwayman's form, but he knew that he was there and that was enough. Laying his rifle on a rock before him in a handy position he silently watched the watcher.

During all this time the Englishman -- whom the reader has doubtless recognised as Charlie Brooke -- was pushing on as fast as he could in the hope of overtaking the man who could guide him to Traitor's Trap.

At last he came to the Blue Forks, and rode into the pass with the confidence of one who suspects no evil. He drew rein, however, as he advanced, and picked his way carefully along the encumbered path.

He had barely reached the middle of it, where a clear space permitted the moonbeams to fall brightly on the ground, when a stern voice suddenly broke the stillness of the night with the words -- 

"Hands up!"

Charlie Brooke seemed either to be ignorant of the ways of the country and of the fact that disobedience to the command involved sudden death, or he had grown unaccountably reckless, for instead of raising his arms and submitting to be searched by the robber who covered him with a revolver, he merely reined up and took off his hat, allowing the moon to shine full on his countenance.

The effect on Buck Tom was singular. Standing with his back to the moon, his expression could not be seen, but his arm dropped to his side as if it had been paralysed, and the revolver fell to the ground.

Never had Buck Tom been nearer to his end than at that moment, for Hunky Ben, seeing clearly what would be the consequence of the Englishman's non-compliance with the command, was already pressing the trigger that would have sent a bullet into Buck Tom's brain, but the Englishman's strange conduct induced him to pause, and the effect on the robber caused him to raise his head and open wide his eyes -- also his ears!

"Ah! Ralph Ritson, has it come to this?" said Charlie, in a voice that told only of pity and surprise.

For some moments Ralph did not speak. He was evidently stunned. Presently he recovered, and, passing his hand over his brow, but never taking his eyes off the handsome face of his former friend, he said in a low tone -- 

"I -- I -- don't feel very sure whether you're flesh and blood, Brooke, or a spirit -- but -- but -- "

"I'm real enough to be able to shake hands, Ritson," returned our hero, dismounting, and going up to his former friend, who suffered him to grasp the hand that had been on the point of taking his life. "But can it be true, that I really find you a -- "

"It is true, Charlie Brooke; quite true -- but while you see the result, you do not see, and cannot easily understand, the hard grinding injustice that has brought me to this. The last and worst blow I received this very night. I have urgent need of money -- not for myself, believe me -- and I came down to David's store, at some personal risk, I may add, to receive payment of a sum due me for acting as a cow-boy for many months. The company, instead of paying me -- "

"Yes, I know; I heard it all," said Charlie.

"You were only shamming sleep, then?"

"Yes; I knew you at once."

"Well, then," continued Buck Tom (as we shall still continue to style him), "the disappointment made me so desperate that I determined to rob you -- little thinking who you were -- in order to help poor Shank Leather -- "

"Does Shank stand in urgent need of help?" asked Charlie, interrupting.

"He does indeed. He has been very ill. We have run out of funds, and he needs food and physic of a kind that the mountains don't furnish."

"Does he belong to your band, Ritson?"

"Well -- nearly; not quite!"

"That is a strange answer. How far is it to where he lies just now?"

"Six miles, about."

"Come, then, I will go to him if you will show me the way," returned Charlie, preparing to remount. "I have plenty of that which poor Shank stands so much in need of. In fact I have come here for the express purpose of hunting him and you up. Would it not be well, by the way, to ride back to the store for some supplies?"

"No need," answered Buck Tom, stooping to pick up his revolver. "There's another store not far from this, to which we can send to-morrow. We can get what we want there."

"But what have you done with your horse?" asked Charlie; "I heard you start on one."

"It is not far off. I'll go fetch it."

So saying the robber entered the bushes and disappeared. A few minutes later the clattering of hoofs was heard, and in another moment he rode up to the spot where our hero awaited him.

"Follow me," he said; "the road becomes better half a mile further on."

During all this time Hunky Ben had stood with his rifle ready, listening with the feelings of a man in a dream. He watched the robber and his victim ride quietly away until they were out of sight. Then he stood up, tilted his cap on one side, and scratched his head in great perplexity.

"Well, now," he said at length, "this is about the queerest affair I've comed across since I was raised. It's a marcy I was born with a quiet spirit, for another chip off the small end of a moment an' Buck Tom would have bin with his fathers in their happy, or otherwise, huntin' grounds! It's quite clear that them two have bin friends, mayhap pards, in the old country. An' Buck Tom (that's Ritson, I think he called him) has bin driven to it by injustice, has he? Ah! Buck, if all the world that suffers injustice was to take to robbery it's not many respectable folk would be left to rob. Well, well, my comin' off in such a splittin' hurry to take care o' this Britisher is a wild-goose chase arter all! It's not the first one you've bin led into anyhow, an' it's time you was lookin' arter yer own business, Hunky Ben."

While giving vent to these remarks in low muttering tones, the scout was quickly retracing his steps to the place where he had tied up Black Polly. Mounting her he returned to the main track, proceeded along it until he reached the place beyond the pass where the roads forked; then, selecting that which diverged to the left, he set off at a hard gallop in the direction of Quester Creek.



Chapter Fourteen.

The Haunt Of The Outlaws.

After riding through the Blue Fork Charlie and Buck Tom came to a stretch of open ground of considerable extent, where they could ride abreast, and here the latter gave the former some account of the condition of Shank Leather.

"Tell me, Ritson," said Charlie, "what you mean by Shank 'nearly' and 'not quite' belonging to your band."

The outlaw was silent for some time. Then he seemed to make up his mind to speak out.

"Brooke," he said, "it did, till this night, seem to me that all the better feelings of my nature -- whatever they were -- had been blotted out of existence, for since I came to this part of the world the cruelty and injustice that I have witnessed and suffered have driven me to desperation, and I candidly confess to you that I have come to hate pretty nigh the whole human race. The grip of your hand and tone of your voice, however, have told me that I have not yet sunk to the lowest possible depths. But that is not what I mean to enlarge on. What I wish you to understand is, that after Shank and I had gone to the dogs, and were reduced to beggary, I made up my mind to join a band of men who lived chiefly by their wits, and sometimes by their personal courage. Of course I won't say who they are, because we still hang together, and there is no need to say what we are. The profession is variously named, and not highly respected.

"Shank refused to join me, so we parted. He remained for some time in New York doing odd jobs for a living. Then he joined a small party of emigrants, and journeyed west. Strange to say, although the country is wide, he and I again met accidentally. My fellows wanted to overhaul the goods of the emigrants with whom he travelled. They objected. A fight followed in which there was no bloodshed, for the emigrants fled at the first war-whoop. A shot from one of them, however, wounded one of our men, and one of theirs was so drunk at the time of the flight that he fell off his horse and was captured. That man was Shank. I recognised him when I rode up to see what some of my boys were quarrelling over, and found that it was the wounded man wanting to shove his knife into Shank.

"The moment I saw his face I claimed him as an old chum, and had him carried up to our headquarters in Traitor's Trap. There he has remained ever since, in a very shaky condition, for the fall seems to have injured him internally, besides almost breaking his neck. Indeed I think his spine is damaged, -- he recovers so slowly. We have tried to persuade him to say that he will become one of us when he gets well, but up to this time he has steadily refused. I am not sorry; for, to say truth, I don't want to force any one into such a line of life -- and he does not look as if he'd be fit for it, or anything else, for many a day to come."

"But how does it happen that you are in such straits just now?" asked Charlie, seeing that Buck paused, and seemed unwilling to make further explanations.

"Well, the fact is, we have not been successful of late; no chances have come in our way, and two of our best men have taken their departure -- one to gold-digging in California, the other to the happy hunting grounds of the Redskin, or elsewhere. Luck, in short, seems to have forsaken us. Pious folk," he added, with something of a sneer, "would say, no doubt, that God had forsaken us."

"I think pious people would not say so, and they would be wrong if they did," returned Charlie. "In my opinion God never forsakes any one; but when His creatures forsake him He thwarts them. It cannot be otherwise if His laws are to be vindicated."

"It may be so. But what have I done," said Buck Tom fiercely, "to merit the bad treatment and insufferable injustice which I have received since I came to this accursed land? I cannot stand injustice. It makes my blood boil, and so, since it is rampant here, and everybody has been unjust to me, I have made up my mind to pay them back in their own coin. There seems to me even a spice of justice in that."

"I wonder that you cannot see the fallacy of your reasoning, Ritson," replied Charlie. "You ask, 'What have I done?' The more appropriate question would be, 'What have I not done?' Have you not, according to your own confession, rebelled against your Maker and cast Him off; yet you expect Him to continue His supplies of food to you; to keep up your physical strength and powers of enjoying life, and, under the name of Luck, to furnish you with the opportunity of breaking His own commands by throwing people in your way to be robbed! Besides which, have you not yourself been guilty of gross injustice in leading poor weak Shank Leather into vicious courses -- to his great, if not irreparable, damage? I don't profess to teach theology, Ralph Ritson, my old friend, but I do think that even an average cow-boy could understand that a rebel has no claim to forgiveness -- much less to favour -- until he lays down his arms and gives in."

"Had any other man but you, Charlie Brooke, said half as much as you have just said to me, I would have blown his brains out," returned the outlaw sternly.

"I'm very glad no other man did say it, then," returned Charlie, "for your hands must be sufficiently stained already. But don't let anger blind you to the fact, Ralph, that you and I were once old friends; that I am your friend still, and that, what is of far greater importance, the Almighty is still your friend, and is proving His friendship by thwarting you."

"You preach a strange doctrine," said Buck Tom, laughing softly, "but you must end your sermon here in the meantime, for we have reached the entrance to Traitor's Trap, and have not room to ride further abreast. I will lead, and do you follow with care, for the path is none o' the safest. My asking you to follow me is a stronger proof than you may think that I believe in your friendship. Most strangers whom I escort up this gorge are usually requested to lead the way, and I keep my revolver handy lest they should stray from the track!"

The defile or gorge which they had reached was not inappropriately named, for, although the origin of the name was unknown, the appearance of the place was eminently suggestive of blackness and treachery. Two spurs of the mountain range formed a precipitous and rugged valley which, even in daylight, wore a forbidding aspect, and at night seemed the very portal to Erebus.

"Keep close to my horse's tail," said Buck Tom, as they commenced the ascent. "If you stray here, ever so little, your horse will break his neck or legs."

Thus admonished, our hero kept a firm hand on the bridle, and closed up as much as possible on his guide. The moon was by this time clouded over, so that, with the precipitous cliffs on either side, and the great mass of the mountains further up, there was only that faint sombre appearance of things which is sometimes described as darkness visible. The travellers proceeded slowly, for, besides the danger of straying off the path, the steepness of the ascent rendered rapid motion impossible. After riding for about three miles thus in absolute silence, they came to a spot where the track became somewhat serpentine, and Charlie could perceive dimly that they were winding amongst great fragments of rock which were here and there over-canopied by foliage, but whether of trees or bushes he could not distinguish. At last they came to a halt in front of what appeared to be a cliff.

"Dismount here," said Buck in a low voice, setting the example.

"Is this the end of our ride?"

"It is. Give me the bridle. I will put up your horse. Stand where you are till I return."

The outlaw led the horses away, leaving his former friend and schoolfellow in a curious position, and a not very comfortable frame of mind. When a man is engaged in action -- especially if it be exciting and slightly dangerous -- he has not time to think much about his surroundings, at least about their details, but now, while standing there in the intense darkness, in the very heart -- as he had reason to believe -- of a robber's stronghold, young Brooke could not help questioning his wisdom in having thus thrown himself into the power of one who had obviously deteriorated and fallen very low since the time when in England they had studied and romped together. It was too late, however, to question the wisdom of his conduct. There he was, and so he must make the best of it. He did not indeed fear treachery in his former friend, but he could not help reflecting that the reckless and perhaps desperate men with whom that friend was now associated might not be easy to restrain, especially if they should become acquainted with the fact that he carried a considerable sum of money about him.

He was yet pondering his position when Buck Tom returned.

"Ralph Ritson," he said, laying his hand on the arm of the outlaw, "you'll forgive my speaking plainly to you, I know. With regard to yourself I have not a shadow of doubt that you will act the part of an honourable host, though you follow a dishonourable calling. But I have no guarantee that those who associate with you will respect my property. Now, I have a considerable sum of money about me in gold and silver, which I brought here expressly for the benefit of our poor friend Shank Leather. What would you advise me to do in regard to it?"

"Intrust it to my care," said Buck promptly.

Charlie could not see the outlaw's face very clearly, but he could easily detect the half-amused half-mocking tone in which the suggestion was made.

"My good fellow," said Charlie, in a hearty voice, "you evidently think I am afraid to trust you. That is a mistake. I do not indeed trust to any remnant of good that is in your poor human nature, but I have confidence in the good feeling which God is arousing in you just now. I will freely hand over the money if you can assure me that you can guard it from your comrades."

"This will make it secure from them," returned Buck, with a short defiant laugh.

"Humph" exclaimed Charlie with a shrug. "I've not much confidence in that safeguard. No doubt, in certain circumstances, and on certain occasions, the revolver is a most important and useful instrument, but, taking it all round, I would not put much store by it. When you met me at the Blue Fork to-night, for instance, of what use was my revolver to me? And, for the matter of that, after you had dropped it on the road of what use was yours to you? It only wants one of your fellows to have more pluck and a quicker eye and hand than yourself to dethrone you at once."

"Well, none of my fellows," returned Buck Tom good-humouredly, "happen to have the advantage of me at present, so you may trust me and count this as one o' the 'certain occasions' on which a revolver is a most important instrument."

"I dare say you are right," responded Charlie, smiling, as he drew from the breast of his coat a small bag and handed it to his companion.

"You know exactly, of course, how much is here?" asked Buck Tom.

"Yes, exactly."

"That's all right," continued Buck, thrusting the bag into the bosom of his hunting coat; "now I'll see if any o' the boys are at home. Doubtless they are out -- else they'd have heard us by this time. Just wait a minute."

He seemed to melt into the darkness as he spoke. Another minute and he re-appeared.

"Here, give me your hand," he said; "the passage is darkish at first."

Charlie Brooke felt rather than saw that they had passed under a portal of some sort, and were advancing along a narrow passage. Soon they turned to the left, and a faint red light -- as of fire -- became visible in the distance. Buck Tom stopped.

"There's no one in the cave but him, and he's asleep. Follow me."

The passage in which they stood led to a third and shorter one, where the light at its extremity was intense, lighting up the whole of the place so as to reveal its character. It was a corridor about seven feet high and four feet wide cut out of the solid earth; arched in the roof and supported here and there by rough posts to make it still more secure. Charlie at once concluded that it led to one of those concealed caverns, of which he had heard more than once while crossing the country, the entrances of which are made in zig-zag form in order to prevent the possibility of a ray of light issuing from the outside opening.

On reaching the end of the third passage he found that his conjecture was right, for the doorway or opening on his left hand conducted into a spacious cave, also hollowed out of the earth, but apparently against a perpendicular cliff, for the inner end of it was of unhewn rock. The roof of the cave was supported by pillars which were merely sections of pine-trees with the bark left on. These pillars and the earthen walls were adorned with antlers, skulls, and horns of the Rocky mountain sheep, necklaces of grizzly-bear's claws, Indian bows and arrows, rifles, short swords, and various other weapons and trophies of the chase, besides sundry articles of clothing. At the inner end of the cave a large fireplace and chimney had been rudely built, and in this was roaring the pine-wood fire which had lighted them in, and which caused the whole interior to glow with a vivid glare that seemed to surpass that of noon-day.

A number of couches of pine-brush were spread round the walls, and on one of these lay a sleeping figure. The face was turned towards the visitor, who saw at a glance that it was that of his former friend and playmate -- but it was terribly changed. Hard toil, suffering, sickness, dissipation, had set indelible marks on it, and there was a slight curve about the eyebrows which gave the idea of habitual pain. Yet strange to say, worn and lined though it was, the face seemed far more attractive and refined than it had ever been in the days of robust health.

Buck Tom went to the fire and began to stir the contents of a big pot that hung over it, while Charlie advanced and stood for some minutes gazing at the countenance of his friend, unwilling to disturb his slumbers, yet longing to cheer him with the glad news that he had come to succour him. He chanced, however, to touch a twig of the pine branches on which the sleeper lay, and Shank awoke instantly, raised himself on one elbow, and returned his friend's gaze earnestly, but without the slightest symptom of surprise.

"O Charlie," he said at last in a quiet voice, "I wish you hadn't come to me to-night."

He stopped, and Charlie felt quite unable to speak, owing to intense pity, mingled with astonishment, at such a reception.

"It's too bad of you," Shank went on, "worrying me so in my dreams. I'm weary of it; and if you only knew what a terrible disappointment it is to me when I awake and don't find you there, you wouldn't tantalise me so. You always look so terribly real too! Man, I could almost pledge my life that you are no deception this time, but -- but I'm so used to it now that -- "

"Shank, my dear boy," said Charlie, finding words at last, "it is no deception -- "

He stopped abruptly; for the intense look of eager anxiety, doubt, and hope in the thin expressive face alarmed him.

"Charlie!" gasped, rather than said, the invalid, "you -- you never spoke to me before in my dreams, and -- you never touched -- the grip of your strong h -- O God! can it be true?"

At this point Buck Tom suddenly left off his occupation at the fire and went out of the cave.



Chapter Fifteen.

Lost And Found.

"Try to be calm, Shank," said Charlie, in a soothing tone, as he kneeled beside the shadow that had once been his sturdy chum, and put an arm on his shoulder. "It is indeed myself this time. I have come all the way from England to seek you, for we heard, through Ritson, that you were ill and lost in these wilds, and now, through God's mercy, I have found you."

While Charlie Brooke was speaking, the poor invalid was breathing hard and gazing at him, as if to make quite sure it was all true.

"Yes," he said at last, unable to raise his voice above a hoarse whisper, "lost -- and -- and -- found! Charlie, my friend -- my chum -- my -- "

He could say no more, but, laying his head like a little child on the broad bosom of his rescuer, he burst into a passionate flood of tears.

Albeit strong of will, and not by any means given to the melting mood, our hero was unable for a minute or two to make free use of his voice.

"Come, now, Shank, old man, you mustn't give way like that. You wouldn't, you know, if you had not been terribly reduced by illness -- "

"Yes, I would! yes, I would!" interrupted the sick man, almost passionately; "I'd howl, I'd roar, I'd blubber like a very idiot, I'd do any mortal thing, if the doing of it would only make you understand how I appreciate your great kindness in coming out here to save me."

"Oh no, you wouldn't," said Charlie, affecting an easy off-hand tone, which he was far from feeling; "you wouldn't do anything to please me."

"What d'ye mean?" asked Shank, with a look of surprise.

"Well, I mean," returned the other, gently, "that you won't even do such a trifle as to lie down and keep quiet to please me."

A smile lighted up the emaciated features of the sick man, as he promptly lay back at full length and shut his eyes.

"There, Charlie," he said, "I'll behave, and let you do all the talking; but don't let go my hand, old man. Keep a tight grip of it. I'm terrified lest you drift off again, and -- and melt away."

"No fear, Shank. I'll not let go my hold of you, please God, till I carry you back to old England."

"Ah! old England! I'll never see it again. I feel that. But tell me," -- he started up again, with a return of the excited look -- "is father any better?"

"N-no, not exactly -- but he is no worse. I'll tell you all about everything if you will only lie down again and keep silent."

The invalid once more lay back, closed his eyes and listened, while his friend related to him all that he knew about his family affairs, and the kindness of old Jacob Crossley, who had not only befriended them when in great distress, but had furnished the money to enable him, Charlie, to visit these outlandish regions for the express purpose of rescuing Shank from all his troubles and dangers.

At this point the invalid interrupted him with an anxious look.

"Have you the money with you?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Because," returned Shank, with something of a groan, "you are in a den of thieves!"

"I know it, my boy," returned Charlie, with a smile, "and so, for better security, I have given it in charge to our old chum, Ralph Ritson."

"What!" exclaimed Shank, starting up again with wide open eyes; "you have met Ralph, then?"

"I have. He conducted me here."

"And you have intrusted your money to him?"

"Yes -- all of it; every cent!"

"Are you aware," continued Shank, in a solemn tone, "that Ralph Ritson is Buck Tom -- the noted chief of the outlaws?"

"I know it."

"And you trust him?"

"I do. I have perfect confidence that he is quite incapable of betraying an old friend."

For some time Shank looked at his companion in surprise; then an absent look came into his eyes, and a variety of expressions passed over his wan visage. At last he spoke.

"I don't know how it is, Charlie, but somehow I think you are right. It's an old complaint of mine, you know, to come round to your way of thinking, whether I admit it or not. In days of old I usually refused to admit it, but believed in you all the same! If any man had told me this morning -- ay, even half an hour since -- that he had placed money in the hands of Buck Tom for safe keeping, knowing who and what he is, I would have counted him an incurable fool; but now, somehow, I do believe that you were quite right to do it, and that your money is as safe as if it were in the Bank of England."

"But I did not intrust it to Buck Tom, knowing who and what he is," returned Charlie, with a significant smile, "I put it into the hands of Ralph Ritson, knowing who and what he was."

"You're a good fellow, Charlie," said Shank, squeezing the hand that held his, "and I believe it is that very trustfulness of yours which gives you so great power and influence with people. I know it has influenced me for good many a time in the past, and would continue to do so still if I were not past redemption."

"No man is past redemption," said the other quietly; "but I'm glad you agree with me about Ralph, for -- "

He stopped abruptly, and both men turned their eyes towards the entrance to the cave.

"Did you hear anything?" asked Shank, in a low voice.

"I thought so -- but it must have been the shifting of a log on the fire," said the other, in a similarly low tone.

"Come, now, Charlie," said Shank, in his ordinary tones, "let me hear something about yourself. You have not said a word yet about what you have been doing these three years past."

As he spoke a slight noise was again heard in the passage, and, next moment Buck Tom re-entered carrying a lump of meat. Whether he had been listening or not they had no means of knowing, for his countenance was quite grave and natural in appearance.

"I suppose you have had long enough, you two, to renew your old acquaintance," he said. "It behoves me now to get ready some supper for the boys against their return, for they would be ill-pleased to come home to an empty kettle, and their appetites are surprisingly strong. But you needn't interrupt your conversation. I can do my work without disturbing you."

"We have no secrets to communicate, Buck," returned Shank, "and I have no doubt that the account of himself, which our old chum was just going to give, will be as interesting to you as to me."

"Quite as interesting," rejoined Buck; "so pray go on, Brooke. I can listen while I look after the cookery."

Thus urged, our hero proceeded to relate his own adventures at sea -- the wreck of the Walrus, the rescue by the whaler, and his various experiences both afloat and ashore.

"The man, Dick Darvall, whom I have mentioned several times," said Charlie, in conclusion, "I met with again in New York, when I was about to start to come here, and as I wanted a companion, and he was a most suitable man, besides being willing to come, I engaged him. He is a rough and ready, but a handy and faithful, man, who had some experience in woodcraft before he went to sea, but I have been forced to leave him behind me at a ranch a good many miles to the south of David's store, owing to the foolish fellow having tried to jump a creek in the dark and broken his horse's leg. We could not get another horse at the time, and as I was very anxious to push on -- being so near my journey's end -- and the ranch was a comfortable enough berth, I left him behind, as I have said, with directions to stay till I should return, or to push on if he could find a safe guide."

While Charlie Brooke was relating the last part of his experience, it might have been observed that the countenance of Buck Tom underwent a variety of curious changes, like the sky of an April day. A somewhat stern frown settled on it at last but neither of his companions observed the fact being too much interested in each other.

"What was the name o' the ranch where your mate was left?" asked Buck Tom, when his guest ceased speaking.

"The ranch of Roaring Bull," answered Charlie. "I should not wonder," he added, "if its name were derived from its owner's voice, for it sounded like the blast of a trombone when he shouted to his people."

"Not only his ranch but himself is named after his voice," returned Buck. "His real name is Jackson, but it is seldom used now. Every one knows him as Roaring Bull. He's not a bad fellow at bottom, but something overbearing, and has made a good many enemies since he came to this part of the country six years ago."

"That may be so," remarked Brooke, "but he was very kind to us the day we put up at his place, and Dick Darvall, at all events, is not one of his enemies. Indeed he and Roaring Bull took quite a fancy to each other. It seemed like love at first sight. Whether Jackson's pretty daughter had anything to do with the fancy on Dick's part of course I can't say. Now, I think of it, his readiness to remain behind inclines me to believe it had!"

"Well, come outside with me, and have a chat about old, times. It is too hot for comfort here. I dare say our friend Shank will spare you for quarter of an hour, and the pot can look after itself. By the way, it would be as well to call me Buck Tom -- or Buck. My fellows would not understand Ralph Ritson. They never heard it before. Have a cigar?"

"No, thank you, I have ceased to see the advantage of poisoning one's-self merely because it is the fashion to do so."

"The poison is wonderfully slow," said Buck.

"But not less wonderfully sure," returned Charlie, with a smile.

"As you will," rejoined Buck, rising and going outside with his visitor.

The night was very still and beautiful, and, the clouds having cleared away, the moonbeams struggled through the foliage and revealed the extreme wildness and seclusion of the spot which had been chosen by the outlaws as their fortress.

Charlie now saw that the approach to the entrance of the cave was a narrow neck of rock resembling a natural bridge, with a deep gully on either side, and that the cliff which formed the inner end of the cavern overhung its base, so that if an enemy were to attempt to hurl rocks down from above these would drop beyond the cave altogether. This much he saw at a glance. The minute details and intricacies of the place of course could not be properly seen or understood in the flickering and uncertain light which penetrated the leafy canopy, and, as it were, played with the shadows of the fallen rocks that strewed the ground everywhere, and hung in apparently perilous positions on the mountain slopes.

The manner of the outlaw changed to that of intense earnestness the moment he got out to the open air.

"Charlie Brooke," he said, with more of the tone and air of old familiar friendship than he had yet allowed himself to assume, "it's of no use exciting poor Shank unnecessarily, so I brought you out here to tell you that your man Dick Darvall is in deadly peril, and nothing but immediate action on my part can save him; I must ride without delay to his rescue. You cannot help me in this. I know what you are going to propose, but you must trust and obey me if you would save your friend's life. To accompany me would only delay and finally mar my plans. Now, will you -- "

A peculiar whistle far down the gorge caused the outlaw to cease abruptly and listen.

The whistle was repeated, and Buck answered it at once with a look of great surprise.

"These are my fellows back already!" he said.

"You seem surprised. Did you, then, not expect them so soon?"

"I certainly did not; something must have gone wrong," replied Buck, with a perplexed look. Then, as if some new idea had flashed upon him, "Now, look here, Brooke, I must ask you to trust me implicitly and to act a part. Your life may depend on your doing this."

"The first I can do with ease, but as to the latter, my agreeing to do so depends on whether the action you require of me is honourable. You must forgive me, Rits -- "

"Hush! Don't forget that there is no such man as Ralph Ritson in these mountains. My life may depend on your remembering that. Of course I don't expect you to act a dishonourable part, -- all I want you to do just now is to lie down and pretend to go to sleep."

"Truly, if that is all, I am ready," said Charlie; "at all events I will shut my eyes and hold my tongue."

"A useful virtue at times, and somewhat rare," said Buck, leading his guest back into the cavern. "Now, then, Brooke, lie down there," pointing to a couch of pine-brush in a corner, "and try to sleep if you can."

Our hero at once complied, stretched himself at full length with his face to the light, and apparently went to sleep, but with his left arm thrown over his forehead as if to protect his eyes from the glare of the fire. Thus he was in a position to see as well as hear all that went on. Buck Tom went to the sick man and whispered something to him. Then, returning to the fire, he continued to stir the big pot, and sniff its savoury contents with much interest.



Chapter Sixteen.

Friends And Foes -- Plots And Counterplots -- The Ranch In Danger.

In a few minutes the sound of heavy feet and gruff voices was heard in the outside passage, and next moment ten men filed into the room and saluted their chief heartily.

Charlie felt an almost irresistible tendency to open his eyes, but knew that the risk was too great, and contented himself with his ears. These told him pretty eloquently what was going on, for suddenly, the noise of voices and clattering of footsteps ceased, a dead silence ensued, and Charlie knew that the whole band were gazing at him with wide open eyes and, probably, open mouths. Their attention had been directed to the stranger by the chief. The silence was only momentary, however.

"Now, don't begin to whisper, pards," said Buck Tom, in a slightly sarcastic tone. "When will ye learn that there is nothing so likely to waken a sleeper as whisperin'? Be natural -- be natural, and tell me, as softly as ye can in your natural tones, what has brought you back so soon. Come, Jake, you have got the quietest voice. The poor man is pretty well knocked up and needs rest. I brought him here."

"Has he got much?" the sentence was completed by Jake significantly slapping his pocket.

"A goodish lot. But come, sit down and out wi' the news. Something must be wrong."

"Wall, I guess that somethin' is wrong. Everything's wrong, as far as I can see. The Redskins are up, an' the troops are out, an' so it seemed o' no use our goin' to bust up the ranch of Roarin' Bull, seein' that the red devils are likely to be there before us. So we came back here, an' I'm glad you've got suthin' in the pot, for we're about as empty as kettledrums."

"Humph!" ejaculated Buck, "didn't I tell you not to trouble Roarin' Bull -- that he and his boys could lick you if you had been twenty instead of ten. But how came ye to hear o' this cock-and-bull story about the Redskins?"

"We got it from Hunky Ben, an' he's not the boy to go spreadin' false reports."

Charlie Brooke ventured at this point to open his eye-lids the smallest possible bit, so that any one looking at him would have failed to observe any motion in them. The little slit however, admitted the whole scene to the retina, and he perceived that ten of the most cut-throat-looking men conceivable were seated in a semicircle in the act of receiving portions from the big pot into tin plates. Most of them were clothed in hunters' leathern costume, wore long boots with spurs, and were more or less bronzed and bearded.

Buck Tom, alias Ralph Ritson, although as tall and strong as any of them, seemed a being of quite angelic gentleness beside them. Yet Buck was their acknowledged chief. No doubt it was due to the superiority of mind over matter, for those out-laws were grossly material and matter-of-fact!

"There must be some truth in the report if Hunky Ben carried it," said Buck, looking up quickly, "but I left Ben sitting quietly in David's store not many hours ago."

"No doubt that's true, Captain," said Jake, as he ladled the soup into his capacious mouth; "nevertheless we met Hunky Ben on the pine-river prairie scourin' over the turf like all possessed on Black Polly. We stopped him of course an' asked the news."

"'News!' cried he, 'why, the Redskins have dug up the hatchet an' riz like one man. They've clar'd out Yellow Bluff, an' are pourin' like Niagara down upon Rasper's Creek. It's said that they'll visit Roarin' Bull's ranch to-morrow. No time for more talk, boys. Oratin' ain't in my line. I'm off to Quester Creek to rouse up the troops.' Wi' that Hunky wheeled round an' went off like a runaway streak o' lightnin'. I sent a couple o' shots after him, for I'd took a fancy to Black Polly --  but them bullets didn't seem to hit somehow."

"Boys," cried Buck Tom, jumping up when he heard this, "if Hunky Ben said all that, you may depend on't it's true, an' we won't have to waste time this night if we're to save the ranch of Roarin' Bull."

"But we don't want to save the ranch of Roarin' Bull, as far as I'm consarned," said Jake rather sulkily.

Buck wheeled round on the man with a fierce glare, but, as if suddenly changing his mind, he said in a tone of well-feigned surprise -- 

"What! you, Jake, of all men -- such a noted lady-killer -- indifferent about the fate of the ranch of Roaring Bull, and pretty Miss Mary Jackson in it at the mercy of the Redskins!"

"Well, if it comes to that, Captain, I'll ride as far and as fast as any man to rescue a girl, pretty or plain, from the Redskins," said Jake, recovering his good-humour.

"Well, then, cram as much grub as you can into you in five minutes, for we must be off by that time. Rise, sir," said Buck, shaking Charlie with some violence. "We ride on a matter of life an' death -- to save women. Will you join us?"

"Of course I will!" cried Charlie, starting up with a degree of alacrity and vigour that favourably impressed the outlaws, and shaking off his simulated sleep with wonderful facility.

"Follow me, then," cried Buck, hastening out of the cave.

"But what of Shank?" asked Charlie, in some anxiety, when they got outside. "He cannot accompany us; may we safely leave him behind?"

"Quite safely. This place is not known to the savages who are on the warpath, and there is nothing to tempt them this way even if it were. Besides, Shank is well enough to get up and gather firewood, kindle his fire, and boil the kettle for himself. He is used to being left alone. See, here is our stable under the cliff, and yonder stands your horse. Saddle him. The boys will be at our heels in a moment. Some of them are only too glad to have a brush wi' the Redskins, for they killed two of our band lately."

This last remark raised an uncomfortable feeling in the mind of Charlie, for was he not virtually allying himself with a band of outlaws, with intent to attack a band of Indians of whom he knew little or nothing, and with whom he had no quarrel? There was no time, however, to weigh the case critically. The fact that savages were about to attack the ranch in which his comrade Dick Darvall was staying, and that there were females in the place, was enough to settle the question. In a minute or two he had saddled his horse, which he led out and fastened to a tree, and, while the outlaws were busy making preparations for a start, he ran back to the cave.

"Shank," said he, sitting down beside his friend and taking his hand, "you have heard the news. My comrade Darvall is in great danger. I must away to his rescue. But be sure, old fellow, that I will return to you soon."

"Yes, yes -- I know," returned Shank, with a look of great anxiety; "but, Charlie, you don't know half the danger you run. Don't fight with Buck Tom -- do you hear?"

"Of course I won't," said Charlie, in some surprise.

"No, no, that's not what I mean," said Shank, with increasing anxiety. "Don't fight in company with him."

At that moment the voice of the outlaw was heard at the entrance shouting, "Come along, Brooke, we're all ready."

"Don't be anxious about me, Shank; I'll take good care," said Charlie, as he hastily pressed the hand of the invalid and hurried away.

The ten men with Buck at their head were already mounted when he ran out.

"Pardon me," he said, vaulting into the saddle, "I was having a word with the sick man."

"Keep next to me, and close up," said Buck, as he wheeled to the right and trotted away.

Down the Traitor's Trap they went at what was to Charlie a break-neck but satisfactory pace, for now that he was fairly on the road a desperate anxiety lest they should be too late took possession of him. Across an open space they went at the bottom of which ran a brawling rivulet. There was no bridge, but over or through it went the whole band without the slightest check, and onward at full gallop, for the country became more level and open just beyond.

The moon was still shining although sinking towards the horizon, and now for the first time Charlie began to note with what a stern and reckless band of men he was riding, and a feeling of something like exultation arose within him as he thought on the one hand of the irresistible sweep of an onslaught from such men, and, on the other, of the cruelties that savages were known to practise. In short, rushing to the rescue was naturally congenial to our hero.

About the same time that the outlaws were thus hastening for once on an honourable mission -- though some of them went from anything but honourable motives -- two other bands of men were converging to the same point as fast as they could go. These were a company of United States troops, guided by Hunky Ben, and a large band of Indians under their warlike chief Bigfoot.

Jackson, alias Roaring Bull, had once inadvertently given offence to Bigfoot, and as that chief was both by nature and profession an unforgiving man he had vowed to have his revenge. Jackson treated the threat lightly, but his pretty daughter Mary was not quite as indifferent about it as her father.

The stories of Indian raids and frontier wars and barbarous cruelties had made a deep impression on her sensitive mind, and when her mother died, leaving her the only woman at her father's ranch -- with the exception of one or two half-breed women, who could not be much to her as companions -- her life had been very lonely, and her spirit had been subjected to frequent, though hitherto groundless, alarms.

But pretty Moll, as she was generally called, was well protected, for her father, besides having been a noted pugilist in his youth, was a big, powerful man, and an expert with rifle and revolver. Moreover, there was not a cow-boy within a hundred miles of her who would not (at least thought he would not) have attacked single-handed the whole race of Redskins if Moll had ordered him to do so as a proof of affection.

Now, when strapping, good-looking Dick Darvall came to the ranch in the course of his travels and beheld Mary Jackson, and received the first broadside from her bright blue eyes, he hauled down his colours and surrendered with a celerity which would have mightily amused the many comrades to whom he had said in days of yore that his heart was as hard as rock, and he had never yet seen the woman as could soften it!

But Dick, more than most of his calling, was a modest, almost a bashful, man. He behaved to Mary with the politeness that was natural to him, and with which he would have approached any woman. He did not make the slightest attempt to show his admiration of her, though it is quite within the bounds of possibility that his "speaking" brown eyes may have said something without his permission! Mary Jackson, being also modest in a degree, of course did not reveal the state of her feelings, and made no visible attempt to ascertain his, but her bluff sagacious old father was not obtuse -- neither was he reticent. He was a man of the world -- at least of the back-woods world -- and his knowledge of life, as there exhibited, was founded on somewhat acute experience. He knew that his daughter was young and remarkably pretty. He saw that Dick Darvall was also young -- a dashing and unusually handsome sailor -- something like what Tom Bowling may have been. Putting these things together, he came to the very natural conclusion that a wedding would be desirable; believing, as he did, that human nature in the Rockies is very much the same as to its foundation elements as it is elsewhere. Moreover, Roaring Bull was very much in want of a stout son-in-law at that time, so he fanned the flame which he fondly hoped was beginning to arise. This he did in a somewhat blundering and obvious manner, but Dick was too much engrossed with Mary to notice it and Mary was too ignorant of the civilised world's ways to care much for the proprieties of life.

Of course this state of things created an awful commotion in the breasts of the cow-boys who were in the employment of Mary's father and herded his cattle. Their mutual jealousies were sunk in the supreme danger that threatened them all, and they were only restrained from picking a quarrel with Dick and shooting him by the calmly resolute look in his brown eyes, coupled with his great physical power and his irresistible good-nature. Urbanity seemed to have been the mould in which the spirit of this man-of-the-sea had been cast and gentleness was one of his chief characteristics. Moreover, he could tell a good story, and sing a good song in a fine bass voice. Still further, although these gallant cow-boys felt intensely jealous of this newcomer, they could not but admit that they had nothing tangible to go upon, for the sailor did not apparently pay any pointed attention to Mary, and she certainly gave no special encouragement to him.

There was one cow-boy, however, of Irish descent, who could not or would not make up his mind to take things quietly, but resolved, as far as he was concerned, to bring matters to a head. His name was Pat Reilly.

He entered the kitchen on the day after Dick's arrival and found Mary alone and busily engaged with the dinner.

"Miss Jackson," said Pat, "there's a question I've bin wantin' to ax ye for a long time past, an' with your lave I'll putt it now."

"What is it Mr Reilly?" asked the girl somewhat stiffly, for she had a suspicion of what was coming. A little negro girl in the back kitchen named Buttercup also had a suspicion of what was coming, and stationed herself with intense delight behind the door, through a crack in which she could both hear and see.

"Mary, my dear," said Pat insinuatingly, "how would you like to jump into double harness with me an' jog along the path o' life together?"

Poor Mary, being agitated by the proposal, and much amused by the manner of it, bent over a pot of something and tried to hide her blushes and amusement in the steam. Buttercup glared, grinned, hugged herself, and waited for more.

Pat, erroneously supposing that silence meant consent, slipped an arm round Mary's waist. No man had ever yet dared to do such a thing to her. The indignant girl suddenly wheeled round and brought her pretty little palm down on the cow-boy's cheek with all her might -- and that was considerable!

"Who's a-firin' off pistles in de kitchen?" demanded Buttercup in a serious tone, as she popped her woolly head through the doorway.

"Nobody, me black darlin'," said Pat; "it's only Miss Mary expressin' her failin's in a cheeky manner. That's all!"

So saying the rejected cow-boy left the scene of his discomfiture, mounted his mustang, took his departure from the ranch of Roarin' Bull without saying farewell, and when next heard of had crossed the lonely Guadaloupe mountains into Lincoln County, New Mexico.

But to return. While the troops and the outlaws were hastening thus to the rescue of the dwellers in Bull's ranch, and the blood-thirsty Redskins were making for the same point, bent on the destruction of all its inhabitants, Roaring Bull himself, his pretty daughter, and Dick Darvall, were seated in the ranch enjoying their supper, all ignorant alike of the movements of friend and foe, with Buttercup waiting on them.

One messenger, however, was speeding on his way to warn them of danger. This was the cowboy Crux, who had been despatched on Bluefire by Hunky Ben just before that sturdy scout had started to call out the cavalry at Quester Creek.



Chapter Seventeen.

The Alarm And Preparations For Defence.

"From what you say I should think that my friend Brooke won't have much trouble in findin' Traitor's Trap," remarked Dick Darvall, pausing in the disposal of a venison steak which had been cooked by the fair bands of Mary Jackson herself, "but I'm sorely afraid o' the reception he'll meet with when he gets there, if the men are such awful blackguards as you describe."

"They're the biggest hounds unhung," growled Roaring Bull, bringing one hand down on the board by way of emphasis, while with the other he held out his plate for another steak.

"You're too hard on some of them, father," said Mary, in a voice the softness of which seemed appropriate to the beauty of her face.

"Always the way wi' you wenches," observed the father. "Some o' the villains are good-lookin', others are ugly; so, the first are not so bad as the second -- eh, lass?"

Mary laughed. She was accustomed to her fathers somewhat rough but not ill-natured rebuffs.

"Perhaps I may be prejudiced, father," she returned; "but apart from that, surely you would never compare Buck Tom with Jake the Flint, though they do belong to the same band."

"You are right, my lass," rejoined her father. "They do say that Buck Tom is a gentleman, and often keeps back his boys from devilry -- though he can't always manage that, an' no wonder, for Jake the Flint is the cruellest monster 'tween this an' Texas if all that's said of him be true."

"I wish my comrade was well out o' their clutches," said Dick, with a look of anxiety; "an' it makes me feel very small to be sittin' here enjoyin' myself when I might be ridin' on to help him if he should need help."

"Don't worry yourself on that score," said the host. "You couldn't find your way without a guide though I was to give ye the best horse in my stable -- which I'd do slick off if it was of any use. There's not one o' my boys on the ranch just now, but there'll be four or five of 'em in to-morrow by daylight an' I promise you the first that comes in. They all know the country for three hundred miles around -- every inch -- an' you may ride my best horse till you drop him if ye can. There, now, wash down your victuals an' give us a yarn, or a song."

"I'm quite sure," added Mary, by way of encouragement, "that with one of the outlaws for an old friend, Mr Brooke will be quite safe among them."

"But he's not an outlaw, Miss Mary," broke in Darvall. "Leastwise we have the best reason for believin' that he's detained among them against his will. Hows'ever, it's of no use cryin' over spilt milk. I'm bound to lay at anchor in this port till mornin', so, as I can't get up steam for a song in the circumstances, here goes for a yarn."

The yarn to which our handsome seaman treated his audience was nothing more than an account of one of his numerous experiences on the ocean, but he had such a pleasant, earnest, truth-like, and confidential way of relating it and, withal, interlarded his speech with so many little touches of humour, that the audience became fascinated, and sat in open-eyed forgetfulness of all else. Buttercup, in particular, became so engrossed as to forget herself as well as her duties, and stood behind her master in an expectant attitude, glaring at the story-teller, with bated breath, profound sympathy, and extreme readiness to appreciate every joke whether good or bad.

In the midst of one of the most telling of his anecdotes the speaker was suddenly arrested by the quick tramp of a galloping horse, the rider of which, judging from the sound, seemed to be in hot haste.

All eyes were turned inquiringly on the master of the ranch. That cool individual, rising with quiet yet rapid action, reached down a magazine repeating rifle that hung ready loaded above the door of the room.

Observing this, Dick Darvall drew a revolver from his coat-pocket and followed his host to the outer door of the house. Mary accompanied them, and Buttercup retired to the back kitchen as being her appropriate stronghold.

They had hardly reached and flung open the door when Bluefire came foaming and smoking into the yard with Crux the cow-boy on his back.

"Wall, Roaring Bull," cried Crux, leaping off his horse and coming forward as quietly as if there were nothing the matter. "I'm glad to see you OK, for the Cheyenne Reds are on the war-path, an' makin' tracks for your ranch. But as they've not got here yet, they won't likely attack till the moon goes down. Is there any chuck goin'? I'm half starved."

"Ay, Crux, lots o' chuck here. Come in an' let's hear all about it. Where got ye the news?"

"Hunky Ben sent me. He wasn't thinkin' o' you at first but when a boy came in wi' the news that a crowd o' the reds had gone round by Pine Hollow -- just as he was fixin' to pull out for Quester Creek to rouse up the cavalry -- he asked me to come on here an' warn you."

While he was speaking the cow-boy sat down to supper with the air of a man who meant business, while the host and his sailor guest went to look after the defences of the place.

"I'm glad you are here, Dick Darvall," said the former, "for it's a bad job to be obliged to fight without help agin a crowd o' yellin' Reds. My boys won't be back till sun-up, an' by that time the game may be played out."

"D'ee think the Redskins 'll attack us to-night then?" asked the sailor as he assisted to close the gates of the yard.

"Ay, that they will, lad. They know the value o' time better than most men, and, when they see their chance, are not slow to take advantage of it. As Crux said, they won't attack while the moon shines, so we have plenty of time to git ready for them. I wish I hadn't sent off my boys, but as bad luck would have it a bunch o' my steers have drifted down south, an' I can't afford to lose them -- so, you see, there's not a man left in the place but you an' me an' Crux to defend poor Mary."

For the first time in his life Dick Darvall felt a distinct tendency to rejoice over the fact that he was a young and powerful man! To live and, if need be, die for Mary was worth living for!

"Are you well supplied with arms an' ammunition?" he asked.

"That am I, and we'll need it all," answered the host as he led Dick round to the back of the yard where another gate required fastening.

"I don't see that it matters much," said Dick in a questioning tone, "whether you shut the gates or not. With so few to defend the place the house will be our only chance."

"When you've fought as much wi' Reds as I have, Dick, you'll larn that delay, even for five minutes, counts for a good deal."

"Well, there's somethin' in that. It minds me o' what one o' my shipmates, who had bin in the London fire brigade, once said. 'Dick,' said he, 'never putt off what you've got to do. Sometimes I've bin at a fire where the loss of only two minutes caused the destruction of a store worth ten thousand pound, more or less. We all but saved it as it was -- so near were we, that if we had bin one minute sooner I do believe we'd have saved it.

"'But when we was makin' for that fire full sail, a deaf old apple-woman came athwart our bows an got such a fright that she went flop down right in front of us. To steer clear of her we'd got to sheer off so that we all but ran into a big van, and, what wi' our lights an' the yellin', the horses o' the van took fright and backed into us as we flew past, so that we a'most went down by the starn. One way or another we lost two minutes, as I've said, an' the owners o' that store lost about ten thousand pounds -- more or less.'"

"That was a big pile, Dick," observed the ranchman, as they turned from the gate towards the house, "not easy to replace."

"True -- my shipmate never seemed to be quite sure whether it was more or less that was lost, but he thought the Insurance offices must have found it out by that time. It's a pity there's only three of us, for that will leave one side o' the house undefended."

"All right Dick; you don't trouble your head about that for Buttercup fights like a black tiger. She's a'most as good as a man -- only she can't manage to aim, so it's no use givin' her a rifle. She's game enough to fire it, but the more she tries to hit, the more she's sure to miss. However she's got a way of her own that sarves well enough to defend her side o' the house. She always takes charge o' the front. My Mary can't fight, but she's a heroine at loadin' -- an' that's somethin' when you're hard pressed! Come, now, I'll show ye the shootin' irons an' our plan of campaign."

Roaring Bull led the way back to the room, or central hall, where they had supped, and here they found that the debris of their feast had already been cleared away, and that arms of various kinds, with ammunition, covered the board.

"Hospitable alike to friend and foe," said Jackson gaily. "Here, you see, Mary has spread supper for the Reds!"

Darvall made no response to this pleasantry, for he observed that poor Mary's pretty face was very pale, and that it wore an expression of mingled sadness and anxiety.

"You won't be exposed to danger, I hope," said Dick, in a low earnest tone, while Jackson was loudly discussing with Crux the merits of one of the repeating rifles -- of which there were half-a-dozen on the table.

"Oh no! It is not that," returned the girl sadly. "I am troubled to think that, however the fight goes, some souls, perhaps many, will be sent to their account unprepared. For myself, I shall be safe enough as long as we are able to hold the house, and it may be that God will send us help before long."

"You may be quite sure," returned Dick, with suppressed emotion, "that no Redskin shall cross this threshold as long as we three men have a spark o' life left."

A sweet though pitiful smile lighted up Mary's pale face for a moment, as she replied that she was quite sure of that, in a tone which caused Darvall's heart to expand, so that his ribs seemed unable to contain it, while he experienced a sensation of being stronger than Samson and bigger than Goliath!

"And I suppose," continued Dick, "that the troops won't be long of coming. Is the man -- what's his name, Humpy Ben -- trustworthy?"

"Trustworthy!" exclaimed the maiden, with a flush of enthusiasm; "there is not a more trustworthy man on this side of the Rocky mountains, or the other side either, I am quite sure."

Poor Darvall's heart seemed suddenly to find plenty of room within the ribs at that moment, and his truthful visage must have become something of an index to his state of mind; for, to his surprise, Mary laughed.

"It seems to me so funny," she continued, "to hear any one ask if Hunky -- not Humpy -- Ben is to be trusted."

"Is he, then, such a splendid young fellow!" asked the seaman, with just the slightest touch of bitterness in his tone, for he felt as if a rock something like Gibraltar had been laid on his heart.

"Well, he's not exactly young," answered Mary, with a peculiar expression that made her questioner feel still more uncomfortable, "yet he is scarcely middle-aged, but he certainly is the most splendid fellow on the frontier; and he saved my life once."

"Indeed! how was that?"

"Well, it was this way. I had been paying a short visit to his wife, who lives on the other side of the -- "

"Come along, Darvall," cried Roaring Bull at that moment. "The moon's about down, an' we'll have to take our stations. We shall defend the outworks first to check them a bit and put off some time, then scurry into the house and be ready for them when they try to clear the fence. Follow me. Out wi' the lights, girls, and away to your posts."

"I'll hear the end of your story another time, Miss Mary," said Dick, looking over his shoulder and following his host and Crux to the outer door.

The seaman was conscious of a faint suspicion that Mary was wrestling with another laugh as he went off to defend the outworks, but he also, happily, felt that the Rock of Gibraltar had been removed from his heart!



Chapter Eighteen.

Defence Of The Ranch Of Roaring Bull.

Every light and every spark of fire had been extinguished in the ranch of Roaring Bull when its defenders issued from its doorway. They were armed to the teeth, and glided across the yard to the fence or stockade that enclosed the buildings, leaving the door slightly open so as to be ready for speedy retreat.

It had been arranged that, as there was a large open field without bush or tree in the rear of the ranch, they should leave that side undefended at first.

"They'll never come into the open as long as they can crawl up through the bush," Jackson had said, while making his final dispositions. "They're a'most sure to come up in front thinkin' we're all a-bed. Now, mind -- don't stand still, boys, but walk along as ye fire, to give 'em the notion there's more of us. An' don't fire at nothin'. They'd think we was in a funk. An' when you hear me whistle get into the house as quick as a cotton-tail rabbit an' as sly as a snake."

After the moon went down, everything in and around the ranch was as silent as the grave, save now and then the stamp of a hoof on the floor of a shed, where a number of horses stood saddled and bridled ready to mount at a moment's notice; for Jackson had made up his mind, if it came to the worst, to mount and make a bold dash with all his household through the midst of his foes, trusting to taking them by surprise and to his knowledge of the country for success.

For a long time, probably two hours, the three men stood at their posts motionless and silent; still there was no sign, either by sight or sound, of an enemy. The outline of the dark woods was barely visible against the black sky in front of each solitary watcher, and no moving thing could be distinguished in the open field behind either by Crux or Darvall, to each of whom the field was visible. Jackson guarded the front.

To Dick, unaccustomed as he was to such warfare, the situation was very trying, and might have told on his nerves severely if he had not been a man of iron mould; as it was, he had no nerves to speak of! But he was a man of lively imagination. More than fifty times within those two hours did he see a black form moving in the darkness that lay between him and the wood, and more than fifty times was his Winchester rifle raised to his shoulder; but as often did the caution "don't fire at nothin'" rise to his memory.

The stockade was of peculiar construction, because its owner and maker was eccentric, and a mechanical genius. Not only were the pickets of which it was composed very strong and planted with just space between to permit of firing, but there was a planking of strong boards, waist high, all round the bottom inside, which afforded some protection to defenders by concealing them when they stooped and changed position.

While matters were in this state outside, Mary Jackson and Buttercup were standing at an upper window just opposite the front gate, the latter with a huge bell-mouthed blunderbuss of the last century, loaded with buckshot in her hands. Mary stood beside her sable domestic ready to direct her not as to how, but where and when, to use the ancient weapon.

"You must be very careful, Buttercup," said Mary in a low voice, "not to fire till I tell you, and to point only where I tell you, else you'll shoot father. And do keep your finger off the trigger! By the way, have you cocked it?"

"O missy, I forgit dat," answered the damsel with a self-condemned look, as she corrected the error. "But don' you fear, Missy Mary. I's use' to dis yar blunn'erbus. Last time I fire 'im was at a raven. Down hoed de raven, blow'd to atims, an' down hoed me too -- cause de drefful t'ing kicks like a Texas mule. But bress you, I don' mind dat. I's used to it!"

Buttercup gave a little sniff of grave scorn with her flat nose, as though to intimate that the ordinary ills of life were beneath her notice.

We have said that all fires had been extinguished, but this is not strictly correct, for in the room where the two maidens watched there was an iron stove so enclosed that the fire inside did not show, and as it was fed with charcoal there were neither flames nor sparks to betray its presence. On this there stood a large cast-iron pot full of water, the bubbling of which was the only sound that broke the profound stillness of the night, while the watchers scarcely breathed, so intently did they listen.

At last the patient and self-restraining Dick saw a dark object moving towards his side of the stockade, which he felt was much too real to be classed with the creatures of his imagination which had previously given him so much trouble. Without a moment's hesitation the rifle flew to his shoulder, and the prolonged silence was broken by the sharp report, while an involuntary half-suppressed cry proved that he had not missed his mark. The dark object hastily retreated. A neighbouring cliff echoed the sounds, and two shots from his comrades told the sailor that they also were on the alert.

Instantly the night was rendered hideous by a series of wild yells and whoops, while, for a moment, the darkness gave place to a glare of light as a hundred rifles vomited their deadly contents, and the sound of many rushing feet was heard upon the open sward in front of the ranch.

The three male defenders had ducked their heads below the protecting breast-work when the volley was fired, and then, discarding all idea of further care, they skipped along their respective lines, yelling and firing the repeaters so rapidly, that, to any one ignorant of the true state of things, it must have seemed as if the place were defended by a legion of demons. To add to the hullabaloo Buttercup's blunderbuss poured forth its contents upon a group of red warriors who were rushing towards the front gate, with such a cannon-like sound and such wonderful effect, that the rush was turned into a sudden and limping retreat. The effect indeed, was more severe even than Buttercup had intended, for a stray buckshot had actually taken a direction which had been feared, and grazed her master's left arm! Happily the wound was very slight, and, to do the poor damsel justice, she could not see that her master was jumping from one place to another like a caged lion. Like the same animal, however, he gave her to understand what she had done, by shouting in a thunderous bass roar that fully justified his sobriquet -- 

"Mind your eye, Buttercup! Not so low next time!"

The immediate result of this vigorous defence was to make the Indians draw off and retire to the woods -- presumably for consultation. By previous arrangement the negro girl issued from the house with three fresh repeaters in her arms, ran round to the combatants with them and returned with their almost empty rifles. These she and Mary proceeded to reload in the hall, and then returned to their post at the upper front window.

The morning was by this time pretty well advanced, and Jackson felt a little uncertain as to what he should now do. It was still rather dark; but in a very short time, he knew, dawn would spread over the east, when it would, of course, be quite impossible to defend the walls of the little fort without revealing the small number of its defenders. On the other hand, if they should retire at once the enemy might find a lodgement within, among the outbuildings, before there was light enough to prevent them by picking off the leaders; in which case the assailants would be able to apply fire to the wooden wails of the house without much risk.

"If they manage to pile up enough o' brush to clap a light to," he grumbled to himself in an undertone, "it's all up wi' us."

The thought had barely passed through his brain, when a leaden messenger, intended to pass through it, carried his cap off his head, and the fire that had discharged it almost blinded him. Bigfoot, the chief of the savages, had wriggled himself, snake-fashion, up to the stockade unseen, and while Roaring Bull was meditating what was best to be done, he had nearly succeeded in rendering him unable to do anything at all.

The shot was the signal for another onslaught. Once more the woods rang with fiendish yells and rattling volleys. Bigfoot, with the agility and strength of a gorilla, leaped up and over the stockade and sprung down into Jackson's arms, while Darvall and Crux resumed their almost ubiquitous process of defence, and Buttercup's weapon again thundered forth its defiance.

This time the fight was more protracted. Bigfoot's career was indeed stopped for the time being, for Jackson not only crushed the life almost out of him by an unloving embrace, but dealt him a prize-fighter's blow which effectually stretched him on the ground. Not a moment too soon, however, for the white man had barely got rid of the red one, when another savage managed to scale the wall. A blow from the butt of Jackson's rifle dropped him, and then the victor fired so rapidly, and with such effect, that a second time the Reds were repulsed.

Jackson did not again indulge in meditation, but blew a shrill blast on a dog-whistle -- a preconcerted signal -- on hearing which his two comrades made for the house door at full speed.

Only one other of the Indians, besides the two already mentioned, had succeeded in getting over the stockade. This man was creeping up to the open door of the house, and, tomahawk in hand, had almost reached it when Dick Darvall came tearing round the corner.

"Hallo! Crux," cried Dick, "that you?"

The fact that he received no reply was sufficient for Dick, who was too close to do more than drive the point of his rifle against the chest of the Indian, who went down as if he had been shot, while Dick sprang in and held open the door. A word from Jackson and Crux as they ran forward sufficed. They passed in and the massive door was shut and barred, while an instant later at least half-a-dozen savages ran up against it and began to thunder on it with their rifle-butts and tomahawks.

"To your windows!" shouted Jackson, as he sprang up the wooden stair-case, three steps at a time. "Fresh rifles here, Mary!"

"Yes, father," came in a silvery and most unwarlike voice from the hall below.

Another moment and three shots rang from the three sides of the house, and of the three Indians who were at the moment in the act of clambering over the stockade, one fell inside and two out. Happily, daylight soon began to make objects distinctly visible, and the Indians were well aware that it would now be almost certain death to any one who should attempt to climb over.

It is well known that, as a rule, savages do not throw away their lives recklessly. The moment it became evident that darkness would no longer serve them, those who were in the open retired to the woods, and potted at the windows of the ranch, but, as the openings from which the besieged fired were mere loop-holes made for the purpose of defence, they had little hope of hitting them at long range except by chance. Those of the besiegers who happened to be near the stockade took shelter behind the breast-work, and awaited further orders from their chief --  ignorant of the fact that he had already fallen.

From the loop-holes of the room which Jackson had selected to defend, the shed with the saddled horses was visible, so that no one could reach it without coming under the fire of his deadly weapon. There was also a window in this room opening upon the back of the house and commanding the field which we have before mentioned as being undefended while the battle was waged outside. By casting a glance now and then through this window he could see any foe who might show himself in that direction. The only part of the fort that seemed exposed to great danger now was the front door, where the half-dozen savages, with a few others who had joined them, were still battering away at the impregnable door.

Dick, who held the garret above, could not see the door, of course, nor could he by any manoeuvre manage to bring his rifle to bear on it from his loop-hole, and he dared not leave his post lest more Indians should manage to scale the front stockade.

Buttercup, in the room below, had indeed a better chance at her window, but she was too inexpert in warfare to point the blunderbuss straight down and fire with effect, especially knowing, as she did, that the sight of her arm in the act would be the signal for a prompt fusillade. But the girl was not apparently much concerned about that, or anything else. The truth is that she possessed in an eminent and enviable degree the spirit of entire trust in a leader. She was under orders, and awaited the word of command with perfect equanimity! She even smiled slightly -- if such a mouth could be said to do anything slightly -- when Mary left her to take fresh rifles to the defenders overhead.

At last the command came from the upper regions, in tones that caused the very savages to pause a moment and look at each other in surprise. They did not pause long, however!

"Now, Buttercup," thundered Roaring Bull, "give it 'em -- hot!"

At the word the girl calmly laid aside her weapon, lifted the big iron pot with familiar and businesslike facility, and emptied it over the window.

The result is more easily imagined than described. A yell that must have been heard miles off was the prelude to a stampede of the most lively nature. It was intensified, if possible, by the further action of the negress, who, seizing the blunderbuss, pointed it at the flying crowd, and, shutting both eyes, fired! Not a buckshot took effect on the savages, for Buttercup, if we may say so, aimed too low, but the effect was more stupendous than if the aim had been good, for the heavy charge drove up an indescribable amount of peppery dust and small stones into the rear of the flying foe, causing another yell which was not an echo but a magnified reverberation of the first. Thus Buttercup had the satisfaction of utterly routing her foes without killing a single man!

Daylight had fairly set in by that time, and the few savages who had not succeeded in vaulting the stockade had concealed themselves behind the various outhouses.

The proprietor of the ranch began now to have some hope of keeping the Indians at bay until the troops should succour him. He even left his post and called his friends to a council of war, when a wild cheer was heard in the woods. It was followed by the sound of firing. No sooner was this heard than the savages concealed outside of the breastwork rose as one man and ran for the woods.

"It's the troops!" exclaimed Dick hopefully.

"Troopers never cheer like that," returned Jackson with an anxious look. "It's more like my poor cow-boys, and, if so, they will have no chance wi' such a crowd o' Reds. We must ride to help them, an' you'll have to ride with us, Mary. We daren't leave you behind, lass, wi' them varmints skulkin' around."

"I'm ready, father," said Mary with a decided look, though it was evident, from the pallor of her cheek, that she was ill at ease.

"Now, look here, Dick," said Jackson, quickly, "you will go down and open the front gate. I'll go with 'ee wi' my repeater to keep an eye on the hidden reptiles, so that if one of them shows so much as the tip of his ugly nose he'll have cause to remember it. You will go to my loophole, Crux, an keep your eyes open all round -- specially on the horses. When the gate is open I'll shout, and you'll run down to the shed wi' the women. -- You understand?" Crux nodded.

Acting on this plan Dick ran to the gate; Jackson followed, rifle in hand, and, having reached the middle of the fort, he faced round; only just in time to see a gun barrel raised from behind a shed. Before he could raise his own weapon a shot was heard and the gun-barrel disappeared, while the Indian who raised it fell wounded on the ground.

"Well done, Crux!" he exclaimed, at the same moment firing his own rifle at a head which was peeping round a corner. The head vanished instantly and Darvall rejoined him, having thrown the gate wide open.

"Come round wi' me an' drive the reptiles out," cried Jackson. At the same time he uttered a roar that a bull might have envied, and they both rushed round to the back of the outhouses where three Indians were found skulking.

At the sudden and unexpected onslaught, they fired an ineffectual volley and fled wildly through the now open gate, followed by several shots from both pursuers, whose aim, however, was no better than their own had been.

Meanwhile Crux and the girls, having reached the shed according to orders, mounted their respective steeds and awaited their comrades. They had not long to wait. Jackson and Dick came round the corner of the shed at full speed, and, without a word, leaped simultaneously into their saddles.

"Keep close to me, girls, -- close up!" was all that Jackson said as he dashed spurs into his horse, and, sweeping across the yard and through the gate, made straight for that part of the woods where yells, shouts, and firing told that a battle was raging furiously.



Chapter Nineteen.

The Rescue And Its Consequences.

The ground in the neighbourhood of the ranch favoured the operations of an attacking party, for it was so irregular and so cumbered with knolls and clumps of trees that the defenders of the post scarce dared to make a sally, lest their retreat should be cut off by a detached party of assailants.

Hence Jackson would never have dreamed of quitting his house, or ceasing to act on the defensive, had he not been under the natural impression that it was his own returning cow-boys who had been attacked and out-numbered by the Indians. Great, therefore, was his surprise when, on rounding a bluff and coming into view of the battle-field, the party engaged with the Indians, though evidently white men, were neither his own men nor those of the US troops.

He had just made the discovery, when a band of about fifty warriors burst from the woods and rushed upon him.

"Back to back, boys! girls, keep close!" shouted Jackson, as he fired two shots and dropped two Indians. He pulled at a third, but there was no answering report, for the magazine of his repeater was empty.

Crux and Darvall turned their backs towards him and thus formed a sort of triangle, in the midst of which were the two girls. But this arrangement, which might have enabled them to hold out for some time, was rendered almost abortive by the ammunition having been exhausted.

"So much for bein' in too great a hurry!" growled Jackson between his clenched teeth, as he clubbed his rifle and made a savage blow at the Indian who first came close to him. It was evident that the Indians were afraid to fire lest they should wound or kill the women; or, perhaps, understanding how matters stood, they wished to capture the white men alive, for, instead of firing at them, they circled swiftly round, endeavouring to distract their attention so as to rash in on them.

Bigfoot, who had recovered from his blow and escaped from the ranch, made a sudden dash at Dick when he thought him off his guard, but Dick was not easily caught off his guard in a fight. While in the act of making a furious demonstration at an Indian in front, which kept that savage off, he gave Bigfoot a "back-handed wipe," as he called it, which tumbled the chief completely off his horse.

Just then a turn of affairs in favour of the whites was taking place on the battle-field beyond. The party there had attacked the savages with such fury as to scatter them right and left and they were now riding down at racing speed on the combatants, whose fortunes we have followed thus far.

Two men rode well in advance of the party with a revolver in each hand.

"Why, it's Charlie Brooke! Hurrah!" yelled Darvall with delight.

"An' Buck Tom!" roared Jackson in amazement.

So sudden was the onset that the Indians were for a moment paralysed, and the two horsemen, firing right and left as they rode up, dashed straight into the very midst of the savages. In a moment they were alongside of their friends, while the rest of the outlaw band were already engaged on the outskirts of the crowd.

The very danger of the white men constituted to some extent their safety; for they were so outnumbered and surrounded that the Indians seemed afraid to fire lest they should shoot each other. To add to the confusion, another party of whites suddenly appeared on the scene and attacked the "Reds" with a wild cheer. This was Jackson's little band of cow-boys. They numbered only eight; but the suddenness of their appearance tended further to distract the savages.

While the noise was at its height a sound, or rather sensation, of many feet beating the earth was felt. Next moment a compact line was seen to wheel round the bluff where the fight was going on, and a stentorian "Charge!" was uttered, as the United States cavalry, preceded by Hunky Ben, bore down with irresistible impetuosity on the foe.

But the Indians did not await this onset. They turned and fled, scattering as they went, and the fight was quickly turned into a total rout and hot pursuit, in which troopers, outlaws, travellers, ranch-men, scouts, and cow-boys joined. The cavalry, however, had ridden far and fast, so that the wiry little mustangs of the plains soon left them behind, and the bugle ere long recalled them all.

It was found on the assembling of the forces that not one of the outlaws had returned. Whether they were bent on wreaking their vengeance still more fully on their foes, or had good reason for wishing to avoid a meeting with troops, was uncertain; but it was shrewdly suspected that the latter was the true reason.

"But you led the charge with Buck Tom, sir," said Jackson to Charlie, in considerable surprise, "though how you came to be in his company is more than I can understand."

"Here's somebody that can explain, maybe," said one of the cow-boys, leading forward a wounded man whose face was covered with blood, while he limped as if hurt in the legs. "I found him tryin' to crawl into the brush. D'ye know him, boys?"

"Why, it's Jake the Flint!" exclaimed several voices simultaneously; while more than one hand was laid on a revolver, as if to inflict summary punishment.

"I claim this man as my prisoner," said the commander of the troops, with a stern look that prevented any attempt at violence.

"Ay, you've got me at last," said the outlaw, with a look of scorn. "You've bin a precious long time about it too."

"Secure him," said the officer, deigning no reply to these remarks.

Two troopers dismounted, and with a piece of rope began to tie the outlaw's hands behind him.

"I arrest you also," said the commander to Charlie, who suddenly found a trooper on each side of him. These took him lightly by each arm, while a third seized his bridle.

"Sir!" exclaimed our hero, while the blood rushed to his forehead, "I am not an outlaw!"

"Excuse me," returned the officer politely, "but my duty is plain. There are a good many gentlemanly outlaws about at present. You are found joining in fight with a notorious band. Until you can clear yourself you must consider yourself my prisoner. -- Disarm and bind him."

For one moment Charlie felt an almost irresistible impulse to fell the men who held him, but fortunately the absurdity of his position forced itself on him, and he submitted, well knowing that his innocence would be established immediately.

"Is not this man one of your band, Jake?" asked the officer quietly.

"Yes, he is," replied the man with a malevolent grin. "He's not long joined. This is his first scrimmage with us."

Charlie was so thunderstruck at this speech that he was led back to the ranch in a sort of dazed condition. As for Dick Darvall, he was rendered speechless, and felt disposed to regard the whole thing as a sort of dream, for his attempted explanations were totally disregarded.

Arrived at the house, Charlie and Jake were locked up in separate rooms, and sentries placed beneath their windows -- this in addition to the security of hand-cuffs and roped arms. Then breakfast was prepared for the entire company, and those who had been wounded in the fight were attended to by Hunky Ben -- a self-taught surgeon -- with Mary and Buttercup to act as dressers.

"I say, Jackson," observed Darvall, when the worthy ranch-man found leisure to attend to him, "of course you know that this is all nonsense -- an abominable lie about my friend Brooke being an outlaw?"

"Of course I do, Dick," said Jackson, in a tone of sympathy; "an' you may be cock-sure I'll do what I can to help 'im. But he'll have to prove himself a true man, an' there are some mysteries about him that it puzzles me to think how he'll clear 'em up."

"Mysteries?" echoed Dick.

"Ay, mysteries. I've had some talk wi' Hunky Ben, an' he's as much puzzled as myself, if not more."

"Well, then, I'm puzzled more than either of ye," returned Dick, "for my friend and mate is as true a man -- all straight an' aboveboard -- as ever I met with on sea or land."

"That may be, boy, but there's some mystery about him, somehow."

"Can ye explain what the mystery is, Jackson?"

"Well, this is what Hunky Ben says. He saw your friend go off the other night alone to Traitor's Trap, following in the footsteps o' that notorious outlaw Buck Tom. Feelin' sure that Buck meant to waylay your friend, Hunky followed him up and overshot him to a place where he thought it likely the outlaw would lay in wait. Sure enough, when he got there he found Buck squattin' behind a big rock. So he waited to see what would turn up and be ready to rescue your friend. An' what d'ye think did turn up?"

"Don' know," said Dick, with a look of solemn wonder.

"Why, when Buck stepped out an' bid him throw up his hands, your friend merely looked at Buck and said somethin' that Hunky couldn't hear, an then Buck dropped his pistol, and your friend got off his horse, and they shook hands and went off as thick as thieves together. An' now, as you've seen an' heard, your friend turns up headin' a charge of the outlaws -- an' a most notable charge it was -- alongside o' Buck Tom. Jake the Flint too claims him for a comrade. Pretty mysterious all that, ain't it?"

"May I ask," said Dick, with some scorn in his tone, "who is this Hunky Ben, that his word should be considered as good as a bank-note?"

"He's the greatest scout an' the best an' truest man on the frontier," replied Jackson.

"H'm! so Miss Mary seems to think too."

"An' Mary thinks right."

"An' who may this Jake the Flint be?" asked the sailor.

"The greatest scoundrel, cattle and horse stealer, and cut-throat on the frontier."

"So then," rejoined Dick, with some bitterness, "it would seem that my friend and mate is taken up for an outlaw on the word o' the two greatest men on the frontier!"

"It looks like it, Dick, coupled, of course, wi' your friend's own actions. But never you fear, man. There must be a mistake o' some sort, somewhere, an' it's sure to come out, for I'd as soon believe my Mary to be an outlaw as your friend -- though I never set eyes on him before the other day. The fact is, Dick, that I've learned physiognomy since -- "

"Fizzi-what-umy?" interrupted Dick.

"Physiognomy -- the study o' faces -- since I came to live on the frontier, an' I'm pretty sure to know an honest man from a rogue as soon as I see him an' hear him speak -- though I can't always prove myself right."

Dick and his host were thus conversing, and the soldiers were regaling themselves in the hall, the commander of the troops and Hunky Ben were engaged in earnest conversation with Charlie Brooke, who gave an account of himself that quite cleared up the mystery of his meeting, and afterwards being found associated with, the outlaws.

"It's a queer story," said Hunky Ben, who, besides being what his friends called a philosopher, was prone at times to moralise. "It's a queer story, an' shows that a man shouldn't bounce at a conclusion till he's larned all the ins an' outs of a matter."

"Of course, Mr Brooke," said the officer, when Dick had finished his narration, "your companion knows all this and can corroborate what you have said?"

"Not all," replied Charlie. "He is an old shipmate whom I picked up on arriving at New York, and only knows that I am in search of an old school-fellow who has given way to dissipation and got into trouble here. Of my private and family affairs he knows nothing."

"Well, you have cleared yourself, Mr Brooke," continued the Captain, whose name was Wilmot, "but I'm sorry to have to add that you have not cleared the character of your friend Leather, whose name has for a considerable time been associated with the notorious band led by your old school-fellow Ritson, who is known in this part of the country as Buck Tom. One of the worst of this gang of highwaymen, Jake the Flint, has, as you know, fallen into my hands, and will soon receive his deserts as a black-hearted murderer. I have recently obtained trustworthy information as to the whereabouts of the gang, and I am sorry to say that I shall have to ask you to guide me to their den in Traitor's Trap."

"Is it my duty to do this?" asked Charlie, with a troubled look at the officer.

"It is the duty of every honest man to facilitate the bringing of criminals to justice."

"But I have strong reason for believing that my friend Leather, although reckless and dissipated, joined these men unwillingly -- was forced to do it in fact -- and has been suffering from the result of a severe injury ever since joining, so that he has not assisted them at all in their nefarious work. Then, as to Ritson, I am convinced that he repents of his course of conduct. Indeed, I know that his men have been rebellious of late, and this very Jake has been aspiring to the leadership of the gang."

"Your feelings regarding these men may be natural," returned the captain, "but my duty is to use you in this matter. Believing what you say of yourself I will treat you as a gentleman, but if you decline to guide me to the nest of this gang I must treat you still as a prisoner."

"May I have a little time to think over the matter before answering?"

"So that you may have a chance of escaping me?" replied the Captain.

"Nothing was further from my thoughts," said Charlie, with a flush of indignation.

"I believe you, Mr Brooke," rejoined the Captain with gravity. "Let me know any time before twelve to-day what course you deem it right to take. By noon I shall sound boot and saddle, when you will be ready to start. Your nautical friend here may join us if he chooses."

Now, while this investigation into the affairs of one prisoner was going on, the other prisoner, Jake, was busily employed investigating his own affairs with a view to escape.

How he fared in this investigation we reserve for another chapter.



Chapter Twenty.

Jake The Flint In Difficulties.

The man who, at the time we write of, was known by the name of Jake the Flint had acquired the character of the most daring and cruel scoundrel in a region where villains were by no means rare. His exploits indicated a spirit that was utterly reckless of life, whether his own or that of his fellow-men, and many were the trappers, hunters, and Redskins who would have given a good deal and gone far to have the chance of putting a bullet in his carcass.

But, as is not unfrequently the case with such men, Jake seemed to bear a charmed life, and when knife, bullet, and rope, cut short the career of many less guilty men, Jake had hitherto managed to elude his captors -- at one time by strategy, at another by a bold dash for life, and sometimes by "luck." No one had a kind word for Jake, no one loved, though many feared, admired, and hated him. This may seem strange, for it is usually found that even in the case of the most noted outlaws there is a woman or a man, or both -- who cling to them with affection.

Perhaps the fact that Jake was exceptionally harsh and cruel at all times, may account for this, as it accounted for his sobriquet of Flint. He was called by some of those who knew him a "God-forsaken man." We merely state the fact, but are very far from adopting the expression, for it ill becomes any man of mortal mould to pronounce his fellow-man God-forsaken.

In the meantime we feel it to be no breach of charity to say that Jake had forsaken God, for his foul language and bloody deeds proved the fact beyond all question. He was deceitful as well as cruel, and those who knew him best felt sure that his acting under Buck Tom was a mere ruse. There is little doubt that he had done so for the purpose of obtaining an influence over a gang of desperadoes, ready to hand, as it were, and that the moment he saw his opportunity he would kill Buck Tom and take command. The only thing that had kept him from doing so sooner, it was thought, was the fact that Buck had the power to gain the affection of his men, as well as to cause them to fear him, so that Jake had not yet found the time ripe for action.

After the outlaw had been put into the room by himself, as already stated, the door locked, and a sentry posted below the window, he immediately turned with all his energy to examine into his circumstances and prospects. First of all his wrists were manacled. That, however, gave him little concern, for his hands were unusually small and delicate, and he knew from experience that he could slip them out of any handcuffs that would close easily on his wrists -- a fact that he had carefully concealed, and of which men were not yet aware, as he had not yet been under the necessity of availing himself of the circumstance.

The rope with which he had been bound on the way to the ranch had been removed, the handcuffs being deemed sufficient. As the window of his prison was over thirty feet from the ground, and a sentinel with a carbine and revolver stood below, it was thought that the bird who had so frequently escaped his cage before was safe at last, and fairly on his way to the gallows.

Not so thought Jake the Flint. Despair did not seem to be a possibility to him. Accordingly, he examined his prison carefully, and with a hopeful smile. The examination was soon completed, for the room presented no facilities whatever for escape. There was no bed from which to take the sheets and blankets to extemporise a rope. No mattress to throw over the window so as to break a heavy man's fall. No chimney by which to ascend to the roof, no furniture, indeed, of any kind beyond a deal chair and table. The door was of solid oak and bolted outside.

Obviously the window was his only chance. He went to it and looked out. The depth was too much, he knew, for even his strong bones to stand the shock; and the sentinel paced to and fro underneath with loaded carbine.

"If any one would only lay a feather-bed down there," thought Jake, "I'd jump an' take my chance."

While he was gazing meditatively on the fair prospect of land and water that lay before him, one of the bolts of the door was withdrawn, then another, and the door slowly opened.

For an instant the outlaw gathered himself up for a rush, with a view to sell his life dearly, and he had even begun to draw one of his hands out of the manacles, when the folly and hopelessness of the attempt struck him. He quickly checked himself, and met his jailor (one of the troopers) with a smiling countenance as he entered and laid a loaf and a jug of water on the table.

The rattle of a musket outside told Jake that his jailor had not come alone.

Without a word the man turned, and was leaving the room, when Jake, in a voice of great humility, asked him to stop.

"You couldn't remove these things, could you?" he said, holding out his fettered hands.

"No," answered the trooper, sharply.

"Ah!" sighed Jake, "I feared it was agin the rules. You couldn't let me have the use of a file, could you, for a few minutes? What! agin' rules too? It's a pity, for I'm used to brush my teeth with a file of a mornin', an' I like to do it before breakfast."

Jake interlarded his speech with a variety of oaths, with which we will not defile the paper, but he could extract no further reply from the trooper than a glance of scorn.

Left to himself, Jake again went to the window, which was a small cottage one, opening inwards like a door. He opened it and looked out. The sentinel instantly raised his carbine and ordered him to shut it.

"Hullo! Silas, is that you?" cried Jake in surprise, but paying no attention to the threat, "I thought you had quit for Heaven durin' the last skrimidge wi' the Reds down in Kansas? Glad to see you lookin' so well. How's your wife an' the child'n, Silas?"

"Come now, Jake," said the trooper sternly, "you know it's all up with you, so you needn't go talkin' bosh like that -- more need to say your prayers. Stand back and shut the window, I say, else I'll put a bullet through your gizzard."

"Well now, Silas," said Jake, remonstratively, and opening the breast of his red shirt as he spoke, "I didn't expect that of an old friend like you -- indeed I didn't. But, see here, if you raaly are goin' to fire take good aim an' keep clear o' the heart and liver. The gizzard lies hereabout (pointing to his breast) and easy to hit if you've a steady hand. I know the exact spot, for I've had the cuttin' up of a good bunch o' men in my day, an' I can't bear to see a thing muddled. But hold on, Silas, I won't put ye to the pain o' shootin' me. I'll shut the window if you'll make me a promise."

"What's that?" demanded the trooper, still covering the outlaw, however, with his carbine.

"You know I'm goin' to my doom -- that's what poetical folk call it, Silas -- an' I want you to help me wind up my affairs, as the lawyers say. Well, this here (holding up a coin) is my last dollar, the remains o' my fortin', Silas, an' this here bit o' paper that I'm rappin' round it, is my last will an' testimonial. You'll not refuse to give it to my only friend on arth, Hunky Ben, for I've no wife or chick to weep o'er my grave, even though they knew where it was. You'll do this for me, Silas, won't you?"

"All right -- pitch it down."

Jake threw the coin, which fell on the ground a few feet in front of the trooper, who stooped to pick it up.

With one agile bound the outlaw leaped from the window and descended on the trooper's back, which was broken by the crashing blow, and Jake rolled over him with considerable violence, but the poor man's body had proved a sufficient buffer, and Jake rose unhurt. Deliberately taking the carbine from the dead man's hand, and plucking the revolver from his belt, he sauntered off in the direction of the stables. These being too small to contain all the troop-horses, some of the animals were picketed in an open shed, and several troopers were rubbing them down. The men took Jake for one of the cow-boys of the ranch, for he passed them whistling.

Entering the stable he glanced quickly round, selected the finest horse, and, loosing its halter from the stall, turned the animal's head to the door.

"What are ye doin' wi' the captain's horse?" demanded a trooper, who chanced to be in the neighbouring stall.

"The captain wants it. Hold his head till I get on him. He's frisky," said Jake, in a voice of authority.

The man was taken aback and obeyed; but as Jake mounted he turned suddenly pale.

The outlaw, observing the change, drew the revolver, and, pointing it at the trooper's head, said, in a low savage voice, "A word, a sound, and your brains are on the floor!"

The man stood open-mouthed, as if petrified. Jake shook the reins of the fiery horse and bounded through the door-way, stooping to the saddle-bow as he went. He could see, even at that moment, that the trooper, recovering himself, was on the point of uttering a shout. Wheeling round in the saddle he fired, and the man fell with a bullet in his brain.

The shot of course aroused the whole ranch. Men rushed into the yard with and without arms in wild confusion, but only in time to see a flying horseman cross the square and make for the gate. A rattling irregular volley was sent after him, but the only effect it had was to cause the outlaw to turn round in the saddle and wave his hat, while he gave vent to a yell of triumph. Another moment and he was beyond the bluff and had disappeared.

"Boot and saddle!" instantly rang out at the ranch, and every preparation was made for pursuit, though, mounted as Jake was on the best horse of the troop, they could not hope to overtake him.

Hunky Ben, at his own particular request was permitted to go on in advance.

"You see, sir," he said to the captain, "my Black Polly an't quite as good as your charger, but she's more used to this sort o' country, an' I can take the short cuts where your horse could hardly follow."

"Go, Ben, and good luck go with you! Besides, we can do without you, now that we have Mr Brooke to guide us."

"Come wi' me, sir," said Hunky Ben, as he passed Charlie on his way to the stables. "Don't you hesitate, Mr Brooke, to guide the captain to the cave of Buck Tom. I'm goin' on before you to hunt up the reptiles --  to try an' catch Jake the Flint."

The scout chuckled inwardly as he said this.

"But why go in advance? You can never overtake the scoundrel with such a start and on such a horse."

"Never you mind what I can or can't do," said Ben, entering the stable where the dead trooper still lay, and unfastening Black Polly. "I've no time to explain. All I know is that your friend Leather is sure to be hanged if he's cotched, an' I'm sure he's an innocent man -- therefore, I'm goin' to save him. It's best for you to know nothin' more than that, for I see you're not used to tellin' lies. Can you trust me?"

"Certainly I can. The look of your face, Ben, even more than the character you bear, would induce me to trust you."

"Well then, Mr Brooke, the first sign o' trust is to obey orders without askin' questions."

"True, when the orders are given by one who has a right to command," returned Charlie.

"Just so, an' my right to command lies in the fact that the life o' your friend Leather depends on your obedience."

"I'm your humble servant, then. But what am I to do?"

"Do whatever Captain Wilmot orders without objectin', an' speak nothing but the truth. You don't need to speak the whole truth, hows'ever," added the scout thoughtfully, as he led out his coal-black steed. "Your friend Leather has got a Christian name of course. Don't mention it. I don't want to hear it. Say nothin' about it to anybody. The time may come when it may be useful to drop the name of Leather and call your friend Mister whatever the tother name may be. Now mind what I've said to ye."

As he spoke the last words the scout touched the neck of his beautiful mare, and in another minute was seen racing at full speed over the rolling plain.



Chapter Twenty One.

Tells Of A Cruel Deed, And Shows How Mysteriously Hunky Ben Behaved.

When Jake escaped from the ranch of Roaring Bull he tried the mettle of Captain Wilmot's charger to the uttermost, for well he knew that the pursuit would be instant and vigorous; that his late comrade Charlie Brooke could guide the troops to the cavern in Traitor's Trap, and that if his companions, who would doubtless ride straight back, were to escape, they must be warned in time. He also knew that the captain's charger was a splendid one. In order to accomplish his purpose, therefore, he would ride it to death.

The distance between the ranch and the outlaws' cave was not so great but that any mustang in the plains could have traversed it in a day, but the cruel man had made up his mind that the captain's charger should do it in a few hours. It is not so much distance as pace that kills. Had any consideration whatever been extended to the noble creature by the ignoble brute who rode it, the good horse would have galloped to the head of the Trap almost without turning a hair. At first he strode out over the rolling prairie with the untiring vigour of a well-made frame and a splendid constitution, leaping the little cracks and inequalities of the ground in the exuberance of his strength; though there was no need to bound, and coursing over the knolls as easily as he cantered down the hollows, while his flashing eye betokened at once a courageous and a gentle spirit. But when the lower slopes of the hills were reached, and steepish gradients were met with here and there, the horse began to put back first one ear and then the other, and sometimes both, as if in expectation of the familiar "well done," or pat on the neck, or check of the rein with which the captain had been wont to sanction a slackening of the pace, but no such grace was allowed him. On the contrary, when the first symptom appeared of a desire to reduce speed Jake drove his cruel spurs into the charger's glossy side. With a wild snort and bound the horse stretched out again and spurned the ground as if in indignant surprise.

Then the breath began to labour slightly; the sweat to darken his rich brown coat, and the white foam to fleck his broad chest. Still Jake pressed him on with relentless fury. It could not be expected that a man who cared not for his fellows would have much consideration for his beast. Murder of a deeper dye than that of a horse was seething in the outlaw's brain. This to him useless expedition, which had so nearly cost him his life, would be the last that Buck Tom should command. After blowing out his brains he would warn the others of the impending danger and lead them away to other and more favourable fields of enterprise.

At this point the good horse stumbled and almost threw his rider, who, with horrible curses, plied the spurs and tugged at the bit until blood was mingled with the flying foam. Never, save once -- when Captain Wilmot was caught alone in the plains by Cheyenne Indians and had to fly for his life -- had the good charger been urged to anything like such an effort as he was now called on to make, and then there was no cruelty mingled with the urging. The very tone of his master's voice, as he patted the neck and shook the rein and gently touched him with the spur, must have convinced the intelligent creature that it was a matter of life or death -- that there was a stern need-be for such haste.

Turning at last into the gorge of the Trap, the charger gasped and sobbed with distress as he faced the steep ascent and tried, with the unabated courage of a willing heart, to pull himself together while the unmerciful monster still drove in the spurs and galled his tender mouth. But the brave effort was unavailing. Stumbling over a root that crossed the path, the horse plunged forward, and fell with a crash, sending his rider over his head. Jake, alighting on his face and right shoulder, lay stunned for a few seconds. Then he jumped up, displaying torn garments and a face covered with blood.

Running to the horse's head he seized the rein and shook it savagely, kicking the animal's face with his heavy boots in his anxiety to make it rise, but the poor charger was beyond his cruelty by that time, for its neck had been broken by the fall.

Oh! it was one of those sights which are fitted to make even thoughtless men recognise the need of a Saviour for the human race, and to reject with something like scorn the doctrine -- founded on wholly insufficient evidence -- that there is no future of compensation for the lower animals!

The outlaw did not waste time in vain regrets. Bestowing a meaningless curse on the dead charger, he turned and went up the narrow glen at a smart pace, but did not overstrain himself, for he knew well that none of the troop-horses could have kept up with him. He counted on having plenty of time to warn his comrades and get away without hurry. But he reckoned without his host -- being quite ignorant of the powers of Black Polly, and but slightly acquainted with those of her master Hunky Ben.

Indeed so agile were the movements of Polly, and so thoroughly was the scout acquainted with the by-paths and short cuts of that region, that he actually passed the fugitive and reached the head of Traitor's Trap before him. This he managed by forsaking the roads, keeping a straighter line for the outlaws' cave, and passing on foot over the shoulder of a hill where a horseman could not go. Thus he came down on the cavern, about half-an-hour before Jake's arrival. Clambering to the crevice in the cliff against which the cave abutted, and sliding down into a hollow on its earthen roof, he cautiously removed a small stone from its position, and disclosed a hole through which he could both hear and see most of what took place inside.

Lest any one should wonder at the facility with which the ground lent itself to this manoeuvre, we may as well explain that the bold scout possessed one of those far-reaching minds which are not satisfied without looking into everything, -- seeing to the bottom of, and peering round to the rear of, all things, as far as possible. He always acted on the principle of making himself acquainted with every road and track and by-path, every stream, pond, river, and spring in the land. Hence he was well aware of this haunt of outlaws, and, happening to be near it one day when its owners were absent, he had turned aside to make the little arrangement of a peep-hole, in the belief that it might possibly turn out to be of advantage in course of time!

The clump of shrubs and grass on the rugged bank, which formed the top of the cave, effectually concealed the natural hollow which he had deepened, and the overhanging mass of the rugged cliff protected it from rain and dew.

What Hunky Ben saw on looking through his peep-hole filled him with surprise and pity, and compelled him to modify his plans.

Almost below him on a brush couch, lay the tall form of Buck Tom, with the unmistakable hue of approaching death upon his countenance. Beside him, holding his head, kneeled the much-wasted figure of Leather -- the reputed outlaw. Seated or standing around in solemn silence were six of the outlaws, most of whom bore tokens of the recent fight, in the form of bandage on head or limb.

"I brought you to this, Leather; God forgive me," said the dying man faintly.

"No, you didn't, Ralph," replied the other, calling him by his old familiar name, "I brought myself to it. Don't blame yourself, Ralph; you weren't half so bad as me. You'd never have been here but for me. Come, Ralph, try to cheer up a bit; you're not dying. It's only faint you are, from loss of blood and the long gallop. When you've had a sleep and some food, you'll feel stronger. We'll fetch a doctor soon, an' he'll get hold o' the bullet. Dear Ralph, don't shake your head like that an' look so solemn. Cheer up, old boy!"

Leather spoke with a sort of desperate fervour, but Ralph could not cheer up.

"No," he said sadly, "there is no cheer for me. I've thrown my life away. There's no hope -- no mercy for me. I've been trying to recall the past, an' what mother used to teach me, but it won't come. There's only one text in all the Bible that comes to me now. It's this -- 'Be sure your sin will find you out!' That's true, boys," he said, turning a look on his comrades. "Whatever else may be false, that's true, for I know it."

"That's so, dear Ralph," said Leather earnestly, "but it's no less true that -- "

Just then a noise was heard in the outer passage; then hurrying footsteps. Instinctively every man drew his revolver and faced the door. Next moment Jake entered.

"Here, one of you; a drink -- I'm fit to -- ha!"

His eyes fell on the figure of Buck and he shrank back for a moment in silent surprise.

"Yes, Jake," said the dying man, with a glance of pity not unmingled with scorn, "it has come sooner than you or I expected, and it will save you some trouble -- maybe some regret. I've seen through your little game, Jake, and am glad I've been spared the necessity of thwarting you."

He stopped owing to weakness, and Jake, recovering himself, hastily explained the reason of his sudden appearance.

"Fetch me a rag an' some water, boys," he continued. "It looks worse than it is -- only skin deep. And we've not a moment to lose. Those who have a mind may follow me. Them that wants to swing may stop."

"But how about Buck Tom?" asked one who was not quite so depraved as the others.

"What's the use o' askin'?" said Jake. "It's all up with him, don't you see? Besides, he's safe enough. They'd never have the heart to hang a dying man."

"An' Leather!" cried another. "We mustn't quit Leather. He's game for many a fight yet. Come, Leather; we'll help you along, for they're sure to string you up on the nearest tree."

"Don't trouble yourself about me," said Leather, looking round, for he still kneeled beside his old friend, "I don't intend to escape. Look to yourselves, boys, an' leave us alone."

"Unless you're all tired o' life you'll quit here an' skip for the woods," said Jake, as, turning round, he hurriedly left the place.

The others did not hesitate, but followed him at once, leaving Buck Tom, and his friend to shift for themselves.

During all this scene Hunky Ben had been intently gazing and listening --  chiefly the latter. When the outlaws filed past him he found it extremely difficult to avoid putting a bullet into the Flint, but he restrained himself because of what yet remained to be done.

As soon as the outlaws were well out of sight Ben arose and prepared for action. First of all he tightened his belt. Then he pulled the hood of his coat well over his head, so that it effectually concealed his face, and, still further to accomplish the end in view, he fastened the hood in front with a wooden pin. Proceeding to the stable he found, as he had hoped and expected, that the outlaws had left one or two horse-cloths behind in their flight. In one of these he enveloped his person in such a way as to render it unrecognisable. Then he walked straight into the cave, and, without a word of warning, threw his strong arms a round Shank Leather and lifted him off the ground.

Of course Leather shouted and struggled at first, but as well might a kitten have struggled in the grip of a grizzly bear. In his worn condition he felt himself to be utterly powerless. Buck Tom made a feeble effort to rise and help him, but the mere effort caused him to fall back with a groan of helpless despair.

Swiftly his captor bore Leather up the side of the hill till he got behind a clump of trees, into the heart of which he plunged, and then set his burden down on his feet. At the same time, throwing back his hood and flinging away the horse-cloth, he stood up and smiled.

"Hunky Ben, or his ghost!" exclaimed Shank, forgetting his indignation in his amazement.

"You're right, young man, though you've only see'd me once that I know of. But most men that see me once are apt to remember me."

"Well, Hunky," said Leather, while the indignation began to return, "you may think this very amusing, but it's mean of a big strong man like you to take advantage of a fellow that's as weak as a child from wounds an' fever. Lend me one o' your six-shooters, now, so as we may stand on somewhat more equal terms and -- but a truce to boasting! I'm sure that you wouldn't keep smiling at me like a Cheshire cat if there wasn't something behind this."

"You're right, Mr Leather," said Ben, becoming at once grave and earnest. "There is somethin' behind it -- ay, an' somethin' before it too. So much, that I have barely time to tell 'ee. So, listen wi' both ears. There's a bunch o' men an' troops close to the Trap even now, on their way to visit your cave. If they find you -- you know what that means?"

"Death," said Leather quietly.

"Ay, death; though ye don't desarve it," said Ben.

"But I do deserve it," returned Shank in the same quiet voice.

"Well, may-hap you do," rejoined the scout coolly, "but not, so far as I know, in connection wi' your present company. Now, there's Buck Tom -- "

"Ay, what of him?" asked Shank, anxiously.

"Well, in the nat'ral course o' timings, death is comin' to him too, an' that'll save him from bein' strung up -- for they're apt to do that sort o' thing hereaway in a loose free-an-easy style that's awkward sometime. I was within an inch of it myself once, all through a mistake -- I'll tell 'ee about that when I've got more time, maybe. Well, now, I'm keen to save you an' Buck Tom if I can, and what I want you to understand is, that if you expect me to help you at a time when you stand considerable in need o' help, you'll have to do what I tell 'ee."

"And what would you have me do?" asked Shank, with a troubled look.

"Remain here till I come for 'ee, and when you meet me in company say nothin' about havin' met me before."

"Can I trust you, Hunky Ben?" said Shank, looking at him earnestly.

"If you can't trust me, what d'ye propose to do?" asked the scout with a grin.

"You're right, Ben. I must trust you, and, to say truth, from the little I know of you, I believe I've nothing to fear. But my anxiety is for Ralph -- Buck Tom, I mean. You're sure, I suppose, that Mr Brooke will do his best to shield him?"

"Ay, sartin sure, an', by the way, don't mention your Christian name just now -- whatever it is -- nor for some time yet. Good-day, an' keep quiet till I come. We've wasted overmuch time a'ready."

So saying, the scout left the coppice, and, flinging open his coat, re-entered the cave a very different-looking man from what he was when he left it.

"Hunky Ben!" exclaimed Buck, who had recovered by that time. "I wish you had turned up half-an-hour since, boy. You might have saved my poor friend Leather from a monster who came here and carried him away bodily."

"Ay? That's strange, now. Hows'ever, worse luck might have befel him, for the troops are at my heels, an' ye know what would be in store for him if he was here."

"Yes, indeed, I know it, Ben, and what is in store for me too; but Death will have his laugh at them if they don't look sharp."

"No, surely," said the scout, in a tone of real commiseration, "you're not so bad as that, are you?"

"Truly am I," answered Buck, with a pitiful look, "shot in the chest. But I saw you in the fight, Ben; did you guide them here?"

"That's what I did -- at least I told 'em which way to go, an' came on in advance to warn you in time, so's you might escape. To tell you the plain truth, Ralph Ritson, I've bin told all about you by your old friend Mr Brooke, an' about Leather too, who, you say, has bin carried off by a monster?"

"Yes -- at least by a monstrous big man."

"You're quite sure o' that?"

"Quite sure."

"An' You would know the monster if you saw him again?"

"I think I would know his figure, but not his face, for I did not see it."

"Strange!" remarked the scout, with a simple look; "an' you're sartin sure you don't know where Leather is now?"

"Not got the most distant idea."

"That's well now; stick to that an' there's no fear o' Leather. As to yourself -- they'll never think o' hangin' you till ye can walk to the gallows -- so cheer up, Buck Tom. It may be that ye desarve hangin', for all I know; but not just at present. I'm a bit of a surgeon, too -- bein' a sort o' Jack-of-all-trades, and know how to extract bullets. What between Mr Brooke an' me an' time, wonders may be worked, if you're wise enough to keep a tight rein on your tongue."

While the scout was speaking, the tramp of cavalry was heard outside, and a few minutes later Captain Wilmot entered the cave, closely followed by Charlie Brooke.



Chapter Twenty Two.

The Cave of the Outlaws Invaded by Ghosts and US Troops.

We need scarcely say that Buck Tom was wise enough to put a bridle on his tongue after the warning hint he had received from the scout. He found this all the easier that he had nothing to conceal save the Christian name of his friend Leather, and, as it turned out, this was never asked for by the commander of the troops. All that the dying outlaw could reveal was that Jake the Flint had suddenly made his appearance in the cave only a short time previously, had warned his comrades, and, knowing that he (Buck) was mortally wounded, and that Leather was helplessly weak from a wound which had nearly killed him, had left them both to their fate. That, just after they had gone, an unusually broad powerful man, with his face concealed, had suddenly entered the cave and carried Leather off, in spite of his struggles, and that, about half-an-hour later, Hunky Ben had arrived to find the cave deserted by all but himself. Where the other outlaws had gone to he could not tell -- of course they would not reveal that to a comrade who was sure to fall into the hands of their enemies.

"And you have no idea," continued the captain, "who the man is that carried your friend Leather so hurriedly away?"

"Not the slightest," returned Buck. "Had my revolver been handy and an ounce of strength left in me, you wouldn't have had to ask the question."

"Passing strange!" murmured Captain Wilmot, glancing at the scout, who was at the moment seated on a keg before the fire lighting his pipe, and with a look of simple benignant stolidity on his grave countenance. "Have you no idea, Ben, where these outlaws have taken themselves off to?"

"No more'n a lop-eared rabbit, Captain Wilmot," answered the scout. "You see there's a good many paths by which men who knows the place could git out o' the Trap, an' once out o' it there's the whole o' the Rockie range where to pick an' choose."

"But how comes it, Ben, that you missed Jake? Surely the road is not so broad that you could pass him unseen! Yet you arrived here before him?"

"That's true, sir, but sly coons like the Flint can retire into the brush when they don't want to be overhauled. That wasn't the way of it, however. With such a splendid animal as your poor horse, Captain, an' ridden to death as it was -- an' as I 'spected it would be -- I knowed I had no chance o' comin' up wi' the Flint, so I took advantage o' my knowledge o' the lay o' the land, an' pushed ahead by a straighter line -- finishin' the last bit on futt over the ridge of a hill. That sent me well ahead o' the Flint, an' so I got here before him. Havin' ways of eavesdroppin' that other people don't know on, I peeped into the cave here, and saw and heard how matters stood. Then I thought o' harkin' back on my tracks an' stoppin' the Flint wi' a bullet but I reflected 'what good'll that do? The shot would wake up the outlaws an' putt them on the scent all the same.' Then I tried to listen what their talk was about, so as I might be up to their dodges; but I hadn't bin listenin' long when in tramps the Flint an' sounds the alarm. Of course I might have sent him an p'r'aps one o' the others to their long home from where I stood; but I've always had an objection to shoot a man behind his back. It has such a sneakin' sort o' feel about it! An' then, the others -- I couldn't see how many there was -- would have swarmed out on me, an' I'd have had to make tracks for the scrub, an' larn nothin' more. So I fixed to keep quiet an' hear and see all that I could -- p'r'aps find out where they fixed to pull out to. But I heard nothin' more worth tellin'. They only made some hurried, an' by no means kindly, observations about poor Buck an' Leather an' went off over the hills. I went into the woods a bit myself after that, just to be well out o' the way, so to speak, an' when I got back here Leather was gone!"

"And you didn't see the man that carried him off?"

"No, I didn't see him."

"You'd have shot him, of course, if you had seen him?"

"No, indeed, captain, I wouldn't."

"No! why not?" asked the captain with a peculiar smile.

"Well, because," answered the scout, with a look of great solemnity, "I wouldn't shoot such a man on any account -- no matter what he was doin'!"

"Indeed!" returned the other with a broadening smile. "I had no idea you were superstitious, Ben. I thought you feared neither man nor devil."

"What I fear an' what I don't fear," returned the scout with quiet dignity, "is a matter which has never given me much consarn."

"Well, don't be hurt, Hunky Ben, I don't for one moment question your courage, only I fancied that if you saw any one rescuing an outlaw you would have tried to put a bullet into him whether he happened to be a man or a ghost."

"But I have told you," broke in Buck Tom with something of his old fire, "that Leather is not an outlaw."

"I have only your word for that, and you know what that is worth," returned the captain. "I don't want to be hard on one apparently so near his end, and to say truth, I'm inclined to believe you, but we know that this man Leather has been for a long time in your company -- whether a member of your band or not must be settled before another tribunal. If caught, he stands a good chance of being hanged. And now," added the captain, turning to a sergeant who had entered the cave with him, "tell the men to put up their horses as best they may. We camp here for the night. We can do nothing while it is dark, but with the first gleam of day we will make a thorough search of the neighbourhood."

While the troopers and their commander were busy making themselves as comfortable as possible in and around the cave, the scout went quietly up to the clump of wood where Leather was in hiding, and related to that unfortunate all that had taken place since he left him.

"It is very good of you, Hunky, to take so much interest in me, and incur so much risk and trouble; but do you know," said Leather, with a look of surprise, not unmingled with amusement, "you are a puzzle to me, for I can't understand how you could tell Captain Wilmot such a heap o' lies -- you that has got the name of bein' the truest-hearted scout on the frontier!"

"You puzzle me more than I puzzle you, Leather," returned the scout with a simple look. "What lies have I told?"

"Why, all you said about what you saw and heard when you said you were eavesdroppin' must have been nonsense, you know, for how could you hear and see what took place in the cave through tons of rock and earth?"

"How I saw and heard, my son Leather, is a private affair of my own, but it was no lie."

Leather looked incredulous.

"Then you said," he continued, "that you didn't see the man that carried me away."

"No more I did, boy. I never saw him!"

"What! not even in a looking-glass?"

"Not even in a lookin'-glass," returned Hunky. "I've seed his reflection there many a time, -- an' a pretty good-lookin' reflection it was -- but I've never see'd himself -- that I knows on! No, Leather, if Captain Wilmot had axed me if I saw you carried off, I might ha' been putt in a fix, but he didn't ax me that. He axed if I'd seen the man that carried you off an' I told the truth when I said I had not. Moreover I wasn't bound to show him that he wasn't fit to be a lawyer --  specially when he was arter an innocent man, an' might p'r'aps hang him without a trial. It was my duty to guide the captain in pursuit of outlaws, an' it is my duty to shield an innocent man. Between the two perplexin' duties I tried to steer as straight a course as I could, but I confess I had to steer pretty close to the wind."

"Well, Hunky, it is my duty to thank you instead of criticising you as I have done, but how do you come to be so sure that I'm innocent?"

"P'r'aps because ye putt such an innocent question," replied Ben, with a little smile. "D'ye raily think, Leather, that an old scout like me is goin' to let you see through all the outs and ins by which I comes at my larnin'! It's enough for you to know, boy, that I know a good deal more about you than ye think -- more p'r'aps than ye know about yerself. I don't go for to say that you're a born angel, wantin' nothin' but a pair o' wings to carry ye off to the better land -- by no means, but I do know that as regards jinin' Buck Tom's boys, or takin' a willin' part in their devilish work, ye are innocent an' that's enough for me."

"I'm glad you know it and believe it, Ben," said Leather, earnestly, "for it is true. I followed Buck, because he's an old, old chum, and I did it at the risk of my life, an' then, as perhaps you are aware, we were chased and I got injured. So far I am innocent of acting with these men, but, O Ben, I don't admit my innocence in anything else! My whole life -- well, well -- it's of no use talkin'. Tell me, d'ye think there's any chance o' Buck getting over this?"

"He may. Nobody can tell. I'll do my best for him. I never lose hope of a man, after what I've see'd in my experience, till the breath is fairly out of him."

"Thank God for these words, Ben."

"Yes," continued the scout, "and your friend Brooke is at this moment sunk in the blue dumps because you have been carried off by a great mysterious monster!"

"Then he doesn't know it was you?" exclaimed Leather.

"In course not. An' he doesn't know you are within five hundred yards of him. An' what's more, you mustn't let him know it was me, for that must be kept a dead secret, else it'll ruin my character on the frontiers. We must surround it wi' mystery, my boy, till all is safe. But I didn't come up here to enjoy an evenin's conversation. You're not safe where you are, Leather. They'll be scourin' all round for you long before sun-up, so I must putt you where you'll be able to look on an' grin at them."

"Where will that be?" asked Leather, with some curiosity.

"You know the cliff about five hundred feet high that rises just over on the other side o' the valley -- where the water-shoot comes down?"

"Ay, it's likely I do, for I've seen it every mornin' for months past."

"An' you remember the hole near the top o' the cliff?"

"Yes -- that looks about the size of a crow?"

"Whatever it looks like it's three times the size of a man, an' it's the mouth of a cave," returned the scout. "Now, I'll lead you to the track that'll let you up to that cave. It's a splendid place, full of all sorts o' holes an' places where a man couldn't find you even if he know'd you was there. Once up, you may sit down, smoke your pipe in the mouth o' the cave, an' enjoy yourself lookin' on at the hunt arter yourself. Here's a bit o' chuck I've brought to keep you from wearyin', for they may keep it up all day. When all danger is past I'll come up for ye. You needn't show more o' yourself, however, than the top o' your head. A man can never be over-cautious when he's bein' hunted down. An' mind, don't leave the place till I come for you."

Handing a cold roast fowl and a loaf to his companion, the scout got up and led him away to the spot which he had just described. It was by that time quite dark, but as Hunky Ben knew every inch of the ground he glided along almost as quickly as if it had been broad day, followed, with some difficulty, by poor Leather, who was still in a state of great prostration, partly because of his injury and partly in consequence of his previous dissipation. As the place, however, was not much more than half-a-mile distant his powers of endurance were not much tried. The scout led him across the narrow valley just above the outlaws' cave, and then, entering a steep rocky defile, he began to ascend a place that was more suitable for goats than men. After half-an-hour of upward toil they reached a plateau where the track -- if it may be so styled -- seemed to run in a zig-zag manner until it reached a small hole in the solid rock. Through this they entered and found themselves within a cavern and in total darkness.

"We may rest a bit now," said the scout. "There's a ledge hereabouts. There you are. Sit down. I'll have to take your hand here lest you fall off the bridge into the holes on each side o' the track."

"Are the holes dangerous?" asked Leather.

"They're dangerous enough to be worth takin' care of, anyhow, for if ye was to tumble into one you'd never come out again. There, now, let's go on, for if I don't git back soon, they'll be wonderin' if the monster hasn't run away wi' me too, as well as you!"

After advancing a short distance in total darkness -- Ben feeling his way carefully step by step -- they came suddenly to the hole in the front of the cave to which reference has been already made. The place had evidently been used before as a place of refuge and temporary abode, for, near this front-mouth of the cave was found a litter of pine branches which had plainly been used as a bed.

"Sit ye down there, Leather," said the scout, "see, or, rather, hear --  for the eyes aren't of much use just now -- I've set down the grub an' a flask o' water beside ye. Don't strike a light unless you want to have your neck stretched. Daylight won't be long o' lettin' ye see what's goin' on. You won't weary, for it'll be as good as a play, yourself bein' chief actor an' audience all at the same time!"

Saying this the scout melted, as it were, into the darkness of the cavern, and, with noiseless moccasined feet, retraced his steps to the rear entrance.

Left to himself the poor wanderer found both time and food for reflection, for he did not dare in the darkness to move from the spot where he had seated himself. At first an eerie feeling of indefinable fear oppressed him, but this passed away as the busy thoughts went rambling back to home and the days of comparative innocence gone by. Forgetting the dark surroundings and the threatening dangers, he was playing again on the river banks, drinking liquorice-water, swimming, and rescuing kittens with Charlie Brooke. Anon, he was wandering on the sea-beach with his sister, brown-eyed Mary, or watching the manly form of his old friend and chum buffeting the waves towards the wreck on the Sealford Rocks. Memory may not be always faithful, but she is often surprisingly prompt. In the twinkling of an eye Shank Leather had crossed the Atlantic again and was once more in the drinking and gambling saloons -- the "Hells" of New York -- with his profoundly admired "friend" and tempter Ralph Ritson. It was a wild whirl and plunge from bad to worse through which Memory led him now -- scenes at which he shuddered and on which he would fain have closed his eyes if possible, but Memory knows not the meaning of mercy. She tore open his eyes and, becoming unusually strict at this point, bade him look particularly at all the minute details of his reckless life -- especially at the wrecks of other lives that had been caused by the wreck of his own. Then the deepest deep of all seemed to be reached when he rose -- or rather fell --  from the condition of tempted to that of tempter, and, somehow, managed for a time to lead even the far stronger-minded Ralph Ritson on the road to ruin. But he did not lead him long. The stronger nature soon re-asserted itself; seized the reins; led the yielding Leather to the cities of the far west; from gambling took to robbing, till at last the gay and handsome Ritson became transformed into the notorious Buck Tom, and left his weaker chum to care for himself.

It was at this point -- so Memory recalled to him -- that he, Leather, was stopped, in mid and mad, career, by a man of God with the love of Jesus in his heart and on his lips. And at this point Memory seemed to change her action and proved herself, although unmerciful, pre-eminently faithful. She reminded him of the deep contrition that God wrought in his heart; of the horror that overwhelmed him when he thought of what he was, and what he had done; of the sudden resolve he had formed to follow Ritson, and try to stop him in the fearful career on which he had entered. Then came the memory of failure; of desperate anxieties; of futile entreaties; of unaccountably resolute perseverance; of joining the outlaw band to be near his friend; of being laughed to scorn by them all of being chased by US troops at the very commencement of his enterprise; of being severely wounded, rescued, and carried off during the flight by Buck Tom, and then -- a long blank, mingled with awful dreams and scenes, and ribald songs, and curses -- some of all which was real, and some the working of a fevered brain.

So terribly vivid were these pictures of memory, that one of the shouts of dreamland absolutely awoke him to the fact that he had extended his wearied limbs on his couch of pine brush and fallen asleep. He also awake to the perception that it was broad daylight, and that a real shout had mingled with that of dreamland, for after he had sat up and listened intently for a few moments, the shout was repeated as if at no great distance.



Chapter Twenty Three.

The Troops Outwitted By The Scout And His Friends.

Creeping quickly to the mouth of the cave Leather peeped cautiously out, and the scene that met his startled gaze was not calculated to restore that equanimity which his recent dreams had disturbed.

The narrow and rugged valley which lay spread out below him was alive with horsemen, trotting hither and thither as if searching for some one, and several parties on foot were scaling gorges and slopes, up which a horseman could not scramble.

The shout which had awakened the fugitive was uttered by a dismounted trooper who had climbed higher on the face of the cliff than his fellows, and wished to attract the attention of those below.

"Hi! hallo!" he cried, "send Hunky Ben up here. I've found a track that seems to lead to somewhere, but it'll need the scout's nose to ferret it out."

Leather's heart beat wildly, for, from the position of the man, he could not doubt that he had discovered the track leading up to the cave. Before he could think how he should act, a response came to the call from Hunky Ben.

"Ay, ay," he shouted, in a voice so bold and resonant, that Leather felt it was meant to warn him of his danger, "Ay, ay. Hold on! Don't be in a hurry. The tracks branch out further on, an' some o' them are dangerous. Wait till I come up. There's a cave up there, I'll lead ye to it."

This was more than enough for Leather. He turned hastily to survey his place of refuge. It was a huge dismal cavern with branching tunnels around that disappeared in thick obscurity, and heights above that lost themselves in gloom; holes in the sides and floor that were of invisible depth, and curious irregular ledges, that formed a sort of arabesque fringe to the general confusion.

One of these ornamental ledges, stretching along the roof with many others, lost itself in the gloom and seemed to be a hopeful living-place -- all the more hopeful that it was in the full blaze of light that gushed in through the front opening of the cave. This opening, it will be remembered, was on the face of the cliff and inaccessible. But Leather found that he could not reach the ledge. Hastening to the dark side of the cave, however, he saw that by means of some projections and crevices in the rocky wall he could reach the end of the ledge. Creeping along it he soon found himself close to the opening, surrounded by strong light, but effectually concealed from view by the ledge. It was as if he were on a natural rafter, peeping down on the floor below! As there was a multitude of such ledges around, which it would take several men many hours to examine, he began to breathe more freely, for, would the searchers not naturally think that a fugitive would fly to the darkest recesses of his place of refuge, rather than to the brightest and most accessible spot?

He gave vent to a sigh of relief, and was congratulating himself upon his wisdom, when his eyes chanced to fall on the flask of water and cold roast fowl and loaf lying conspicuous in the full glare of light that flooded the front part of the cave!

If the fowl had been thrust whole into his throat it could scarcely have added to the gush of alarm that choked him. He slipped incontinently from his arabesque ledge and dropped upon the floor. Securing the tell-tale viands with eager haste he dashed back into the obscurity and clambered with them back to his perch. And not much too soon, for he had barely settled down when the voice of the scout was heard talking pretty loudly.

"Come along, Captain Wilmot," he said, "give me your hand, sir. It's not safe to walk alone here, even wi' a light."

"Here, where are you? Oh! All right. Haven't you got a match?" asked the captain.

"Nothin' that would burn more'n a few seconds. We're better without a light, for a gust o' wind might blow it out an' leave us worse than we was. Mind this step. There."

"Well, I'm glad I didn't bring any of my men in here," said the Captain, as he kicked one of his heavy boots violently against a projection of rock.

"Ay -- 'tis as well you didn't," returned the scout, in a tone suggestive of the idea that he was smiling. "For there's holes on both sides, an' if one o' your men went down, ye might read the funeral sarvice over him at once, an' be done with it. There's a glimmer o' daylight at last. We'll soon be at the other end now."

"A horrible place, truly," said the Captain, "and one that it would be hard to find a fellow in even if we knew he was here."

"Didn't I say so, Captain? but ye wouldn't be convinced," said Hunky Ben, leading his companion into the full light of the opening and coming to a halt close to the ledge above which the fugitive lay. "Besides, Leather could never have found his way here alone."

"You forget," returned Wilmot, with a peculiar smile, "the monster might have shown him the way or even have carried him hither."

"Ah, true," answered the scout, with solemn gravity. "There's somethin' in that."

Wilmot laughed.

"What a splendid view," he said, going forward to the opening -- "and see, here is a bed of pine brush. No doubt the cave must have been used as a place of refuge by the Redskins in days gone by."

"Ay, an' by the pale-faces too," said the scout. "Why, I've had occasion to use it myself more than once. And, as you truly obsarve, sir, there's small chance of findin' a man once he's in here. As well run after a rabbit in his hole."

"Or search for a needle in a haystack," observed the Captain, as he gazed with curious interest around and above him. "Well, Ben, I give in. You were right when you said there was no probability of my finding any of the outlaws here."

"I'm ginerally right when I speak about what I understand," returned the scout calmly. "So now, Captain, if you're satisfied, we may as well go an' have a look at the other places I spoke of."

Assenting to this the two men left the place, but Leather continued to lie perfectly still for a considerable time after their footsteps had died away. Then, gliding from his perch, he dropped on the floor and ran to the opening where he saw the troopers still riding about, but gradually going farther and farther away from him. The scene was not perhaps, as the scout had prophesied, quite "as good as a play," but it certainly did become more and more entertaining as the searchers receded and distance lent enchantment to the view.

When at last the troops had disappeared, Shank bethought him of the food which Hunky Ben had so thoughtfully provided, and, sitting down on the brush couch, devoted himself to breakfast with a hearty appetite and a thankful spirit.

Meanwhile Captain Wilmot, having satisfied himself that the outlaws had fairly escaped him, and that Buck Tom was too ill to be moved, retired to a cool glade in the forest and held a council of war with the scout and Charlie Brooke.

"Now, Ben," he said, dismounting and seating himself on a mossy bank, while a trooper took charge of the horses and retired with them to a neighbouring knoll, "it is quite certain that in the present unsettled state of the district I must not remain here idle. It is equally certain that it would be sudden death to Buck Tom to move him in his present condition, therefore some men must be left behind to take care of him. Now, though I can ill afford to spare any of mine, I feel that out of mere humanity some sacrifice must be made, for we cannot leave the poor fellow to starve."

"I can relieve you on that point," said the scout, "for if you choose I am quite ready to remain."

"And of course," interposed Charlie, "I feel it my duty to remain with my old friend to the end."

"Well, I expected you to say something of this sort. Now," said the captain, "how many men will you require?"

"None at all, Captain," answered Ben decisively.

"But what if these scoundrels should return to their old haunt?" said Wilmot.

"Let them come," returned the scout. "Wi' Mr Brooke, an' Dick Darvall, an' three Winchesters, an' half-a-dozen six-shooters, I'd engage to hold the cave against a score o' such varmin. If Mr Brooke an' Dick are willin' to -- "

"I am quite willing, Ben, and I can answer for my friend Dick, so don't let that trouble you."

"Well, then, that is settled. I'll go off at once," said the captain, rising and signing to the trooper to bring up the horses. "But bear in remembrance, Hunky Ben, that I hold you responsible for Buck Tom. If he recovers you must produce him."

The scout accepted the responsibility; the arrangements were soon made; "boots and saddles" was sounded, and the troopers rode away, leaving Charlie Brooke, Dick Darvall, Buck Tom, and the scout in possession of the outlaws' cave.



Chapter Twenty Four.

The Meeting Of Old Friends In Curious Circumstances.

When the soldiers were safely away Hunky Ben returned to the cave and brought Leather down.

Charlie Brooke's love for his old school-fellow and playmate seemed to become a new passion, now that the wreck of life and limb presented by Shank had awakened within him the sensation of profound pity. And Shank's admiration for and devotion to Charlie increased tenfold now that the terrible barrier of self had been so greatly eliminated from his own nature, and a new spirit put within him.

By slow degrees, and bit by bit, each came to know and understand the other under the influence of new lights and feelings. But their thoughts about themselves, and their joy at meeting in such peculiar circumstances, had to be repressed to some extent in the presence of their common friend Ralph Ritson -- alias Buck Tom -- for Charlie knew him only as an old school-fellow, though to Leather he had been a friend and chum ever since they had landed in the New World.

The scout, during the first interval of leisure on the previous day, had extracted the ball without much difficulty from Buck's chest, through which it had passed, and was found lying close under the skin at his back. The relief thus afforded, and rest obtained under the influence of some medicine administered by Captain Wilmot, had brightened the poor fellow up to some extent; and Leather, seeing him look so much better on his return, began to entertain some hopes of his recovery.

Buck himself had no such hope; but, being a man of strong will, he refused to let it be seen in his demeanour that he thought his case to be hopeless. Yet he did not act from bravado, or the slightest tincture of that spirit which resolves to "die game." The approach of death had indeed torn away the veil and permitted him to see himself in his true colours, but he did not at that time see Jesus to be the Saviour of even "the chief of sinners." Therefore his hopelessness took the form of silent submission to the inevitable.

Of course Charlie Brooke spoke to him more than once of the love of God in Christ, and of the dying thief who had looked to Jesus on the cross and was saved, but Buck only shook his head. One afternoon in particular Charlie tried hard to remove the poor man's perplexities.

"It's all very well, Brooke," said Buck Tom, "and very kind of you to interest yourself in me, but the love of God and the salvation of Christ are not for me. You don't know what a sinner I have been, a rebel all my life -- all my life, mark you. I would count it mean to come whining for pardon now that the game is up. I deserve hell -- or whatever sort o' punishment is due -- an' I'm willing to take it."

"Ralph Ritson," said Brooke impressively, "you are a far greater sinner than you think or admit."

"Perhaps I am," returned the outlaw sadly, and with a slight expression of surprise. "Perhaps I am," he repeated. "Indeed I admit that you are right, but -- but your saying so is a somewhat strange way to comfort a dying man. Is it not?"

"I am not trying to comfort you. I am trying, by God's grace, to convince you. You tell me that you have been a rebel all your days?"

"Yes; I admit it."

"There are still, it may be, a few days yet to run, and you are determined, it seems, to spend these in rebellion too -- up to the very end!"

"Nay, I do not say that. Have I not said that I submit to whatever punishment is due? Surely that is not rebellion. I can do nothing now to make up for a mis-spent life, so I am willing to accept the consequences. Is not that submission to God -- at least as far as lies in my power?"

"No; it is not submission. Bear with me when I say it is rebellion, still deeper rebellion than ever. God says to you, 'You have destroyed yourself but in me is your help.' He says, 'Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow.' He says, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and you shall be saved,' and assures you that 'whoever will' may come to Him, and that no one who comes shall be cast out -- yet in the face of all that you tell me that the love of God and the salvation of Christ are not for you! Ralph, my friend, you think that if you had a chance of living your life over again you would do better and so deserve salvation. That is exactly what God tells us we cannot do, and then He tells us that He Himself, in Jesus Christ, has provided salvation from sin for us, offers it as a free unmerited gift; and immediately we dive to the deepest depth of sin by deliberately refusing this deliverance from sin unless we can somehow manage to deserve it."

"I cannot see it," said the wounded man thoughtfully.

"Only God Himself, by His Holy Spirit, can enable you to see it," said his companion; and then, in a low earnest voice, with eyes closed and his hand on his friend's arm, he prayed that the outlaw might be "born again."

Charlie Brooke was not one of those who make long prayers, either "for a pretence" or otherwise. Buck Tom smiled slightly when his friend stopped at the end of this one sentence.

"Your prayer is not long-winded, anyhow!" he said.

"True, Ralph, but it is comprehensive. It requires a good deal of expounding and explaining to make man understand what we say or think. The Almighty needs none of that. Indeed He does not need even the asking but He bids us ask, and that is enough for me. I have seen enough of life to understand the value of unquestioning obedience whether one comprehends the reason of an order or not."

"Ay," returned Buck quickly, "when he who gives the order has a right to command."

"That is so much a matter of course," rejoined Charlie, "that I would not think of referring to it while conversing with an intelligent man. By the way -- which name would you like to be called, by Ralph or Buck?"

"It matters little to me," returned the outlaw languidly, "and it won't matter to anybody long. I should prefer 'Ralph,' for it is not associated with so much evil as the other, but you know our circumstances are peculiar just now, so, all things considered, I had better remain Buck Tom to the end of the chapter. I'll answer to whichever name comes first when the roll is called in the next world."

The conversation was interrupted at this point by the entrance of Hunky Ben bearing a deer on his lusty shoulders. He was followed by Dick Darvall.

"There," said the former, throwing the carcass on the floor, "I told ye I wouldn't be long o' bringin' in somethin' for the pot."

"Ay, an' the way he shot it too," said the seaman, laying aside his rifle, "would have made even a monkey stare with astonishment. Has Leather come back, by the way? I see'd him goin' full sail through the woods when I went out this mornin'."

"He has not yet returned," said Charlie. "When I relieved him and sat down to watch by our friend here, he said he felt so much better and stronger that he would take his gun and see if he couldn't find something for the pot. I advised him not to trust his feelings too much, and not to go far, but -- ah, here he comes to answer for himself."

As he spoke a step was heard outside, and next moment Shank entered, carrying a brace of rabbits which he flung down, and then threw himself on a couch in a state of considerable exhaustion.

"There," said he, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "They've cost me more trouble than they're worth, for I'm quite done up. I had no idea I had become so weak in the legs. Ralph, my dear fellow," he added, forgetting himself for the moment as he rose and went to his friend's side, "I have more sympathy with you, now that I have found out the extent of my own weakness. Do you feel better!"

"Yes, old boy -- much -- much better."

"That's all right. I'm convinced that -- hallo! why, who shot the deer!"

"Hunky Ben has beat you," said Charlie.

"Beat Leather!" exclaimed Darvall, "why, he beats all creation. I never see'd anything like it since I went to sea."

"Since you came ashore, you should say. But come, Dick," said Charlie, "let's hear about this wonderful shooting. I'm sure it will amuse Buck -- unless he's too wearied to listen."

"Let him talk," said the invalid. "I like to hear him."

Thus exhorted and encouraged the seaman recounted his day's experience.

"Well, you must know, messmates," said he, "that I set sail alone this mornin', havin' in my pocket the small compass I always carry about me --  also my bearin's before startin', so as I shouldn't go lost in the woods -- though that wouldn't be likely in such an narrow inlet as this Traitor's Trap, to say nothin' o' the landmarks alow and aloft of all sorts. I carried a Winchester with me, because, not bein' what you may call a crack shot, I thought it would give me a better chance to have a lot o' resarve shots in the locker, d'ye see? I carried also a six-shooter, as it might come handy, you know, if I fell in wi' a Redskin or a bear, an' got to close quarters. Also my cutlass, for I've bin used to that aboard ship when I was in the navy.

"Well, away I went -- makin' sail down the valley to begin with, an' then a long tack into the mountains right in the wind's eye, that bein' the way to get on the blind side o' game. I hadn't gone far when up starts a bird o' some sort -- "

"What like was it?" asked the scout.

"No more notion than the man in the moon," returned the sailor. "What wi' the flutter an' scurry an' leaves, branches an' feathers -- an' the start -- I see'd nothin' clear, an' I was so anxious to git somethin' for the pot, that six shots went arter it out o' the Winchester, before I was quite sure I'd begun to fire -- for you must know I've larned to fire uncommon fast since I come to these parts. Hows'ever, I hit nothin' -- "

"Not quite so bad as that, Dick," interrupted the scout gravely.

"Well, that's true, but you better tell that part of it yourself, Hunky, as you know more about it than me."

"It wasn't of much consequence," said the scout betraying the slightest possible twinkle in his grey eyes, "but Dick has a knack o' lettin' drive without much regard to what's in front of him. I happened to be more in front of him than that bird when he began to fire, an' the first shot hit my right leggin', but by good luck only grazed the bark. Of course I dropped behind a rock when the storm began and lay quiet there, and when a lull came I halloo'd."

"Yes, he did halloo," said Dick, resuming the narrative, "an' that halloo was more like the yell of a bull of Bashan than the cry of a mortal man. It made my heart jump into my throat an' stick there, for I thought I must have killed a whole Redskin tribe at one shot -- "

"Six shots, Dick. Tell the exact truth an' don't contradic' yourself," said Hunky.

"No, it wasn't," retorted the seaman stoutly. "It was arter the first shot that you gave the yell. Hows'ever, I allow that the echoes kep' it goin' till the six shots was off -- an' I can tell you, messmates, that the hallooin' an' flutterin' an' scurryin' an echoin' an' thought of Redskins in my brain all mixed up wi' the blatterin' shots, caused such a rumpus that I experienced considerable relief when the smoke cleared away an' I see'd Hunky Ben in front o' me laughin' fit to bu'st his sides."

"Well, to make a long yarn short, I joined Hunky and allowed him to lead, seein' that he understands the navigation hereaway better than me.

"'Come along,' says he, 'an' I'll let you have a chance at a deer.'

"'All right,' says I, an' away we went up one hill an' down another -- for all the world as if we was walkin' over a heavy Atlantic swell -- till we come to a sort o' pass among the rocks.

"'I'm goin' to leave you here to watch,' says he, 'an' I'll go round by the futt o' the gully an' drive the deer up. They'll pass quite close, so you've only to -- '

"Hunky stopped short as he was speakin' and flopped down as if he'd bin shot-haulin' me along wi' him.

"'Keep quiet,' says he, in a low voice. 'We're in luck, an' don't need to drive. There's a deer comin' up at this very minute -- a young one. You'll take it. I won't fire unless you miss.'

"You may be sure I kep' quiet, messmates, arter that. I took just one peep, an' there, sure enough, I saw a brown beast comin' up the pass. So we kep' close as mice. There was a lot o' small bushes not ten yards in front of us, which ended in a cut -- a sort o' crack -- in the hill-side, a hundred yards or more from the place where we was crouchin'.

"'Now,' whispers Hunky to -- "

"I never whisper!" remarked the scout.

"Well, well; he said, in a low v'ice to me, says he, 'd'ye see that openin' in the bushes?' 'I do,' says I. 'Well then,' says he, 'it's about ten yards off; be ready to commence firin' when it comes to that openin'.' 'I will,' says I. An', sure enough, when the brown critter came for'id at a walk an' stopped sudden wi' a look o' surprise as if it hadn't expected to see me, bang went my Winchester four times, like winkin', an' up went the deer four times in the air, but niver a bit the worse was he. Snap I went a fifth time; but there was no shot, an' I gave a yell, for I knew the cartridges was done. By that time the critter had reached the crack in the hill I told ye of, an' up in the air he went to clear it, like an Indy-rubber ball. I felt a'most like to fling my rifle at it in my rage, when bang! went a shot at my ear that all but deaf'ned me, an' I wish I may niver fire another shot or furl another t'gallant-s'l if that deer didn't crumple up in the air an' drop down stone dead -- as dead as it now lays there on the floor."

By the time Dick Darvall had ended his narrative -- which was much more extensive than our report of it -- steaks of the deer were sputtering in a frying-pan, and other preparations were being made for a hearty meal, to which all the healthy men did ample justice. Shank Leather did what he could, and even Buck Tom made a feeble attempt to join.

That night a strict watch was kept outside the cave -- each taking it by turns, for it was just possible, though not probable, that the outlaws might return to their old haunt. No one appeared, however, and for the succeeding eight weeks the party remained there undisturbed, Shank Leather slowly but surely regaining strength; his friend, Buck Tom, as slowly and surely losing it; while Charlie, Dick, and Hunky Ben ranged the neighbouring forest in order to procure food. Leather usually remained in the cave to cook for and nurse his friend. It was pleasant work to Shank, for love and pity were at the foundation of the service. Buck Tom perceived this and fully appreciated it. Perchance he obtained some valuable light on spiritual subjects from Shank's changed tone and manner, which the logic of his friend Brooke had failed to convey. Who can tell?



Chapter Twenty Five.

Shows How The Seaman Was Sent On A Delicate Mission And How He Fared.

"Shank," said Charlie one day as they were sitting in the sunshine near the outlaws' cave, waiting for Dick and the scout to return to their mid-day meal, "it seems to me that we may be detained a good while here, for we cannot leave Ralph, and it is evident that the poor fellow won't be able to travel for many a day -- "

"If ever," interposed Shank sorrowfully.

"Well, then, I think we must send down to Bull's Ranch, to see if there are any letters for us. I feel sure that there must be some, and the question arises -- who are we to send?"

"You must not go, Charlie, whoever goes. You are the only link in this mighty wilderness, that connects Ralph and me with home -- and hope. Weak and helpless as we are, we cannot afford to let you out of our sight."

"Well, but if I don't go I can't see my way to asking the scout to go, for he alone thoroughly understands the ways of the country and of the Indians -- if any should chance to come this way. Besides, considering the pledge he is under to be accountable for Buck Tom, I doubt if he would consent to go."

"The question is answered, then," said Shank, "for the only other man is Dick Darvall."

"True; and it strikes me that Dick will be very glad to go," returned Charlie with a smile of peculiar meaning.

"D'ye think he's getting tired of us, Charlie?"

"By no means. But you know he has a roving disposition, and I think he has a sort of fondness for Jackson -- the boss of the ranch."

It was found when the question was put to him, that Dick was quite ready to set out on the mission required of him. He also admitted his fondness for Roaring Bull!

"But what if you should lose your way?" asked the scout.

"Find it again," was Dick's prompt reply.

"And what if you should be attacked by Indians?"

"Fight 'em, of course."

"But if they should be too many to fight?"

"Why, clap on all sail an' give 'em a starn chase, which is always a long one. For this purpose, however, I would have to command a good craft so I'd expect you to lend me yours, Hunky Ben."

"What! my Polly?"

"Even so. Black Polly."

The scout received this proposal gravely, and shook his head at first, for he was naturally fond of his beautiful mare, and, besides, doubted the sailor's horsemanship, though he had perfect faith in his courage and discretion. Finally, however, he gave in; and accordingly, one fine morning at daybreak, Dick Darvall, mounted on Black Polly, and armed with his favourite Winchester, revolvers, and cutlass, "set sail" down Traitor's Trap to visit his lady-love!

Of course he knew that his business was to obtain letters and gather news. But honest Dick Darvall could not conceal from himself that his main object was -- Mary Jackson!

Somehow it has come to be supposed or assumed that a jack-tar cannot ride. Possibly this may be true of the class as a whole to which Jack belongs, but it is not necessarily true of all, and it certainly is not true of some. Dick Darvall was an expert horseman -- though a sailor. He had learned to ride when a boy, before going to sea, and his after-habit of riding the "white horses" of the Norseman, did not cause him to forget the art of managing the "buckers" of the American plains. To use his own words, he felt as much at home on the hurricane deck of a Spanish pony, as on the fo'c'sl of a man-of-war, so that the scout's doubt of his capacity as a rider was not well founded.

Tremendous was the bound of exultation which our seaman felt, then, when he found himself on the magnificent black mare, with the fresh morning air fanning his temples, and the bright morning sun glinting through a cut in the eastern range.

Soon he reached the lower end of the valley, which, being steep, he had descended with tightened rein. On reaching the open prairie he gave the mare her head and went off with a wild whoop like an arrow from a bow.

Black Polly required neither spur nor whip. She possessed that charmingly sensitive spirit which seems to receive an electric shock from its rider's lightest chirp. She was what you may call an anxiously willing steed, yet possessed such a tender mouth that she could be pulled up as easily as she could be made to go. A mere child could have ridden her, and Dick found in a few minutes that a slight check was necessary to prevent her scouring over the plains at racing speed. He restrained her, therefore, to a grand canter, with many a stride and bound interspersed, when such a thing as a rut or a little bush came in her way.

With arched neck, glistening eyes, voluminous mane, and flowing tail she flew onward, hour after hour, with many a playful shake of the head, and an occasional snort, as though to say, "This is mere child's play; do let me put on a spurt!"

It may not be fair to credit such a noble creature with talking, or even thinking, slang, but Dick Darvall clearly understood her to say something of the sort, for after a while he reduced speed to a kind of india-rubber walk and patted her neck, saying -- 

"No, no, lass, you mustn't use up your strength at the beginning. We've got a longish trip before us, Polly, an' it won't do to clap on all sail at the beginnin' of the voyage."

At David's store Dick stopped for a short time to obtain a little refreshment for himself and Polly. There he found a group of cow-boys discussing the affairs of their neighbours, and enlarging noisily on things in general under the brain-clearing and reason-inspiring influence of strong drink! To these he recounted briefly the incidents of the recent raid of the troops into Traitor's Trap, and learned that Jake the Flint had "drifted south into Mexico where he was plying the trade of cattle and horse stealer, with the usual accompaniments of that profession -- fighting, murdering, drinking, etcetera." Some of the deeds of this notorious outlaw, as narrated by the cow-boy Crux, who happened to be there, made the blood of Dick run cold -- and Dick's blood was not easily made to run otherwise than naturally by any one -- except, of course, by Mary Jackson, who could at all events make it run hot, also fast or slow, very much according to her own sweet will!

But the seaman had no time to lose. He had still a long way to go, and the day was advancing. Remounting Black Polly he was soon out again on the prairie, sweeping over the grassy waves and down into the hollows with a feeling of hilarious jollity, that was born of high health, good-nature, pleasant circumstances, and a free-and-easy mind.

Nothing worthy of particular notice occurred after this to mar the pleasure of our sailor's "voyage" over the prairie until he reached a belt of woodland, through which for half a mile he had to travel. Here he drew rein and began to traverse the bit of forest at a quiet amble, partly to rest Polly, and partly that he might more thoroughly enjoy the woodland scenery through the umbrageous canopy of which the sun was sending his slanting rays and covering the sward with a confused chequer-work of green and gold.

And here Dick Darvall became communicative; entered into conversation, so to speak, with himself. After a few minutes, however, this did not prove a sufficient outlet to his exuberant spirits.

"Come, Dick," he exclaimed, "give us a song. Your voice ain't, perhaps, much to speak of as to quality, but there's no end of quantity. Strike up, now; what shall it be?"

Without replying to the question he struck up "Rule Britannia" in tones that did not justify his disparaging remark as to quality. He reached the other end of the wood and the end of the song at the same time. "Britons," shouted he with unalterable determination -- "Never, never, ne-ever, shall be -- Redskins!"

This unnatural termination was not an intentional variation. It was the result of a scene that suddenly burst upon his view.

Far away on the prairie two riders were seen racing at what he would have styled a slant away from him. They were going at a pace that suggested fleeing for life.

"Redskins -- arter somethin'," murmured Dick, pulling up, and shading his eyes from the sun with his right hand, as he gazed earnestly at the two riders.

"No-n-no. They're whites," he continued, "one o' them a man; t'other a woman. I can make that out, anyhow."

As he spoke, the racing riders topped a far-off knoll; halted, and turned round as if to gaze back towards the north -- the direction from which they had come. Then, wheeling round as if in greater haste than ever, they continued their headlong gallop and disappeared on the other side of the knoll.

Dick naturally turned towards the north to see, if possible, what the two riders were flying from. He was not kept long in doubt, for just then a band of horsemen was seen topping the farthest ridge in that direction, and bearing down on the belt of woodland, along the edge of which they galloped towards him.

There was no mistaking who they were. The war-whoop, sounding faint and shrill in the distance, and the wild gesticulations of the riders, told the story at once to our seaman -- two pale-faces, pursued by a band of bloodthirsty savages!

Unskilled though he was in backwoods warfare, Dick was not unfamiliar with war's alarms, nor was he wanting in common sense. To side with the weaker party was a natural tendency in our seaman. That the pursuers were red, and the pursued white, strengthened the tendency, and the fact that one of the latter was a woman settled the question. Instantly Dick shook the reins, drove his unarmed heels against the sides of Polly, and away they went after the fugitives like a black thunderbolt, if there be such artillery in nature!

A wild yell told him that he was seen.

"Howl away, ye land lubbers!" growled Dick. "You'll have to fill your sails wi' a stiffer breeze than howlin' before ye overhaul this here craft."

Just then he reached the crest of a prairie billow, whence he could see the fugitives still far ahead of him. Suddenly a suspicion entered the seaman's mind, which made his heart almost choke him. What if this should be Mary Jackson and her father? Their relative size countenanced the idea, for the woman seemed small and the man unusually large.

In desperate haste Dick now urged on his gallant steed to her best pace, and well did she justify the praises that had been often bestowed on her by Hunky Ben. In a very brief space of time she was close behind the fugitives, and Dick was now convinced that his suspicions as to who they were was right. He rode after them with divided feelings -- tremblingly anxious lest Mary should fall into the hands of their ruthless foes --  exultantly glad that he had come there in time to fight, or die if need be, in her defence.

Suddenly the male fugitive, who had only glanced over his shoulder from time to time, pulled up, wheeled round, and quickly raised his rifle.

"Hallo! get on, man; don't stop!" Dick yelled, in a voice worthy of Bull himself. Taking off his hat he waved it violently above his head. As he spoke he saw the woman's arm flash upwards; a puff of smoke followed, and a bullet whistled close over his head.

Next moment the fugitives had turned and resumed their headlong flight. A few more minutes sufficed to bring Dick and the black mare alongside, for the latter was still vigorous in wind and limb, while the poor jaded animals which Mary and her father rode were almost worn out by a prolonged flight.

"Dick Darvall," exclaimed Jackson, as the former rode up, "I never was gladder to see any man than I am to see you this hour, though but for my Mary I'd surely have sent you to kingdom come. Her ears are better than mine, you see. She recognised the voice an' knocked up my rifle just as I pulled the trigger. But I'm afeared it's too late, lad."

The way in which the man said this, and the look of his pale haggard face, sent a thrill to the heart of Dick.

"What d'ye mean?" he said, looking anxiously at Mary, who with a set rigid expression on her pale face was looking straight before her, and urging her tired pony with switch and rein.

"I mean, lad, that we've but a poor chance to reach the ranch wi' such knocked-up brutes as these. Of course we can turn at bay an' kill as many o' the red-devils as possible before it's all over wi' us, but what good would that do to Mary? If we could only check the varmins, there might be some hope, but -- "

"Jackson!" exclaimed the seaman, in a firm tone, "I'll do my best to check them. God bless you, Mary -- good-bye. Heave ahead, now, full swing!"

As he spoke, Dick pulled up, while the others continued their headlong flight straight for the ranch, which was by the only a few miles distant.

Wheeling round, Dick cantered back to the knoll over which they had just passed and halted on the top of it. From this position he could see the band, of about fifty Indians, careering towards him and yelling with satisfaction, for they could also see him -- a solitary horseman -- clear cut against the bright sky.

Dick got ready his repeating rifle. We have already mentioned the fact that he had learned to load and fire this formidable weapon with great rapidity, though he had signally failed in his attempts to aim with it. Being well aware of his weakness, he made up his mind in his present desperate extremity not to aim at all! He had always felt that the difficulty of getting the back and front sights of the rifle to correspond with the object aimed at was a slow, and, in his case, an impossible process. He therefore resolved to simply point his weapon and fire!

"Surely," he muttered to himself even in that trying moment, "surely I can't altogether miss a whole bunch o' fifty men an' horses!"

He waited until he thought the savages were within long range, and then, elevating his piece a little, fired.

The result justified his hopes. A horse fell dead upon the plain, and its owner, although evidently unwounded, was for the time hors de combat.

True to his plan, Dick kept up such a quick continuous fire, and made so much noise and smoke, that it seemed as if a whole company of riflemen were at work instead of one man, and several horses on the plain testified to the success of the pointing as compared with the aiming principle!

Of course the fire was partly returned, and for a time the stout seaman was under a pretty heavy rain of bullets, but as the savages fired while galloping their aim was necessarily bad.

This fusillade had naturally the effect of checking the advance of the Indians -- especially when they drew near to the reckless man, who, when the snap of his rifle told that his last cartridge was off, wheeled about and fled as fast as Black Polly could lay hoofs to the plain.

And now he found the value of the trustworthy qualities of his steed, for, instead of guiding her out of the way of obstacles, he gave her her head, held tight with his legs, and merely kept an eye on the ground in front to be ready for any swerve, bound, or leap, that might be impending. Thus his hands were set free to re-charge the magazine of his rifle, which he did with deliberate rapidity.

The truth is, that recklessness has a distinct tendency to produce coolness. And there is no one who can afford to be so deliberate, and of whom other men are so much afraid, as the man who has obviously made up his mind to die fighting.

While Dick was loading-up, Black Polly was encouraged by voice and heel to do her best, and her best was something to see and remember! When the charging was finished, Dick drew rein and trotted to the next knoll he encountered, from which point he observed with some satisfaction that the fugitives were still pressing on, and that the distance between them and their foe had slightly increased.

But the seaman had not much time to look or think, for the band of Redskins was drawing near. When they came within range he again opened fire. But this time the savages divided, evidently with the intention of getting on both sides of him, and so distracting his attention. He perceived their object at once, and reserved his fire until they turned and with frantic yells made a simultaneous dash on him right and left. Again he waited till his enemies were close enough, and then opened fire right and left alternately, while the Indians found that they had outwitted themselves and scarcely dared to fire lest the opposite bands should hit each other.

Having expended the second supply of ammunition, Dick wheeled round and took to flight as before. Of course the mare soon carried him out of range, and again he had the satisfaction of observing that the fugitives had increased their distance from the foe.

"One more check o' this kind," thought Dick, "and they'll be safe -- I think."

While thus thinking he was diligently re-charging, and soon cantered to the top of a third knoll, where he resolved to make his final stand. The ranch was by that time dimly visible on the horizon, and the weary fugitives were seen struggling towards it. But Dick found, on halting and looking back, that the Indians had changed their tactics. Instead of directing their attention to himself, as on the previous occasions, they had spread out to the right and left and had scattered, besides keeping well out of range.

"What are the sinners up to now?" muttered the seaman in some perplexity.

He soon perceived that they meant to go past him altogether, if possible, and head towards the fugitives in separate groups.

"Ay, but it's not possible!" exclaimed Dick, answering his own thoughts as he turned swiftly, and stretched out after his friends. Seeing this, the savages tried to close in on him from both sides, but their already winded ponies had no chance against the grand Mexican mare, which having been considerately handled during the day's journey was comparatively fresh and in full vigour.

Shooting ahead he now resolved to join his friends and a feeling of triumph began to rise within his breast as he saw them pushing steadily onward. The ranch, however, was still at a considerable distance, while the Indians were rapidly gaining ground.

At that moment to Dick's horror, the pony which Mary Jackson rode stumbled and fell, sending its rider over its head. But the fair Mary, besides being a splendid horsewoman, was singularly agile and quick in perception. For some time she had anticipated the catastrophe, and, at the first indication of a stumble, leaped from the saddle and actually alighted on her feet some yards ahead. Of course she fell with some violence, but the leap broke her fall and probably saved her neck. She sprang up instantly, and grasping the reins, tried to raise her pony. It was too late. The faithful creature was dead.

Jackson, pulling up, wheeled round and was back at her side instantly. Almost at the same moment Dick Darvall came up, threw the mare almost on her haunches, leaped from the saddle, and ran to Mary. As he did so, the crash of a pistol shot at his ear almost deafened him, and a glance showed him that Jackson had shot his horse, which fell dead close to his daughter's pony.

"Kill your horse, Dick," he growled sharply, as he exerted his great strength to the utmost, and dragged the haunches of his own steed close to the head of the other. "It's our only chance."

Dick drew his revolver, and aimed at the heart of Black Polly, but for the soul of him he could not pull the trigger.

"No -- I won't!" he cried, grasping the lasso which always hung at the saddle-bow. "Hobble the fore-legs!"

There was such determination in the sailor's command, that Jackson felt bound to obey. At the same moment Dick bound the horse's hind-legs. He fully understood what Jackson intended, and the latter was as quick to perceive the seaman's drift. Seizing the reins, while his friend caught hold of the lasso, Dick cried, "Out o' the way, Mary!" and with a mighty effort the two men threw the mare on her side.

"First-rate!" cried Jackson, while his companion held down the animal's head. "It couldn't have dropped better. Jump inside, Mary, an' lie down flat behind your pony. Let Mary have the reins, Dick. She knows how to hold its head down without showin' herself."

Even while he was speaking, Jackson and Dick leaped into the triangle of horses thus formed, and, crouching low, disappeared from the sight of the savages, who now came on yelling with triumph, for they evidently thought themselves sure of their victims by that time.

"Are ye a good shot, Dick?" asked Jackson, as he gazed sternly at the approaching foe.

"No -- abominably bad."

"Fire low then. You may catch the horses if ye miss the Redskins. Anyhow you'll hit the ground if you aim low, an' it's wonderful what execution a bullet may do arter hittin' mother Earth."

"I never aim," replied the sailor. "Only a waste o' time. I just point straight an' fire away."

"Do it, then," growled roaring Bull, with something that sounded like a short laugh.

At the same moment he himself took quick aim at the foe and fired; the leading horse and man immediately rolled upon the plain.

As both men were armed with repeating rifles the fusillade was rapid, and most of the savages, who seldom fight well in the open, were repulsed. But several of them, headed apparently by their chief, rode on fearlessly until within pistol-shot.

Then the two defenders of this peculiar fortress sprang up with revolvers in each hand.

"Lie close, Mary," cried Jackson as he fired, and the chief's horse rolled over, almost reaching their position with the impetus of the charge. The chief himself lay beside his horse, for another shot had ended his career. As two other horses had fallen, the rest of the band wheeled aside and galloped away, followed by a brisk fire from the white men, who had again crouched behind their breast-work and resumed their rifles.

Bullets were by that time flying over them in considerable numbers, for those Indians who had not charged with their chief had, after retiring to a safe distance, taken to firing at long range. At this work Dick's rifle and straight pointing were of little use, so he reserved his fire for close quarters, while Jackson, who was almost a certain shot at average ranges, kept the savages from drawing nearer.

"Lie closer to the pony, Miss Mary," said Dick, as a shot passed close over the girl and whistled between him and his comrade. "Were you hurt in the fall?"

"No, not in the least. Don't you think they'll hear the firing at the ranch, father?"

"Ay, lass, if there's anybody to hear it, but I sent the boys out this mornin' to hunt up a bunch o' steers that have drifted south among Wilson's cattle, an' I fear they've not come back yet. See, the reptiles are goin' to try it again!"

As he spoke, the remnant of the Redskins who pressed home the first charge, having held a palaver, induced the whole band to make another attempt, but they were met with the same vigour as before -- a continuous volley at long range, which emptied several saddles, and then, when the plucky men of the tribe charged close, the white men stood up, as before, and plied them with revolvers so rapidly that they were fain to wheel aside and retire.

"Ammunition's gettin' low," said Dick, in an anxious tone.

"Then I'll waste no more," growled Jackson, "but only fire when I'm safe to hit."

As he spoke a distant cheer was heard, and, looking back, they saw, with a rebound of hope, that a band of five or six cow-boys were coming from the ranch and galloping full swing to the rescue. Behind them, a few seconds later, appeared a line of men who came on at a swinging trot.

"Troopers, I do believe!" exclaimed Jackson.

"Thank God!" said Mary, with a deep sigh of relief as she sat up to look at them. The troopers gave a cheer of encouragement as they thundered past to the attack, but the Indians did not await the onset. At the first sight of the troops they fled, and in a few minutes pursued and pursuers alike were out of sight -- hidden behind the prairie waves.

"I can't tell you how thankful I am that I didn't shoot the mare," said Dick, as they unfastened the feet of Black Polly and let her rise. "I'd never have been able to look Hunky Ben in the face again arter it."

"Well, I'm not sorry you spared her," said Jackson; "as for the two that are dead, they're no great loss -- yet I've a kind o' regret too, for the poor things served us well."

"Faithfully -- even to death," added Mary, in a sorrowful tone as she stooped to pat the neck of her dead pony.

"Will you mount, Miss Mary, and ride home?" asked the sailor.

"Thank you -- no, I'd rather walk with father. We have not far to go now."

"Then we'll all walk together," said Jackson.

Dick threw Black Polly's bridle over his arm, and they all set off at a smart walk for the ranch of Roaring Bull, while the troops and cow-boys chased the Redskins back into the mountains whence they had come.



Chapter Twenty Six.

Treats Of Various Interesting Matters, And Tells Of News From Home.

Dick Darvall now learned that, owing to the disturbed state of the country, Captain Wilmot had left a small body of men to occupy Bull's ranch for a time; hence their presence at the critical moment when Jackson and his daughter stood so much in need of their assistance. He also found that there were two letters awaiting the party at Traitor's Trap -- one for Charles Brooke, Esquire, and one for Mr S. Leather. They bore the postmarks of the old country.

"You'd better not start back wi' them for three or four days, Dick," said Jackson, when they were seated that evening in the hall of the ranch, enjoying a cup of coffee made by the fair hands of Mary.

Dick shook his head. "I'm acting post-boy just now" said he, "an' it would ill become me to hang off an' on here waitin' for a fair wind when I can beat into port with a foul one."

"But if the Redskins is up all round, as some o' the boys have reported, it's not merely a foul wind but a regular gale that's blowin', an' it would puzzle you to beat into port in the teeth o' that."

"I think," remarked Mary, with an arch smile, "that Mr Darvall had better 'lay to' until the troops return to-night and report on the state of the weather."

To this the gallant seaman declared that he would be only too happy to cast anchor altogether where he was for the rest of his life, but that duty was duty, and that, blow high or blow low, fair weather or foul, duty had to be attended to.

"That's true, O high-principled seaman!" returned Jackson; "and what d'ye consider your duty at the present time?"

"To deliver my letters, O Roarin' Bull!" replied Dick.

"Just so, but if you go slick off when Redskins are rampagin' around, you'll be sure to get nabbed an' roasted alive, an' so you'll never deliver your letters."

"It's my duty to try," said Dick. "Hows'ever," he added, turning to Mary with a benignant smile, "I'll take your advice, Miss Mary, an' wait for the report o' the soldiers."

When the troopers returned, their report was, that the Redskins, after being pretty severely handled, had managed to reach the woods, where it would have been useless to follow them so close upon night; but it was their opinion that the band, which had so nearly captured the boss of the ranch and his daughter, was merely a marauding band, from the south, of the same Indians who had previously attacked the ranch, and that, as for the Indians of the district, they believed them to be quite peaceably disposed.

"Which says a good deal for them," remarked the officer in command of the troops, "when we consider the provocation they receive from Buck Tom, Jake the Flint, and such-like ruffians."

"The moon rises at ten to-night, Dick," said Jackson, as they went together to the stables to see that the horses were all right.

"That's so," said the sailor, who noticed something peculiar in the man's tone; "what may be the reason o' your reference to that bit of astronomy?"

"Why, you see," returned the other, "post-boys in these diggin's are used to travellin' night an' day. An' the troopers' report o' the weather might be worse. You was sayin' somethin' about duty, wasn't you?"

"Right, Jackson," returned Dick, "but Black Polly is not used to travellin' night an' day. If she was, I'd take her back to-night, for moonlight is good enough for a man that has twice taken soundin's along the road, an' who's well up in all the buoys, beacons, an' landmarks, but it would be cruelty to the good mare."

"Duty first, Dick, the mare second. You don't need to trouble about her. I'll lend ye one o' my best horses an' take good care o' Black Polly till Hunky Ben claims her."

"Thank 'ee, Jackson, but I'll not part wi' Black Polly till I've delivered her to her owner. I won't accept your invite to stop here three or four days, but neither will I start off to-night. I've too much regard for the good mare to do that."

"Ho! ho!" thought his host, with an inward chuckle, "it's not so much the mare as Mary that you've a regard for, my young sailor!"

But in spite of his name the man was much too polite to express this opinion aloud. He merely said, "Well, Dick, you know that you're welcome to squat here as long or as short a time as you like, an' use the best o' my horses, if so disposed, or do the postboy business on Black Polly. Do as ye like wi' me an' mine, boy, for it's only fair to say that but for your help this day my Mary an' me would have bin done for."

They reached the stable as he was speaking, and Jackson at once turned the conversation on the horses, thus preventing a reply from Dick -- in regard to which the latter was not sorry.

In the stall the form of Black Polly looked grander than ever, for her head nearly touched the roof as she raised it and turned a gleaming eye on the visitors, at the same time uttering a slight whinny of expectation.

"Why, I do believe she has transferred her affections to you, Dick," said Jackson. "I never heard her do that before except to Hunky Ben, and she's bin many a time in that stall."

"More likely that she expected Ben had come to bid her good-night," returned the sailor.

But the way in which the beautiful creature received Dick's caresses induced Jackson to hold to his opinion. It is more probable, however, that some similarity of disposition between Dick Darvall and Hunky Ben had commended itself to the mare, which was, as much as many a human being, of an amiable, loving disposition. She thoroughly appreciated the tenderness and forbearance of her master, and, more recently, of Dick. No doubt the somewhat rough way in which she had been thrown to the ground that day may have astonished her, but it evidently had not soured her temper.

That night Dick did not see much of Mary. She was far too busy attending to, and providing for, the numerous guests at the ranch to be able to give individual attention to any one in particular -- even had she been so disposed.

Buttercup of course lent able assistance to her mistress in these domestic duties, and, despite her own juvenility -- we might perhaps say, in consequence of it -- gave Mary much valuable advice.

"Dat man's in a bad way," said she, as, with her huge lips pouting earnestly, she examined the contents of a big pot on the fire. The black maiden's lips were so pronounced and expressive that they might almost be said to constitute her face!

"What man?" asked Mary, who, with her sleeves tucked up to the elbows, was manipulating certain proportions of flour, water, and butter.

"Why, Dick, oh course. He's de only man wuth speakin' about."

Mary blushed a little in spite of herself, and laughed hilariously as she replied -- 

"Dear me, Butter, I didn't think he had made such a deep impression on you."

"'S not on'y on me he's made a 'mpress'n," returned the maid, carelessly. "He makes de same 'mpress'n on eberybody."

"How d'you know?" asked Mary.

"'Cause I see," answered the maid.

She turned her eyes on her mistress as she spoke, and immediately a transformation scene was presented. The eyes dwindled into slits as the cheeks rose, and the serious pout became a smile so magnificent that ivory teeth and scarlet gums set in ebony alone met the gaze of the beholder.

"Buttercup," exclaimed Mary, stamping her little foot firmly, "it's boiling over!"

She was right. Teeth and gums vanished. The eyes returned, so did the pout, and the pot was whipped off the fire in a twinkling, but not before a mighty hiss was heard and the head of the black maiden was involved in a cloud of steam and ashes!

"I told you so!" cried Mary, quoting from an ancient Manuscript.

"No, you di'n't," retorted her servitor, speaking from the depths of her own consciousness.

We refrain from following the conversation beyond this point, as it became culinary and flat.

Next day Dick Darvall, refreshed -- and, owing to some quite inexplicable influences, enlivened -- mounted Black Polly and started off alone for Traitor's Trap, leaving his heart and a reputation for cool pluck behind him.

Of course he was particularly watchful and circumspect on the way up, but saw nothing to call for a further display of either pluck or coolness. On arriving at the cave he found his friends there much as he had left them. Buck Tom, owing to the skilled attentions which he had received from that amateur surgeon, Hunky Ben, and a long refreshing sleep -- the result of partial relief from pain -- was a good deal better; and poor Leather, cheered by the hope thus raised of his friend's recovery, was himself considerably improved in health and spirits.

Fortunately for his own peace of mind, it never seemed to occur to Shank that a return to health meant for Buck Tom, death on the gallows. Perhaps his own illness had weakened Shank's powers of thought. It may be, his naturally thoughtless disposition helped to render him oblivious of the solemn fact, and no one was cruel enough to remind him of it. But Buck himself never forgot it; yet he betrayed no symptom of despondency, neither did he indicate any degree of hope. He was a man of resolute purpose, and had the power of subduing -- at least of absolutely concealing -- his feelings. To those who nursed him he seemed to be in a state of gentle, colourless resignation.

Charlie Brooke and Hunky Ben, having been out together, had returned well laden with game; and Leather was busy at the fire preparing a savoury mess of the same for his sick friend when Dick arrived.

"News from the old country!" he exclaimed, holding up the letters on entering the cave. "Two for Charles Brooke, Esquire, and one for Mister Leather!"

"They might have been more polite to me. Hand it here," said the latter, endeavouring to conceal under a jest his excitement at the sight of a letter from home; for his wild life had cut him off from communication for a very long time.

"One of mine is from old Jacob Crossley," said Charlie, tearing the letter open with eager interest.

"An' mine is from sister May," exclaimed Shank.

If any one had observed Buck Tom at that moment, he would have seen that the outlaw started and rose almost up on one elbow, while a deep flush suffused his bronzed countenance. The action and the flush were only momentary, however he sank down again and turned his face to the wall.

Charlie also started and looked at Shank when the name of May was mentioned, and the eye of Hunky Ben was on him at the moment. But Hunky of course could not interpret the start. He knew little of our hero's past history -- nothing whatever about May. Being a western scout, no line of his mahogany-looking face indicated that the start aroused a thought of any kind.

While the recipients of the letters were busily perusing their missives, Dick Darvall gave the scout a brief outline of his expedition to the ranch, reserving the graphic narration of incidents to a more fitting occasion, when all the party could listen.

"Dick, you're a trump," said the scout.

"I'm a lucky fellow, anyhow," returned Dick.

"In very truth ye are, lad, to escape from such a big bunch o' Redskins without a scratch; why -- "

"Pooh!" interrupted the sailor, "that's not the luck I'm thinkin' of. Havin' overhauled Roarin' Bull an' his little girl in time to help rescue them, that's what I call luck -- d'ee see?"

"Yes, I see," was Hunky Ben's laconic reply.

Perhaps the scout saw more than was intended, for he probably observed the glad enthusiasm with which the bold seaman mentioned Roaring Bull's little girl. We cannot tell. His wooden countenance betrayed no sign, and he may have seen nothing; but he was a western scout, and accustomed to take particular note of the smallest signs of the wilderness.

"Capital -- first-rate!" exclaimed Charlie, looking up from his letter when he had finished it.

"Just what I was going to say, or something of the same sort," said Leather, as he folded his epistle.

"Then there's nothing but good news?" said Charlie.

"Nothing. I suppose it's the same with you, to judge from your looks," returned Shank.

"Exactly. Perhaps," said Charlie, "it may interest you all to hear my letter. There are no secrets in it, and the gentleman who writes it is a jolly old fellow, Jacob Crossley by name. You know him, Dick, as the owner of the Walrus, though you've never seen him."

"All right. I remember; fire away," said Dick.

"It is dated from his office in London," continued our hero, "and runs thus: -- 

"MY DEAR BROOKE, -- We were all very glad to hear of your safe arrival in New York, and hope that long before this reaches your hand you will have found poor Leather and got him to some place of comfort, where he may recover the health that we have been given to understand he has lost.

"I chanced to be down at Sealford visiting your mother when your letter arrived; hence my knowledge of its contents. Mrs Leather and her daughter May were then as usual. By the way, what a pretty girl May has become! I remember her such a rumpled up, dress-anyhow, harum-scarum sort of a girl, that I find it hard to believe the tall, graceful, modest creature I meet with now is the same person! Captain Stride says she is the finest craft he ever saw, except that wonderful 'Maggie,' about whose opinions and sayings he tells us so much.

"But this is a double digression. To return: your letter of course gave us all great pleasure. It also gave your mother and May some anxiety, where it tells of the necessity of your going up to that wild-west place, Traitor's Trap, where poor Leather is laid up. Take care of yourself, my dear boy, for I'm told that the red savages are still given to those roasting, scalping, and other torturing that one has read of in the pages of Fenimore Cooper.

"By the way, before I forget it, let me say, in reference to the enclosed bill, it is a loan which I have obtained for Leather, at very moderate interest, and when more is required more can be obtained on the same terms. Let him understand this, for I don't wish that he should think, on the one hand, that he is drawing on his mother's slender resources, or, on the other hand, that he is under obligation to any one. I send the bill because I feel quite sure that you started on this expedition with too little. It is drawn in your name, and I think you will be able to cash it at any civilised town -- even in the far west!

"Talking of Captain Stride -- was I talking of him? Well, no matter. As he is past work now, but thinks himself very far indeed from that condition, I have prevailed on him to accept a new and peculiar post arising out of the curious evolutions of the firm of Withers and Company which satisfies the firm completely and suits the captain to a T. As the work can be done anywhere, a residence has been taken for him in Sealford, mid-way between that of your mother and Mrs Leather, so that he and his wife and little girl can run into either port when so disposed. As Mrs L, however (to use his own phraseology), is almost always to be found at anchor in the Brooke harbour, he usually kills both with the same visit. I have not been to see him yet in the new abode, and do not know what the celebrated Maggie thinks of it.

"When you find Leather, poor fellow, tell him that his mother and sister are very well. The former is indefatigable in knitting those hundreds of socks and stockings for poor people, about which there has been, and still is, and I think ever will be, so much mystery. The person who buys them from her must be very deep as well as honest, for no inquiries ever throw any fresh light on the subject, and he -- or she, whichever it is -- pays regularly as the worsted work is delivered -- so I'm told! It is a little old lady who pays -- but I've reason to believe that she's only a go-between -- some agent of a society for providing cheap clothing for the poor, I fancy, which the poor stand very much in need of, poor things! Your good mother helps in this work -- at least so I am told, but I'm not much up in in the details of it yet. I mean to run down to see them in a few days and hear all about it.

"Stride, I forgot to say, is allowed to smoke a pipe in your mother's parlour when he pays her a visit. This is so like her amiability, for she hates tobacco as much as I do. I ventured on a similarly amiable experiment one day when the worthy Captain dined with me, but the result was so serious that I have not ventured to repeat it. You remember my worthy housekeeper, Mrs Bland? Well, she kicked over the traces and became quite unmanageable. I had given Stride leave to smoke after dessert, because I had a sort of idea that he could nor digest his food without a pipe. You know my feelings with regard to young fellows who try to emulate chimneys, so you can understand that my allowing the Captain to indulge was no relaxation of my principles, but was the result of a strong objection I had to spoil the dinner of a man who was somewhat older than myself by cramming my principles down his throat.

"But the moment that Mrs Bland entered I knew by the glance of her eye, as well as by the sniff of her nose, that a storm was brewing up -- as Stride puts it -- and I was not wrong. The storm burst upon me that evening. It's impossible, and might be tedious, to give you all the conversation that we had after Stride had gone, but the upshot was that she gave me warning.

"'But, my good woman,' I began -- 

"'It's of no use good-womaning me, Mr Crossley,' said she, 'I couldn't exist in a 'ouse w'ere smokin' is allowed. My dear father died of smokin' -- at least, if he didn't, smokin' must 'ave 'ad somethink to do with it, for after the dear man was gone a pipe an' a plug of the nasty stuff was found under 'is piller, so I can't stand it; an' what's more, Mr Crossley, I won't stand it! Just think, sir, 'ow silly it is to put a bit of clay in your mouth an' draw smoke through it, an' then to spit it out again as if you didn't like it; as no more no one does on beginnin' it, for boys only smoke to look like men, an' men only smoke because they've got up the 'abit an' can't 'elp it. W'y, sir, you may git up any 'abit. You may git the 'abit of walkin' on your 'ands an' shakin' your legs in the hair if you was to persevere long enough, but that would only prove you a fool fit for a circus or a lunatic asylum. You never see the hanimals smokin'. They knows better. Just fancy! what would you think if you saw the cab 'osses all a-settin' on their tails in the rank smokin' pipes an' cigars! What would you think of a 'oss w'en 'is cabby cried, "Gee-up, there's a fare a 'owlin' for us," an' that 'oss would say, "Hall right, cabby, just 'old on, hold man, till I finish my pipe"? No, Mr Crossley, no, I -- '

"'But, my good soul!' I burst in here, 'do listen -- '

"'No use good-soulin' me, Mr Crossley. I tell you I won't stand it. My dear father died of it, an' I can't stand it -- '

"'I hate it, Mrs Bland, myself!'

"I shouted this interruption in such a loud fierce tone that the good woman stopped and looked at me in surprise.

"'Yes, Mrs Bland,' I continued, in the same tone, 'I detest smoking. You know I always did, but now more than ever, for your reasoning has convinced me that there are some evil consequences of smoking which are almost worse than smoking itself! Rest assured that never again shall the smell of the noxious weed defile the walls of this house.'

"'Lauk, sir!' said Mrs Bland.

"I had subdued her, Charlie, by giving in with dignity. I shall try the same role next breeze that threatens.

"I almost feel that I owe you an apology for the length of this epistle. Let me conclude by urging you to bring poor Leather home, strong and well. Tell him from me that there is a vacant situation in the firm of Withers and Company which will just suit him. He shall have it when he returns -- if God spares me to see him again. But I'm getting old, Charlie, and we know not what a day may bring forth."

"A kind -- a very kind letter," said Leather earnestly, when his friend had finished reading.

"Why, he writes as if he were your own father, Brooke," remarked Buck Tom, who had been listening intently. "Have you known him long?"

"Not long. Only since the time that he gave me the appointment of supercargo to the Walrus, but the little I have seen of him has aroused in me a feeling of strong regard."

"My sister May refers to him here," said Leather, with a peculiar smile, as he re-opened his letter. "The greater part of this tells chiefly of private affairs which would not interest any of you, but here is a passage which forms a sort of commentary on what you have just heard: -- 

"'You will be amused to hear,' she writes, 'that good Captain Stride has come to live in Sealford. Kind old Mr Crossley has given him some sort of work connected with Withers and Company's house which I can neither understand nor describe. Indeed, I am convinced it is merely work got up on purpose by Mr Crossley as an excuse for giving his old friend a salary, for he knows that Captain Stride would be terribly cast down if offered a pension, as that would be equivalent to pronouncing him unfit for further duty, and the Captain will never admit himself to be in that condition till he is dying. Old Jacob Crossley -- as you used to call him -- thinks himself a very sagacious and "deep" man, but in truth there never was a simpler or more transparent one. He thinks that we know nothing about who it is that sends the old lady to buy up all the worsted-work that mother makes, but we know perfectly well that it is himself, and dear mother could never have gone on working with satisfaction and receiving the money for it all if we had not found out that he buys it for our fishermen, who are said really to be very much in need of the things she makes.

"'The dear old man is always doing something kind and considerate in a sly way, under the impression that nobody notices. He little knows the power of woman's observation! By the way, that reminds me that he is not ignorant of woman's powers in other ways. We heard yesterday that his old and faithful -- though rather trying -- housekeeper had quarrelled with him about smoking! We were greatly surprised, for we knew that the old gentleman is not and never was, a smoker. She threatened to leave, but we have since heard, I am glad to say, that they have made it up!

"H'm! there's food for meditation in all that," said Dick Darvall, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it in his vest pocket.



Chapter Twenty Seven.

Hunky Ben And Charlie Get Beyond Their Depth, And Buck Tom Gets Beyond Recall.

While hunting together in the woods near Traitor's Trap one day Charlie Brooke and Hunky Ben came to a halt on the summit of an eminence that commanded a wide view over the surrounding country.

"'Tis a glorious place, Ben," said Brooke, leaning his rifle against a tree and mounting on a piece of rock, the better to take in the beautiful prospect of woodland, river, and lake. "When I think of the swarms of poor folk in the old country who don't own a foot of land, have little to eat and only rags to cover them, I long to bring them out here and plant them down where God has spread His blessings so bountifully, where there is never lack of work, and where Nature pays high wages to those who obey her laws."

"No doubt there's room enough here," returned the scout sitting down and laying his rifle across his knees. "I've often thowt on them subjects, but my thowts only lead to puzzlement; for, out here in the wilderness, a man can't git all the information needful to larn him about things in the old world. Dear, dear, it do seem strange to me that any man should choose to starve in the cities when there's the free wilderness to roam about in. I mind havin' a palaver once wi' a stove-up man when I was ranchin' down in Kansas on the Indian Territory Line. Screw was his name, an' a real kind-hearted fellow he was too -- only he couldn't keep his hand off that curse o' mankind, the bottle. I mentioned to him my puzzlements about this matter, an' he up fist an' come down on the table wi' a crack that made the glasses bounce as if they'd all come alive, an' caused a plate o' mush in front of him to spread itself all over the place -- but he cared nothin' for that, he was so riled up by the thowts my obsarvation had shook up.

"'Hunky Ben,' says he, glowerin' at me like a bull wi' the measles, 'the reason we stay there an' don't come out here or go to the other parts o' God's green 'arth is 'cause we can't help ourselves an' don't know how --  or what -- don't know nothin' in fact!'

"'That's a busted-up state o' ignorance, no doubt' said I, in a soothin' sort o' way, for I see'd the man was riled pretty bad by ancient memories, an' looked gittin' waxier. He wore a black eye, too, caught in a free fight the night before, which didn't improve his looks. 'You said we just now,' says I. 'Was you one o' them?'

"'Of course I was,' says he, tamin' down a little, 'an' I'd bin one o' them yet -- if not food for worms by this time -- if it hadn't bin for a dook as took pity on me.'

"'What's a dook?' says I.

"'A dook?' says he. 'Why, he's a dook, you know; a sort o' markis --  somewheres between a lord an' a king. I don't know zackly where, an hang me if I care; but they're a bad lot are some o' them dooks -- rich as Pharaoh, king o' J'rus'lem, an' hard as nails -- though I'm bound for to say they ain't all alike. Some on 'em's no better nor costermongers, others are men; men what keeps in mind that the same God made us all an' will call us all to the same account, an' that the same kind o' worms 'll finish us all off at last. But this dook as took pity on me was a true blue. He wasn't one o' the hard sort as didn't care a rush for us so long as his own stummick was full. Neether was he one o' the butter-mouths as dursen't say boo to a goose. He spoke out to me like a man, an' he knew well enough that I'd bin born in the London slums, an' that my daddy had bin born there before me, an that my mother had caught her death o' cold through havin' to pawn her only pair o' boots to pay my school fees an' then walk barefutt to the court in a winter day to answer for not sendin' her boy to the board school -- her send me to school! -- she might as well have tried to send daddy himself; an' him out o' work, too, an' all on us starvin'. My dook, when he hear about it a'most bust wi' passion. I hear 'im arterwards talkin' to a overseer, or somebody, "confound it," says he -- no, not quite that, for my dook he never swore, only he said somethin' pretty stiff -- "these people are starvin'," says he, "an' pawnin' their things for food to keep 'em alive, an' they can't git work nohow," says he, "an' yet you worry them out o' body an' soul for school fees!" I didn't hear no more, for the overseer smoothed 'im down somehows. But that dook -- that good man, Hunky Ben, paid my passage to Ameriky, an' sent me off wi' his blessin' an' a Bible. Unfortnitly I took a bottle wi' me, an when I got to the other side I got hold of another bottle, an' another -- an' there stands the last of 'em.'

"An' wi' that, Mr Brooke, he fetched the bottle in front of him such a crack wi' his fist as sent it all to smash against the opposite wall.

"'Well done, Screw!' cried the boy at the bar, laughin'; 'have another bottle?'

"Poor Screw smiled in a sheepish way, for the rile was out of him by that time, an', says he, 'Well, I don't mind if I do. A shot like that deserves another!'

"Ah me!" continued the scout, "it do take the manhood out of a fellow, that drink. Even when his indignation's roused and he tries to shake it off, he can't do it."

"Well do I know that, Ben. It is only God who can help a man in such a case."

The scout gravely shook his head. "Seems to me, Mr Brooke, that there's a screw loose some wheres in our theology, for I've heard parsons as well as you say that -- as if the Almighty condescended to help us only when we're in bad straits. Now, though I'm but a scout and pretend to no book larnin', it comes in strong upon me that if God made us an' measures our movements, an' gives us every beat o' the pulse, an' counts the very hairs of our heads, we stand in need of His help in every case and at all times; that we can't save ourselves from mischief under any circumstances, great or small, without Him."

"I have thought of that too, sometimes," said Charlie, sitting down on the rock beside his companion, and looking at him in some perplexity, "but does not the view you take savour somewhat of fatalism, and seek to free us from responsibility in regard to what we do?"

"It don't seem so to me," replied the scout, "I'm not speakin', you see, so much of doin' as of escapin'. No doubt we are perfectly free to will, but it don't follow that we are free to act. I'm quite free to will to cut my leg off or to let it stay on; an' if I carry out my will an' do it, why, I'm quite free there too -- an' also responsible. But I ain't free to sew it on again however much I may will to do so --  leastwise if I do it won't stick. The consekinces o' my deed I must bear, but who will deny that the Almighty could grow on another leg if He chose? Why, some creeters He does allow to get rid of a limb or two, an' grow new ones! So, you see, I'm responsible for my deeds, but, at the same time, I must look to God for escape from the consekinces, if He sees fit to let me escape. A man, bein' free, may drink himself into a drunkard, but he's not free to cure himself. He can't do it. The demon Crave has got him by the throat, forces him to open his mouth, and pours the fiery poison down. The thing that he is free to do is to will. He may, if he chooses, call upon God the Saviour to help him; an' my own belief is that no man ever made such a call in vain."

"How, if that be so, are we to account for the failure of those who try, honestly strive, struggle, and agonise, yet obviously fail?"

"It's not for the like o' me, Mr Brooke, to expound the outs an' ins o' all mysteries. Yet I will p'int out that you, what they call, beg the question, when you say that such people 'honestly' strive. If a man tries to unlock a door with all his might and main, heart and soul, honestly tries, by turnin' the key the wrong way, he'll strive till doomsday without openin' the door! It's my opinion that a man may get into difficulties of his own free-will. He can get out of them only by applyin' to his Maker."

During the latter part of this conversation the hunters had risen and were making their way through the trackless woods, when the scout stopped suddenly and gazed for a few seconds intently at the ground. Then he kneeled and began to examine the spot with great care. "A footprint here," he said, "that tells of recent visitors."

"Friends, Ben, or foes?" asked our hero, also going on his knees to examine the marks. "Well, now, I see only a pressed blade or two of grass, but nothing the least like a footprint. It puzzles me more than I can tell how you scouts seem so sure about invisible marks."

"Truly, if they was invisible you would have reason for surprise, but my wonder is that you don't see them. Any child in wood-craft might read them. See, here is the edge o' the right futt making a faint impression where the ground is soft -- an' the heel; surely ye see the heel!"

"A small hollow I do see, but as to its being a heel-print I could not pronounce on that. Has it been made lately, think you?"

"Ay, last night or this morning at latest; and it was made by the futt of Jake the Flint. I know it well, for I've had to track him more than once an' would spot it among a thousand."

"If Jake is in the neighbourhood, wouldn't it be well to return to the cave? He and some of his gang might attack it in our absence."

"No fear o' that," replied the scout, rising from his inspection, "the futt p'ints away from the cave. I should say that the Flint has bin there durin' the night, an' found that we kep' too sharp a look-out to be caught sleepin'. Where he went to arter that no one can tell, but we can hoof it an' see. Like enough he went to spy us out alone, an' then returned to his comrades."

So saying, the scout "hoofed it" through the woods at a pace that tested Charlie Brooke's powers of endurance, exceptionally good though they were. After a march of about four miles in comparative silence they were conducted by the footprints to an open space in the midst of dense thicket where the fresh ashes of a camp fire indicated that a party had spent some time.

"Just so. They came to see what was up and what could be done, found that nothin' partiklar was up an' nothin' at all could be done, so off they go, mounted, to fish in other waters. Just as well for us."

"But not so well for the fish in the other waters," remarked Charlie.

"True, but we can't help that. Come, we may as well return now."

While Charlie and the scout were thus following the trail, Buck Tom, lying in the cave, became suddenly much worse. It seemed as if some string in his system had suddenly snapped and let the poor human wreck run down.

"Come here, Leather," he gasped faintly.

Poor Shank, who never left him, and who was preparing food for him at the time, was at his side in a moment, and bent anxiously over him.

"D'you want anything?" he asked.

"Nothing, Shank. Where's Dick?"

"Outside; cutting some firewood."

"Don't call him. I'm glad we are alone," said the outlaw, seizing his friend's hand with a feeble, tremulous grasp. "I'm dying, Shank, dear boy. You forgive me?"

"Forgive you, Ralph! Ay -- long, long ago I -- " He could not finish the sentence.

"I know you did, Shank," returned the dying man, with a faint smile. "How it will fare with me hereafter I know not. I've but one word to say when I get there, and that is -- guilty! I -- I loved your sister, Shank. Ay -- you never guessed it. I only tell you now that I may send her a message. Tell her that the words she once said to me about a Saviour have never left me. They are like a light in the darkness now. God bless you -- Shank -- and -- May."

With a throbbing heart and listening ear Shank waited for more; but no more came. The hand he still held was lifeless, and the spirit of the outlaw had entered within the veil of that mysterious Hereafter.



Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chase, Capture, And End Of Jake The Flint.

It was growing dark when Brooke and the scout reached the cave that evening and found that Buck Tom was dead; but they had barely time to realise the fact when their attention was diverted by the sudden arrival of a large band of horsemen -- cowboys and others -- the leader of whom seemed to be the cow-boy Crux.

Hunky Ben and his friends had, of course, made rapid preparations to receive them as foes, if need were; but on recognising who composed the cavalcade, they went out to meet them.

"Hallo! Hunky," shouted Crux, as he rode up and leaped off his steed, "have they been here?"

"Who d'ye mean?" demanded the scout.

"Why, Jake the Flint, to be sure, an' his murderin' gang. Haven't ye heard the news?"

"Not I. Who d'ye think would take the trouble to come up here with noos?"

"They've got clear off, boys," said Crux, in a voice of great disappointment. "So we must off saddle, an' camp where we are for the night."

While the rest of the party dismounted and dispersed to look for a suitable camping-ground, Crux explained the reason of their unexpected appearance.

After the Flint and his companions had left their mountain fastness, as before described, they had appeared in different parts of the country and committed various depredations; some of their robberies having been accompanied with bloodshed and violence of a nature which so exasperated the people that an organised band had at length been gathered to go in pursuit of the daring outlaw. But Jake was somewhat Napoleonic in his character, swift in his movements, and sudden in his attacks; so that, while his exasperated foes were searching for him in one direction, news would be brought of his having committed some daring and bloody deed far off in some other quarter. His latest acts had been to kill and rob a post-runner, who happened to be a great favourite in his locality, and to attack and murder, in mere wanton cruelty, a family of friendly Indians, belonging to a tribe which had never given the whites any trouble. The fury of the people, therefore, was somewhat commensurate with the wickedness of the man. They resolved to capture him, and, as there was a number of resolute cow-boys on the frontier, to whom life seemed to be a bauble to be played with, kept, or cast lightly away, according to circumstances, it seemed as if the effort made at this time would be successful.

The latest reports that seemed reliable were to the effect that, after slaying the Indians, Jake and his men had made off in the direction of his old stronghold at the head of Traitor's Trap. Hence the invasion by Crux and his band.

"You'll be glad to hear -- or sorry, I'm not sure which -- " said the scout, "that Buck Tom has paid his last debt."

"What! defunct?" exclaimed Crux.

"Ay. Whatever may have bin his true character an' deeds, he's gone to his account at last."

"Are ye sure, Hunky?"

"If ye don't believe me, go in there an' you'll see what's left of him. The corp ain't cold yet."

The rugged cow-boy entered at once, to convince himself by ocular demonstration.

"Well," said he, on coming out of the cave, "I wish it had been the Flint instead. He'll give us some trouble, you bet, afore we bring him to lie as flat as Buck Tom. Poor Buck! They say he wasn't a bad chap in his way, an' I never heard of his bein' cruel, like his comrades. His main fault was castin' in his lot wi' the Flint. They say that Jake has bin carousin' around, throwin' the town-folk everywhere into fits."

That night the avengers in search of Jake the Flint slept in and around the outlaws' cave, while the chief of the outlaws lay in the sleep of death in a shed outside. During the night the scout went out to see that the body was undisturbed, and was startled to observe a creature of some sort moving near it. Ben was troubled by no superstitious fears, so he approached with the stealthy, cat-like tread which he had learned to perfection in his frontier life. Soon he was near enough to perceive, through the bushes, that the form was that of Shank Leather, silent and motionless, seated by the side of Buck Tom, with his face buried in his hands upon his knees. A deep sob broke from him as he sat, and again he was silent and motionless. The scout withdrew as silently as he had approached, leaving the poor youth to watch and mourn over the friend who had shared his hopes and fears, sins and sorrows, so long -- long at least in experience, if not in numbered years.

Next morning at daybreak they laid the outlaw in his last resting-place, and then the avengers prepared to set off in pursuit of his comrades.

"You'll join us, I fancy," said Crux to Charlie Brooke.

"No; I remain with my sick friend Leather. But perhaps some of my comrades may wish to go with you."

It was soon arranged that Hunky Ben and Dick Darvall should join the party.

"We won't be long o' catchin' him up," said Crux, "for the Flint has become desperate of late, an' we're pretty sure of a man when he gets into that fix."

The desperado to whom Crux referred was one of those terrible human monsters who may be termed a growth of American frontier life, men who, having apparently lost all fear of God, or man, or death, carry their lives about with hilarious indifference, ready to risk them at a moment's notice on the slightest provocation, and to take the lives of others without a shadow of compunction. As a natural consequence, such maniacs, for they are little else, are feared by all, and even brave men feel the necessity of being unusually careful while in their company.

Among the various wild deeds committed by Jake and his men was one which led them into serious trouble and proved fatal to their chief. Coming to a village, or small town, one night they resolved to have a regular spree, and for this purpose encamped a short way outside the town till it should be quite dark. About midnight the outlaws, to the number of eight, entered the town, each armed with a Winchester and a brace of revolvers. Scattering themselves, they began a tremendous fusillade, as fast as they could fire, so that nearly the whole population, supposing the place was attacked by Indians, turned out and fled to the mountains behind the town. The Flint and his men made straight for the chief billiard room, which they found deserted, and there, after helping themselves to all the loose cash available, they began to drink. Of course they soon became wild under the influence of the liquor, but retained sense enough to mount their horses and gallop away before the people of the place mustered courage to return and attack the foe.

It was while galloping madly away after this raid that the murderous event took place which ended in the dispersal of the gang.

Daylight was creeping over the land when the outlaws left the town. Jake was wild with excitement at what had occurred, as well as with drink, and began to boast and swear in a horrible manner. When they had ridden a good many miles, one of the party said he saw some Redskins in a clump of wood they were approaching.

"Did ye?" cried Jake, flourishing his rifle over his head and uttering a terrible oath, "then I'll shoot the first Redskin I come across."

"Better not, Jake," said one of his men. "They're all friendly Injins about here."

"What's the odds to me!" yelled the drunken wretch. "I'll shoot the first I see as I would a rabbit."

At that moment they were passing a bluff covered with timber, and, unfortunately, a poor old Indian woman came out of the wood to look at the horsemen as they flew past.

Without an instant's hesitation Jake swerved aside, rode straight up to the old creature, and blew out her brains.

Accustomed as they were to deeds of violence and bloodshed, his comrades were overwhelmed with horror at this, and, fearing the consequences of the dastardly murder, rode for life away over the plains.

But the deed had been witnessed by the relatives of the poor woman. Without sound or cry, fifty Red men leaped on their horses and swept with the speed of light along the other side of the bluff, which concealed them from the white men's sight. Thus they managed to head them, and when Jake and his gang came to the end of the strip of wood, the Red men, armed with rifle and revolver, were in front of them.

There was something deadly and unusual in the silence of the Indians on this occasion. Concentrated rage seemed to have stopped their power to yell. Swift as eagles they swooped down and surrounded the little band of white men, who, seeing that opposition would be useless, and, perhaps, cowed by the sight of such a cold-blooded act offered no resistance at all, while their arms were taken from them.

With lips white from passion, the Indian chief in command demanded who did the deed. The outlaws pointed to Jake, who sat on his horse with glaring eyes and half-open mouth like one stupefied. At a word from the chief, he was seized, dragged off his horse, and held fast by two powerful men while a third bound his arms. A spear was driven deep into the ground to serve as a stake, and to this Jake was tied. He made no resistance. He seemed to have been paralysed, and remained quite passive while they stripped him naked to the waist. His comrades, still seated on their horses, seemed incapable of action. They had, no doubt, a presentiment of what was coming.

The chief then drew his scalping knife, and passed it swiftly round the neck of the doomed man so as to make a slight incision. Grasping the flap raised at the back of the neck, he tore a broad band of skin from Jake's body, right down his back to his waist. A fearful yell burst from the lips of the wretched man, but no touch of pity moved the hearts of the Red men, whose chief prepared to tear off another strip of skin from the quivering flesh.

At the same moment the companions of the Flint wheeled their horses round, and, filled with horror, fled at full speed from the scene.

The Red men did not attempt to hinder them. There was no feud at that time between the white men and that particular tribe. It was only the murderer of their old kinswoman on whom they were bent on wreaking their vengeance, and with terrible cruelty was their diabolical deed accomplished. The comrades of the murderer, left free to do as they pleased, scattered as they fled, as if each man were unable to endure the sight of the other, and they never again drew together.

On the very next day Crux and his band of avengers were galloping over the same region, making straight for the town which the outlaws had thrown into such consternation, and where Crux had been given to understand that trustworthy news of the Flint's movements would probably be obtained.

The sun was setting, and a flood of golden light was streaming over the plains, when one of the band suggested that it would be better to encamp where they were than to proceed any further that night.

"So we will, boy," said Crux, looking about for a suitable spot, until his eye fell on a distant object that riveted his attention.

"A strange-looking thing, that," remarked the scout who had observed the object at the same moment. "Somethin' like a man, but standin' crooked-like in a fashion I never saw a man stand before, though I've seen many a queer sight in my day."

"We'll soon clear up the mystery," said Crux, putting spurs to his horse and riding straight for the object in question, followed by the whole cavalcade.

"Ay, ay, bloody work bin goin' on here, I see," muttered the scout as they drew near.

"The accursed Redskins!" growled Crux.

We need scarcely say that it was the dead body of Jake they had thus discovered, tied to the spear which was nearly broken by the weight of the mutilated carcass. Besides tearing most of the skin off the wretched man's body, the savages had scalped Jake; but a deep wound over the region of the heart showed that they had, at all events, ended his sufferings before they left him.

While the avengers -- whose vengeance was thus forestalled -- were busy scraping a shallow grave for the remains of the outlaw, a shout was raised by several of the party who dashed after something into a neighbouring copse. An Indian had been discovered there, and the cruelties which had been practised on the white man had, to a great extent, transferred their wrath from the outlaw to his murderers. But they found that the rush was needless, for the Indian who had been observed was seated on the ground beside what appeared to be a newly formed grave, and he made no attempt to escape.

He was a very old and feeble man, yet something of the fire of the warrior gleamed from his sunken eyes as he stood up and tried to raise his bent form into an attitude of proud defiance.

"Do you belong to the tribe that killed this white man?" said Hunky Ben, whose knowledge of most of the Indian dialects rendered him the fitting spokesman of the party.

"I do," answered the Indian in a stern yet quavering voice that seemed very pitiful, for it was evident that the old man thought his last hour had come, and that he had made up his mind to die as became a dauntless Indian brave.

At that moment a little Indian girl, who had hitherto lain quite concealed in the tangled grass, started up like a rabbit from its lair and dashed into the thicket. Swiftly though the child ran, however, one of the young men of the party was swifter. He sprang off in pursuit, and in a few moments brought her back.

"Your tribe is not at war with the pale-faces," continued the scout, taking no notice of this episode. "They have been needlessly cruel."

For some moments the old man gazed sternly at his questioner as if he heard him not. Then the frown darkened, and, pointing to the grave at his feet, he said -- 

"The white man was more cruel."

"What had he done?" asked the scout.

But the old man would not reply. There came over his withered features that stony stare of resolute contempt which he evidently intended to maintain to the last in spite of torture and death.

"Better question the child," suggested Dick Darvall, who up to that moment had been too much horrified by what he had witnessed to be able to speak.

The scout looked at the child. She stood trembling beside her captor, with evidences of intense terror on her dusky countenance, for she was only too well accustomed to the cruelties practised by white men and red on each other to have any hope either for the old man or herself.

"Poor thing!" said Hunky Ben, laying his strong hand tenderly on the girl's head. Then, taking her hand, he led her gently aside, and spoke to her in her own tongue.

There was something so unexpectedly soft in the scout's voice, and so tender in his touch, that the little brown maid was irresistibly comforted. When one falls into the grasp of Goodness and Strength, relief of mind, more or less, is an inevitable result. David thought so when he said, "Let me fall now into the hand of the Lord." The Indian child evidently thought so when she felt that Hunky Ben was strong and perceived that he was good.

"We will not hurt you, my little one," said the scout, when he had reached a retired part of the copse, and, sitting down, placed the child on his knee. "The white man who was killed by your people was a very bad man. We were looking for him to kill him. Was it the old man that killed him?"

"No," replied the child, "it was the chief."

"Why was he so cruel in his killing?" asked the scout.

"Because the white man was a coward. He feared to face our warriors, but he shot an old woman!" answered the little maid; and then, inspired with confidence by the scout's kind and pitiful expression, she related the whole story of the savage and wanton murder perpetrated by the Flint, the subsequent vengeance of her people, and the unchecked flight and dispersion of Jake's comrades. The old woman who had been slain, she said, was her grandmother, and the old man who had been captured was her grandfather.

"Friends, our business has been done for us," said the scout on rejoining his comrades, "so we've nothing to do but return home."

He then told them in detail what the Indian girl had related.

"Of course," he added, "we've no right to find fault wi' the Redskins for punishin' the murderer arter their own fashion, though we might wish they had bin somewhat more merciful -- "

"No, we mightn't," interrupted Crux stoutly. "The Flint got off easy in my opinion. If I had had the doin' o't, I'd have roasted him alive."

"No, you wouldn't, Crux," returned Ben, with a benignant smile. "Young chaps like you are always, accordin' to your own showin', worse than the devil himself when your blood's roused by indignation at cruelty or injustice, but you sing a good deal softer when you come to the scratch with your enemy in your power."

"You're wrong, Hunky Ben," retorted Crux firmly. "Any man as would blow the brains out of a poor old woman in cold blood, as the Flint did, desarves the worst that can be done to him."

"I didn't say nowt about what he desarves," returned the scout; "I was speakin' about what you would do if you'd got the killin' of him."

"Well, well, mates," said Dick Darvall, a little impatiently, "seems to me that we're wastin' our wind, for the miserable wretch, bein' defunct, is beyond the malice o' red man or white. I therefore vote that we stop palaverin', 'bout ship, clap on all sail an' lay our course for home."

This suggestion met with general approval, and the curious mixture of men and races, which had thus for a brief period been banded together under the influence of a united purpose, prepared to break up.

"I suppose you an' Darvall will make tracks for Traitor's Trap," said Crux to Hunky Ben.

"That's my trail to be," answered the scout. "What say you, Black Polly? Are ye game for such a spin to-night?"

The mare arched her glossy neck, put back both ears, and gave other indications that she would have fully appreciated the remarks of her master if she had only understood them.

"Ah! Bluefire and I don't talk in that style," said Crux, with a laugh. "I give him his orders an' he knows that he's got to obey. He and I will make a bee-line for David's Store an' have a drink. Who'll keep me company?"

Several of the more reckless among the men intimated their willingness to join the toper. The rest said they had other business on hand than to go carousin' around.

"Why, Crux," said one who had been a very lively member of the party during the ride out, "d'ye know, boy, that it's writ in the book o' Fate that you an' I an' all of us, have just got so many beats o' the pulse allowed us -- no more an' no less -- an' we're free to run the beats out fast or slow, just as we like? There's nothin' like drink for makin' 'em go fast!"

"I don't believe that, Robin Stout," returned Crux; "an' even if I did believe it I'd go on just the same, for I prefer a short life and a merry one to a long life an' a wishy-washy miserable one."

"Hear! hear!" exclaimed several of the topers.

"Don't ye think, Crux," interposed Darvall, "that a long life an' a happy one might be better than either?"

"Hear! hear!" remarked Hunky Ben, with a quiet laugh.

"Well, boys," said one fine bright-looking young fellow, patting the neck of his pony, "whether my life is to be long or short, merry, wishy-washy or happy, I shall be off cow-punching for the next six months or so, somewhere about the African bend, on the Colorado River, in South Texas, an' I mean to try an' keep my pulse a-goin' without drink. I've seen more than enough o' the curse that comes to us all on account of it, and I won't be caught in that trap again."

"Then you've bin caught in it once already, Jo Pinto?" said a comrade.

"Ay, I just have, but, you bet, it's the last time. I don't see the fun of makin' my veins a channel for firewater, and then finishin' off with D.T., if bullet or knife should leave me to go that length."

"I suppose, Pinto," said Crux, with a smile of contempt, "that you've bin to hear that mad fellow Gough, who's bin howlin' around in these parts of late?"

"That's so," retorted Pinto, flushing with sudden anger. "I've been to hear J.B. Gough, an' what's more I mean to take his advice in spite of all the flap-jack soakers 'tween the Atlantic and the Rockies. He's a true man, is Gough, every inch of him, and men and women that's bin used chiefly to cursin' in time past have heaped more blessin's on that man's head than would sink you, Crux, -- if put by mistake on your head -- right through the lowest end o' the bottomless pit."

"Pretty deep that, anyhow!" exclaimed Crux, with a careless laugh, for he had no mind to quarrel with the stout young cow-boy whose black eyes he had made to flash so keenly.

"It seems to me," said another of the band, as he hung the coils of his lasso round the horn of his Mexican saddle, "that we must quit talkin' unless we make up our minds to stop here till sun-up. Who's goin' north? My old boss is financially busted, so I've hired to P.T. Granger, who has started a new ranch at the head o' Pugit's Creek. He wants one or two good hands I know, an' I've reason to believe he's an honest man. I go up trail at thirty dollars per month. The outfit's to consist of thirty hundred head of Texas steers, a chuck wagon and cook, with thirty riders includin' the boss himself an' six horses to the man."

A couple of stout-looking cow-boys offered to join the last speaker on the strength of his representations, and then, as the night bid fair to be bright and calm, the whole band scattered and galloped away in separate groups over the moonlit plains.



Chapter Twenty Nine.

They Return To The Ranch Of Roaring Bull, Where Something Serious Happens To Dick Darvall.

When Dick Darvall and Hunky Ben returned from the expedition which we have just described, they found all right at the cave, except that a letter to Leather had been sent up from Bull's ranch which had caused him much grief and anxiety.

"I have been eagerly awaiting your return, Ben," said Charlie Brooke, when he and the scout went outside the cave to talk the matter over, "for the news in this letter has thrown poor Leather back considerably, and, as he will continue to fret about it and get worse, something must be done."

He paused for a few moments, and the scout gravely waited for him to resume.

"The fact is," continued Charlie, "that poor Leather's father has been given far too much to the bottle during a great part of his life, and the letter just received tells us that he has suddenly left home and gone no one knows where. Now, my friend Leather and his father were always very fond of each other, and the son cannot forgive himself for having at various times rather encouraged his father in drinking, so that his conscience is reproaching him terribly, as you may well believe, and he insists on it that he is now quite able to undertake the voyage home. You and I know, Ben, that in his present state it would be madness for him to attempt it; yet to lie and fret here would be almost as bad. Now, what is your advice?"

For some moments the scout stood silent with his eyes on the ground and his right hand grasping his chin -- his usual attitude when engaged in meditation.

"Is there enough o' dollars," he asked, "to let you do as ye like?"

"No lack of dollars, I dare say, when needed," replied Charlie.

"Then my advice," returned the scout promptly, "is to take Leather straight off to-morrow mornin' to Bull's ranch; make him comfortable there, call him Mister Shank, -- so as nobody'll think he's been the man called Leather, who's bin so long ill along wi' poor Buck Tom's gang, --  and then you go off to old England to follow his father's trail till you find him. Leather has great belief in you, sir, and the feelin' that you are away doin' your best for him will do more to relieve his mind and strengthen his body than tons o' doctor's stuff. Dick Darvall could remain to take care of him if he has no objection."

"I rather think he would be well pleased to do so," replied Charlie, with a laugh of significance, which the scout quietly subjected to analysis in what he styled his brain-pan, and made a note of the result in his mental memorandum book!

"But I doubt if Leather -- "

"Shank," interrupted the scout. "Call him Shank from now, so's we may all git used to it; tho' p'r'aps it ain't o' much importance, for most o' the men that saw him here saw him in uncommon bad condition an' would hardly know him again, besides, they won't likely be at Bull's ranch, an' the captain an' troops that were here have been ordered down south. Still one can never be too careful when life and death may be i' the balance. Your friend niver was one o' the outlaws, but it mightn't be easy to prove that."

"Well, then," resumed our hero, "I was going to say that I fear Shank won't be able to stand the journey even to the ranch."

"No fear of that, sir. We'll carry him down to the foot o' the Trap, an' when we git out on the plain mount him on one o' the horses left by poor Buck -- the one that goes along so quiet that they've given it the name o' the Wheelbarrow."

"Should I speak to him to-night about our plan, Ben?"

"No. If I was you I'd only say we're goin' to take him down to Bull's ranch i' the mornin'. That'll take his mind a bit off the letter, an' then it'll give him an extra lift when you tell him the rest o' the plan."

In accordance with this arrangement, on the following morning a litter was made with two stout poles and a blanket between. On this the invalid was laid after an early breakfast; another blanket was spread over him, and the scout and Dick, taking it up between them, carried him out of Traitor's Trap, while Charlie Brooke, riding Jackson's horse, led the Wheelbarrow by the bridle. As for Black Polly, she was left to follow at her own convenience, a whistle from Hunky Ben being at any moment sufficient to bring her promptly to her master's side.

On reaching the plain the litter was laid aside, the blankets were fastened to the horses, and Shank prepared, as Dick said, to board Wheelbarrow.

"Now then, Shank," said the seaman, while helping his friend, "don't be in a hurry. Nothin' was ever done well in a hurry either afloat or ashore. Git your futt well into the stirrup an' don't take too much of a spring, else you'll be apt to go right over on the starboard side. Hup you go!"

The worthy sailor lent such willing aid that there is little doubt he would have precipitated the catastrophe against which he warned, had not Hunky Ben placed himself on the "starboard side" of the steed and counteracted the heave. After that all went well; the amble of the Wheelbarrow fully justified the title, and in due course the party arrived at the ranch of Roaring Bull, where the poor invalid was confined to his room for a considerable time thereafter, and became known at the ranch as Mr Shank.

One evening Charlie Brooke entered the kitchen of the ranch in search of his friend Dick Darvall, who had a strange fondness for Buttercup, and frequently held converse with her in the regions of the back-kitchen.

"I dun know whar he is, massa Book," answered the sable beauty when appealed to, "he's mostly somewhar around when he's not nowhar else."

"I shouldn't wonder if he was," returned Charlie with a hopeful smile. "I suppose Miss Mary's not around anywhere, is she?"

"I shouldn't wonder if she wasn't; but she ain't here, massa," said the black maid earnestly.

"You are a truthful girl, Butter -- stick to that, and you'll get on in life."

With this piece of advice Charlie left the kitchen abruptly, and thereby missed the eruption of teeth and gums that immediately followed his remark.

Making his way to the chamber of his sick friend, Charlie sat down at the open window beside him.

"How d'you feel this evening, my boy?" he asked.

"A little better, but -- oh dear me! -- I begin to despair of getting well enough to go home, and it's impossible to avoid being worried, for, unless father is sought for and found soon he, will probably sink altogether. You have no idea, Charlie, what a fearful temptation drink becomes to those who have once given way to it and passed a certain point."

"I don't know it personally -- though I take no credit for that -- but I have some idea of it, I think, from what I have seen and heard. But I came to relieve your mind on the subject, Shank. I wanted to speak with Dick Darvall first to see if he would fall in with my plan, but as I can't find him just now I thought it best to come straight to you about it. Hallo! There is Dick."

"Where?" said Shank, bending forward so as to see the place on which his friend's eyes were fixed.

"There, don't you see? Look across that bit of green sward, about fifty yards into the bush, close to that lopped pine where a thick shrub overhangs a fallen tree -- "

"I see -- I see!" exclaimed Shank, a gleeful expression banishing for a time the look of suffering and anxiety that had become habitual to him. "Why, the fellow is seated beside Mary Jackson!"

"Ay, and holding a very earnest conversation with her, to judge from his attitude," said Charlie. "Probably inquiring into the market-price of steers -- or some absorbing topic of that sort."

"He's grasping her hand now!" exclaimed Shank, with an expanding mouth.

"And she lets him hold it. Really this becomes interesting," observed Charlie, with gravity. "But, my friend, is not this a species of eavesdropping? Are we not taking mean advantage of a pair who fondly think themselves alone? Come, Shank, let us turn our backs on the view and try to fix our minds on matters of personal interest."

But the young men had not to subject themselves to such a delicate test of friendship, for before they could make any attempt to carry out the suggestion, Dick and Mary were seen to rise abruptly and hasten from the spot in different directions. A few minutes later Buttercup was observed to glide upon the scene and sit down upon the self-same fallen tree. The distance from the bedroom window was too great to permit of sounds reaching the observers' ears, or of facial contortions meeting their eyes very distinctly, but there could be no doubt as to the feelings of the damsel, or the meaning of those swayings to and fro of her body, the throwing back of her head, and the pressing of her hands on her sides. Suddenly she held out a black hand as if inviting some one in the bush to draw near. The invitation was promptly accepted by a large brown dog -- a well-known favourite in the ranch household.

Rover -- for such was his name -- leaped on the fallen tree and sat down on the spot which had previously been occupied by the fair Mary. The position was evidently suggestive, for Buttercup immediately began to gesticulate and clasp her hands as if talking very earnestly to the dog.

"I verily believe," said Shank, "that the blacking-ball is re-enacting the scene with Rover! See! she grasps his paw, and -- "

"My friend," said Charlie, "we are taking mean advantage again! And, behold! like the other pair, they are flitting from the scene, though not quite in the same fashion."

This was true, for Buttercup, reflecting, probably, that she might be missed in the kitchen, had suddenly tumbled Rover off the tree and darted swiftly from the spot.

"Come now, Shank," said Charlie, resuming the thread of discourse which had been interrupted, "it is quite plain to Dick and to myself that you are unfit to travel home in your present state of health, so I have made up my mind to leave you here in the care of honest Jackson and Darvall, and to go home myself to make inquiries and search for your father. Will this make your mind easy? For that is essential to your recovery at the present time."

"You were always kind and self-sacrificing, Charlie. Assuredly, your going will take an enormous weight off my mind, for you are much better fitted by nature for such a search than I am -- to say nothing of health. Thank you, my dear old boy, a thousand times. As for Dick Darvall," added Shank, with a laugh, "before this evening I would have doubted whether he would be willing to remain with me after your departure, but I have no doubt now -- considering what we have just witnessed!"

"Yes, he has found 'metal more attractive,'" said Charlie, rising. "I will now go and consult with him, after which I will depart without delay."

"You've been having a gallop, to judge from your heightened colour and flashing eyes," said Charlie to Dick when they met in the yard, half-an-hour later.

"N-no -- not exactly," returned the seaman, with a slightly embarrassed air. "The fact is I've bin cruisin' about in the bush."

"What! lookin' for Redskins?"

"N-no; not exactly, but -- "

"Oh! I see. Out huntin', I suppose. After deer -- eh?"

"Well, now, that was a pretty fair guess, Charlie," said Dick, laughing. "To tell ye the plain truth, I have been out arter a dear -- full sail --  an' -- "

"And you bagged it, of course. Fairly run it down, I suppose," said his friend, again interrupting.

"Well, there ain't no 'of course' about it, but as it happened, I did manage to overhaul her, and coming to close quarters, I -- "

"Yes, yes, I know," interrupted Charlie a third time, with provoking coolness. "You ran her on to the rocks, Dick -- which was unseamanlike in the extreme -- at least you ran the dear aground on a fallen tree and, sitting down beside it, asked it to become Mrs Darvall, and the amiable creature agreed, eh?"

"Why, how on earth did 'ee come for to know that?" asked Dick, in blazing astonishment.

"Well, you know, there's no great mystery about it. If a bold sailor will go huntin' close to the house, and run down his game right in front of Mr Shank's windows, he must expect to have witnesses. However, give me your flipper, mess-mate, and let me congratulate you, for in my opinion there's not such another dear on all the slopes of the Rocky Mountains. But now that I've found you, I want to lay some of my future plans before you."

They had not been discussing these plans many minutes, when Mary was seen crossing the yard in company with Hunky Ben.

"If Hunky would only stop, we'd keep quite jolly till you return," observed Dick, in an undertone as the two approached.

"We were just talking of you, Ben," observed Charlie, as they came up.

"Are you goin' for a cruise, Miss Mary?" asked the seaman in a manner that drew the scout's attention.

"No," replied Mary with a little laugh, and anything but a little blush, that intensified the attention of the scout. He gave one of his quiet but quick glances at Dick and chuckled softly.

"So soon!" he murmured to himself; "sartinly your sea-dog is pretty slick at such matters."

Dick thought he heard the chuckle and turned a lightning glance on the scout, but that sturdy son of the forest had his leathern countenance turned towards the sky with profoundest gravity. It was characteristic of him, you see, to note the signs of the weather.

"Mr Brooke," he said, with the slow deliberate air of the man who forms his opinions on solid grounds, "there's goin' to be a bu'st up o' the elements afore long, as sure as my name's Hunky."

"That's the very thing I want to talk about with you, Ben, for I meditate a long journey immediately. Come, walk with me."

Taking the scout's arm he paced with him slowly up and down the yard, while Dick and Mary went off on a cruise elsewhere.



Chapter Thirty.

Changes The Scene Somewhat Violently, And Shows Our Hero In A New Light.

The result of our hero's consultation with the scout was not quite as satisfactory as it might have been. Charlie had hoped that Hunky Ben would have been able to stay with Shank till he should return from the old country, but found, to his regret, that that worthy was engaged to conduct still further into the great western wilderness a party of emigrants who wished to escape the evils of civilisation, and to set up a community of their own which should be founded on righteousness, justice, and temperance.

"You see, sir," said the scout, "I've gi'n them my promise to guide them whenever they're ready to start, so, as they may git ready and call for my services at any moment, I must hold myself free o' other engagements. To say truth, even if they hadn't my promise I'd keep myself free to help 'em, for I've a likin' for the good man -- half doctor, half parson as well as Jack-of-all-trades -- as has set the thing agoin' -- moreover, I've a strong belief that all this fightin', an' scalpin', an' flayin' alive, an roastin', an' revenge, ain't the way to bring about good ends either among Red men or white."

"I agree with you heartily, Ben, though I don't very well see how we are to alter it. However, we must leave the discussion of that difficulty to another time. The question at present is, what hope is there of your staying here even for a short time after I leave? for in Dick Darvall's present condition of mind he is not much to be depended on, and Jackson is too busy. You see, I want Shank to go out on horseback as much as possible, but in this unsettled region and time he would not be safe except in the care of some one who knew the country and its habits, and who had some sort of sympathy with a broken-down man."

"All I can say, Mr Brooke, is that I'll stay wi' your friend as long as I can," returned the scout, "an' when I'm obleeged to make tracks for the west, I'll try to git another man to take my place. Anyhow, I think that Mr Reeves -- that's the name o' the good man as wants me an' is boss o' the emigrants -- won't be able to git them all ready to start for some weeks yet."

Charlie was obliged to content himself with this arrangement. Next day he was galloping eastward -- convoyed part of the way by the scout on Black Polly and Dick Darvall on Wheelbarrow. Soon he got into the region of railways and steam-boats, and, in a few weeks more was once again in Old England.

A post-card announced his arrival, for Charlie had learned wisdom from experience, and feared to take any one "by surprise" -- especially his mother.

We need not describe this second meeting of our hero with his kindred and friends. In many respects it resembled the former, when the bad news about Shank came, and there was the same conclave in Mrs Leather's parlour, for old Jacob Crossley happened to be spending a holiday in Sealford at the time.

Indeed he had latterly taken to spending much of his leisure time at that celebrated watering-place, owing, it was supposed, to the beneficial effect which the sea-air had on his rheumatism.

But May Leather knew better. With that discriminating penetration which would seem to be the natural accompaniment of youth and beauty, she discerned that the old gentleman's motive for going so frequently to Sealford was a compound motive.

First, Mr Crossley was getting tired of old bachelorhood, and had at last begun to enjoy ladies' society, especially that of such ladies as Mrs Leather and Mrs Brooke, to say nothing of May herself and Miss Molloy -- the worsted reservoir -- who had come to reside permanently in the town and who had got the "Blackguard Boy" into blue tights and buttons, to the amazement and confusion of the little dog Scraggy, whose mind was weakened in consequence -- so they said. Second, Mr Crossley was remarkably fond of Captain Stride, whom he abused like a pick-pocket and stuck to like a brother, besides playing backgammon with him nightly, to the great satisfaction of the Captain's "missus" and their "little Mag." Third, Mr Crossley had no occasion to attend to business, because business, somehow, attended to itself, and poured its profits perennially into the old gentleman's pocket -- a pocket which was never full, because it had a charitable hole in it somewhere which let the cash run out as fast as it ran in. Fourth and last, but not least, Mr Crossley found considerable relief in getting away occasionally from his worthy housekeeper Mrs Bland. This relief, which he styled "letting off the steam" at one time, "brushing away the cobwebs" at another, was invariably followed by a fit of amiability, which resulted in a penitent spirit, and ultimately took him back to town where he remained till Mrs Bland had again piled enough of eccentricity on the safety valve to render another letting off of steam on the sea-shore imperative.

What Charlie learned at the meeting held in reference to the disappearance of old Mr Isaac Leather was not satisfactory. The wretched man had so muddled his brain by constant tippling that it had become a question at last whether he was quite responsible for his actions. In a fit of remorse, after an attack of delirium tremens, he had suddenly condemned himself as being a mean contemptible burden on his poor wife and daughter. Of course both wife and daughter asserted that his mere maintenance was no burden on them at all -- as in truth it was not when compared with the intolerable weight of his intemperance --  and they did their best to soothe him. But the idea seemed to have taken firm hold of him, and preyed upon his mind, until at last he left home one morning in a fit of despair, and had not since been heard of.

"Have you no idea, then, where he has gone?" asked Charlie.

"No, none," said Mrs Leather, with a tear trembling in her eye.

"We know, mother," said May, "that he has gone to London. The booking clerk at the station, you know, told us that."

"Did the clerk say to what part of London he booked?"

"No, he could not remember."

"Besides, if he had remembered, that would be but a slight clue," said Mr Crossley. "As well look for a needle in a bundle of hay as for a man in London."

"As well go to sea without rudder or compass," observed Captain Stride.

"Nevertheless," said Charlie, rising, "I will make the attempt."

"Hopeless," said Crossley. "Sheer madness," added Stride. Mrs Leather shook her head and wept gently. Mrs Brooke sighed and cast down her eyes. Miss Molloy -- who was of the council, being by that time cognisant of all the family secrets -- clasped her hands and looked miserable. Of all that conclave the only one who did not throw cold water on our hero was pretty little brown-eyed May. She cast on him a look of trusting gratitude which blew a long smouldering spark into such a flame that the waters of Niagara in winter would have failed to quench it.

"I can't tell you yet, friends, what I intend to do," said Charlie. "All I can say is that I'm off to London. I shall probably be away some time, but will write to mother occasionally. So good-bye."

He said a good deal more, of course, but that was the gist of it.

May accompanied him to the door.

"Oh! thank you -- thank you!" she said, with trembling lip and tearful eyes as she held out her hand, "I feel sure that you will find father."

"I think I shall, May. Indeed I also feel sure that I shall -- God helping me."

At the ticket office he found that the clerk remembered very little. He knew the old gentleman well by sight, indeed, but was in the habit of selling tickets to so many people that it was impossible for him to remember where they booked to. In fact the only thing that had fixed Mr Leather at all in his memory was the fact that the old man had dropped his ticket, had no money to take another, and had pleaded earnestly to let him have one on trust, a request with which he dared not comply -- but fortunately, a porter found and restored the ticket.

"Is the porter you refer to still here?" asked Charlie.

Yes, he was there; and Charlie soon found him. The porter recollected the incident perfectly, for the old gentleman, he said, had made a considerable fuss about the lost ticket.

"And you can't remember the station he went to?"

"No, sir, but I do remember something about his saying he wanted to go to Whitechapel -- I think it was -- or Whitehall, I forget which, but I'm sure it was white something."

With this very slender clue Charlie Brooke presented himself in due time at Scotland Yard, at which fountain-head of London policedom he gave a graphic account of the missing man and the circumstances attending his disappearance. Thence he went to the headquarters of the London City Mission; introduced himself to a sympathetic secretary there, and was soon put in communication with one of the most intelligent of those valuable self-sacrificing and devoted men who may be styled the salt of the London slums. This good man's district embraced part of Whitechapel.

"I will help you to the extent of my power, Mr Brooke," he said, "but your quest will be a difficult one, perhaps dangerous. How do you propose to go about it?"

"By visiting all the low lodging-houses in Whitechapel first," said Charlie.

"That will take a long time," said the City Missionary, smiling. "Low lodging-houses are somewhat numerous in these parts."

"I am aware of that, Mr Stansfield, and mean to take time," returned our hero promptly. "And what I want of you is to take me into one or two of them, so that I may see something of them while under your guidance. After that I will get their streets and numbers from you, or through you, and will then visit them by myself."

"But, excuse me, my friend," returned the missionary, "your appearance in such places will attract more attention than you might wish, and would interfere with your investigations, besides exposing you to danger, for the very worst characters in London are sometimes to be found in such places. Only men of the police force and we city missionaries can go among them with impunity."

"I have counted the cost, Mr Stansfield, and intend to run the risk; but thank you, all the same, for your well-meant warning. Can you go round one or two this afternoon?"

"I can, with pleasure, and will provide you with as many lodging-house addresses as I can procure. Do you live far from this?"

"No, quite close. A gentleman, who was in your Secretary's office when I called, recommended a small lodging-house kept by a Mrs Butt in the neighbourhood of Flower and Dean Street. You know that region well, I suppose?"

"Ay -- intimately; and I know Mrs Butt too -- a very respectable woman. Come, then, let us start on our mission."

Accordingly Mr Stansfield introduced his inexperienced friend into two of the principal lodging-houses in that neighbourhood. They merely passed through them, and the missionary, besides commenting on all that they saw, told his new friend where and what to pay for a night's lodging. He also explained the few rules that were connected with those sinks into which the dregs of the metropolitan human family ultimately settle. Then he accompanied Charlie to the door of his new lodging and bade him good-night.

It was a dingy little room in which our hero found himself, having an empty and rusty fire-grate on one side and a window on the other, from which there was visible a landscape of paved court. The foreground of the landscape was a pump, the middle distance a wash-tub, and the background a brick wall, about ten feet distant and fifteen feet high. There was no sky to the landscape, by reason of the next house. The furniture was in keeping with the view.

Observing a small sofa of the last century on its last legs in a corner, Charlie sat down on it and rose again instantly, owing apparently to rheumatic complaints from its legs.

"La! sir," said the landlady, who had followed him into the room, "you don't need to fear anythink. That sofar, sir, 'as bin in my family for three generations. The frame was renoo'd before I was born, an' the legs I 'ad taken off an' noo ones putt on about fifteen year ago last Easter as ever was. My last lodger 'ee went through the bottom of it, w'ich obliged me to 'ave that renoo'd, so it's stronger than ever it were. If you only keep it well shoved up agin the wall, sir, it'll stand a'most any weight -- only it won't stand jumpin' on. You mustn't jump on it, sir, with your feet!"

Charlie promised solemnly that he would not jump on it either with his feet or head, and then asked if he could have tea and a fire. On being informed that he could have both, he drew out his purse and said -- 

"Now, Mrs Butt, I expect to stay here for two or three weeks -- perhaps longer. My name is Brooke. I was advised to come here by a gentleman in the offices of the City Mission. I shall have no visitors -- being utterly unknown in this neighbourhood -- except, perhaps, the missionary who parted from me at the door -- "

"Mr Stansfield, sir?" said the landlady.

"Yes. You know him?"

"I've knowed 'im for years, sir. I shall only be too pleased to 'ave any friend of 'is in my 'ouse, I assure you."

"That's well. Now, Mrs Butt, my motive in coming here is to discover a runaway relation -- "

"La! sir -- a little boy?"

"No, Mrs Butt, a -- "

"Surely not a little gurl, sir," said the landlady, with a sympathetic expression.

"It is of no consequence what or who the runaway relation is, Mrs Butt; I merely mention the fact in order that you may understand the reason of any little eccentricity you may notice in my conduct, and not perplex your mind about it. For instance, I shall have no regular hours -- may be out late or early -- it may be even all night. You will give me a pass-key, and I will let myself in. The only thing I will probably ask for will be a cup of tea or coffee. Pray let me have one about an hour hence. I'm going out at present. Here is a week's rent in advance."

"Shall I put on a fire, sir?" asked Mrs Butt.

"Well, yes -- you may."

"Toast, sir?"

"Yes, yes," said Charlie, opening the outer door.

"'Ot or cold, sir?"

"'Ot, and buttered," cried Charlie, with a laugh, as he shut the door after him and rendered further communication impossible.

Wending his way through the poor streets in the midst of which his lodging was situated, our hero at last found an old-clothes store, which he entered.

"I want a suit of old clothes," he said to the owner, a Jew, who came forward.

The Jew smiled, spread out his hands after the manner of a Frenchman, and said, "My shop, sir, is at your disposal."

After careful inspection Charlie selected a fustian coat of extremely ragged appearance, with trousers to match, also a sealskin vest of a mangy complexion, likewise a soiled and battered billycock hat so shockingly bad that it was difficult to imagine it to have ever had better days at all.

"Are they clean?" he asked.

"Bin baked and fumigated, sir," answered the Jew solemnly.

As the look and smell of the garments gave some countenance to the truth of this statement, Charlie paid the price demanded, had them wrapped up in a green cotton handkerchief, and carried them off.

Arrived at his lodging he let himself in, entered his room, and threw the bundle in a corner. Then he rang for tea.

It was growing dark by that time, but a yellow-cotton blind shut out the prospect, and a cheery fire in the grate lighted up the little room brightly, casting a rich glow on the yellow-white table-cloth, which had been already spread, and creating a feeling of coziness in powerful contrast to the sensation of dreariness which had assailed him on his first entrance. When Mrs Butt had placed a paraffin lamp on the table, with a dark-brown teapot, a thick glass sugar-bowl, a cream-jug to match, and a plate of thick-buttered toast that scented the atmosphere deliciously, our hero thought -- not for the first time in his life -- that wealth was a delusion, besides being a snare.

"'One wants but little here below,'" he mused, as he glanced round the apartment; "but he wants it longer than that," thought he, as his eyes wandered to the ancient sofa, which was obviously eighteen inches too short for him.

"I 'ope you've found 'im, sir," said Mrs Butt anxiously, as she was about to retire.

"Found who?"

"Your relation, sir; the little boy -- I mean gurl."

"No, I have found neither the boy nor the girl," returned the lodger sharply. "Haven't even begun to look for them yet."

"Oh! beg parding, sir, I didn't know there was two of 'em."

"Neither are there. There's only one. Fetch me some hot water, Mrs Butt, your tea is too good. I never take it strong."

The landlady retired, and, on returning with the water, found her lodger so deep in a newspaper that she did not venture to interrupt him.

Tea over, Charlie locked his door and clothed himself in his late purchase, which fitted him fairly well, considering that he had measured it only by eye. Putting on the billycock, and tying the green cotton kerchief loosely round his neck to hide his shirt, he stepped in front of the looking-glass above the mantelpiece.

At sight of himself he was prepared to be amused, but he had not expected to be shocked! Yet shocked he certainly was, for the transformation was so complete that it suddenly revealed to him something of the depth of degradation to which he might fall -- to which many a man as good as himself, if not better, had fallen. Then amusement rose within him, for he was the very beau-ideal of a typical burglar, or a prize-fighter: big, square-shouldered, deep-chested, large-chinned. The only parts that did not quite correspond to the type were his straight, well-formed nose and his clear blue eyes, but these defects were put right by slightly drooping his eyelids, pushing his billycock a little back on his head, and drawing a lock of hair in a drunken fashion over his forehead.

Suddenly an idea occurred to him. Slipping his latchkey into his pocket he went out of the house and closed the door softly. Then he rang the bell.

"Is the gen'leman at 'ome?" he asked of Mrs Butt, in a gruff, hoarse voice, as if still engaged in a struggle with a bad cold.

"What gentleman?" asked Mrs Butt eyeing him suspiciously.

"W'y, the gen'leman as sent for me to give 'im boxin' lessons -- Buck or Book, or some sitch name."

"Brooke, you mean," said Mrs Butt still suspicious, and interposing her solid person in the doorway.

"Ay, that's the cove -- the gen'leman I mean came here this arternoon to lodge wi' a Missis Butt or Brute, or suthin' o' that sort -- air you Mrs Brute?"

"Certainly not," answered the landlady, with indignation; "but I'm Mrs Butt."

"Well, it's all the same. I ax yer parding for the mistake, but there's sitch a mixin' up o' Brutes an' Brookes, an' Butts an' Bucks, that it comes hard o' a man o' no edication to speak of to take it all in. This gen'leman, Mr Brute, 'e said if 'e was hout w'en I called I was to wait, an' say you was to make tea for two, an' 'ave it laid in the bedroom as 'e'd require the parlour for the mill."

The man's evident knowledge of her lodger's affairs, and his gross stupidity, disarmed Mrs Butt. She would have laughed at his last speech if it had not been for the astounding conclusion. Tea in the bedroom and a mill in the parlour the first night was a degree of eccentricity she had not even conceived of.

"Come in, then, young man," she said, making way. "You'll find Mr Brooke in the parlour at his tea."

The prize-fighter stepped quickly along the dark passage into the parlour, and while the somewhat sluggish Mrs Butt was closing the door she overheard her lodger exclaim -- 

"Ha! Jem Mace, this is good of you -- very good of you -- to come so promptly. Mrs Butt," shouting at the parlour door, "another cup and plate for Mr Mace, and -- and bring the ham!"

"The 'am!" repeated Mrs Butt softly to herself, as she gazed in perplexity round her little kitchen, "did 'e order a 'am?"

Unable to solve the riddle she gave it up and carried in the cup and saucer and plate.

"I beg your parding, sir, you mentioned a 'am," she began, but stopped abruptly on seeing no one there but the prize-fighter standing before the fire in a free-and-easy manner with his hands in his breeches pockets.

The light of the street-lamps had very imperfectly revealed the person of Jem Mace. Now that Mrs Butt saw him slouching in all his native hideousness against her mantelpiece in the full blaze of a paraffin lamp, she inwardly congratulated herself that Mr Brooke was such a big strong man -- almost a match, she thought, for Mace!

"I thought you said the gen'leman was in the parlour, Mrs Brute?" said Mace inquiringly.

"So 'e -- was," answered the perplexed lady, looking round the room; "didn't I 'ear 'im a-shakin' 'ands wi' you, an' a-shoutin' for 'am?"

"Well, Mrs Brute, I dun know what you 'eard; all I know is that I've not seed 'im yet."

"'E must be in the bedroom," said Mrs Butt, with a dazed look.

"No 'e ain't there," returned the prize-fighter; "I've bin all over it --  looked under the bed, into the cupboard, through the key'ole; -- p'r'aps," he added, turning quickly, "'e may be up the chimbly!"

The expression on poor Mrs Butt's face now alarmed Charlie, who instantly doffed his billycock and resumed his natural voice and manner.

"Forgive me, Mrs Butt, if I have been somewhat reckless," he said, "in testing my disguise on you. I really had no intention till a few minutes ago of playing such a practical -- "

"Well, well, Mr Brooke," broke in the amazed yet amiable creature at this point, "I do assure you as I'd never 'ave know'd you from the worst character in W'itechapel. I wouldn't have trusted you -- not with a sixpence. You was born to be a play-actor, sir! I declare that Jem Mace have given me a turn that -- But why disguise yourself in this way, Mr Brooke?"

"Because I am going to haunt the low lodging-houses, Mrs Butt and I could not well do that, you know, in the character of a gentleman; and as you have taken it so amiably I'm glad I tried my hand here first, for it will make me feel much more at ease."

"And well it may, sir. I only 'ope it won't get you into trouble, for if the p'leece go lookin' for a burglar, or murderer, or desprit ruffian, where you 'appen to be, they're sure to run you in. The only think I would point out, sir, if I may be so free, is that your 'ands an' face is too clean."

"That is easily remedied," said Charlie, with a laugh, as he stooped and rubbed his hands among the ashes; then, taking a piece of cinder, he made sundry marks on his countenance therewith, which, when judiciously touched in with a little water and some ashes, converted our hero into as thorough a scoundrel as ever walked the streets of London at unseasonable hours of night.



Chapter Thirty One.

Failure And A New Scent.

Although our hero's plan of search may seem to some rather Quixotic, there was nothing further from his thoughts than merely playing at the game of amateur detective. Being enthusiastic and sanguine, besides being spurred on by an intense desire to rescue the father of May Leather, Charlie Brooke was thoroughly in earnest in his plan. He knew that it would be useless to attempt such a search and rescue in any other capacity than that of a genuine pauper, at least in appearance and action. He therefore resolved to conduct the search in character, and to plunge at once into the deepest pools of the slums.

It is not our intention to carry the reader through the Arabian-night-like adventures which he experienced in his quest. Suffice it to say that he did not find the lost man in the pools in which he fished for him, but he ultimately, after many weeks, found one who led him to the goal he aimed at.

Meanwhile there were revealed to him numerous phases of life -- or, rather, of living death -- in the slums of the great city which caused him many a heartache at the time, and led him ever afterwards to consider with anxious pity the condition of the poor, the so-called lost and lapsed, the depraved, degraded, and unfortunate. Of course he found -- as so many had found before him -- that the demon Drink was at the bottom of most of the misery he witnessed, but he also learned that whereas many weak and vicious natures dated the commencement of their final descent and fall from the time when they began to drink, many of the strong and ferocious spirits had begun a life of wickedness in early youth, and only added drink in after years as a little additional fuel to the already roaring flame of sin.

It is well known that men of all stamps and creeds and classes are to be found in the low lodging-houses of all great cities. At first Charlie did not take note of this, being too earnestly engaged in the search for his friend, and anxious to avoid drawing attention on himself; but as he grew familiar with these scenes of misery and destitution he gradually began to be interested in the affairs of other people, and, as he was eminently sympathetic, he became the confidant of several paupers, young and old. A few tried to draw him out, but he quietly checked their curiosity without giving offence.

It may be remarked here that he at once dropped the style of talk which he had adopted when representing Jem Mace, because he found so many in the lodging-houses who had fallen from a good position in society that grammatical language was by no means singular. His size and strength also saved him from much annoyance, for the roughs, who might otherwise have bullied him, felt that it would be wise to leave him alone.

On one occasion, however, his pacific principles were severely tested as well as his manhood, and as this led to important results we must recount the incident.

There was a little lame, elderly man, who was a habitual visitor at one of the houses which our hero frequented. He was a humorous character, who made light of his troubles, and was a general favourite. Charlie had felt interested in the man, and in ordinary circumstances would have inquired into his history, but, as we have said, he laid some restraint on his natural tendency to inquire and sympathise. As it was, however, he showed his goodwill by many little acts of kindness -- such as making way for Zook -- so he was called -- when he wanted to get to the general fire to boil his tea or coffee; giving him a portion of his own food on the half pretence that he had eaten as much as he wanted, etcetera.

There was another habitue of the same lodging, named Stoker, whose temperament was the very opposite to that of little Zook. He was a huge, burly dock labourer; an ex-prize-fighter and a disturber of the peace wherever he went. Between Stoker and Zook there was nothing in common save their poverty, and the former had taken a strong dislike to the latter, presumably on the ground of Zook's superiority in everything except bulk of frame. Charlie had come into slight collision with Stoker on Zook's account more than once, and had tried to make peace between them, but Stoker was essentially a bully; he would listen to no advice, and had more than once told the would-be peacemaker to mind his own business.

One evening, towards the close of our hero's search among the lodging-houses, little Zook entered the kitchen of the establishment, tea-pot and penny loaf in hand. He hastened towards the roaring fire that might have roasted a whole sheep, and which served to warm the entire basement storey, or kitchen, of the tenement.

"Here, Zook," said Charlie, as the former passed the table at which he was seated taking his supper, "I've bought more than I can eat, as usual! I've got two red-herrings and can eat only one. Will you help me?"

"It's all fish that comes to my net, Charlie," said the little man, skipping towards his friend, and accepting the herring with a grateful but exaggerated bow.

We omitted to say that our hero passed among the paupers by his Christian name, which he had given as being, from its very universality, the best possible alias.

A few minutes later Stoker entered and went to the fire, where loud, angry voices soon told that the bully was at his old game of peace-disturber. Presently a cry of "shame" was heard, and poor Zook was seen lying on the floor with his nose bleeding.

"Who cried shame?" demanded the bully, looking fiercely round.

"I did not," said Charlie Brooke, striding towards him, "for I did not know it was you who knocked him down, but I do cry shame on you now, for striking a man so much smaller than yourself, and without provocation, I warrant."

"An' pray who are you?" returned Stoker, in a tone that was meant to be witheringly sarcastic.

"I am one who likes fair play," said Charlie, restraining his anger, for he was still anxious to throw oil on the troubled waters, "and if you call it fair play for a heavy-weight like you to attack such a light-weight as Zook, you must have forgotten somehow that you are an Englishman. Come, now, Stoker, say to Zook you are sorry and won't worry him any more, and I'm sure he'll forgive you!"

"Hear! hear!" cried several of the on-lookers.

"Perhaps I may forgive 'im," said Zook, with a humorous leer, as he wiped his bleeding nose -- "I'd do a'most anything to please Charlie!"

This was received with a general laugh, but Stoker did not laugh; he turned on our hero with a look of mingled pity and contempt.

"No, Mister Charlie," he said, "I won't say I'm sorry, because I'd tell a big lie if I did, and I'll worry him just as much as I please. But I'll tell 'e what I'll do. If you show yourself as ready wi' your bunches o' fives as you are wi' yer tongue, and agree to fight me, I'll say to Zook that I'm sorry and won't worry 'im any more."

There was dead silence for a minute after the delivery of this challenge, and much curiosity was exhibited as to how it would be taken. Charlie cast down his eyes in perplexity. Like many big and strong men he was averse to use his superior physical powers in fighting. Besides this, he had been trained by his mother to regard it as more noble to suffer than to avenge insults, and there is no doubt that if the bully's insult had affected only himself he would have avoided him, if possible, rather than come into conflict. Having been trained, also, to let Scripture furnish him with rules for action, his mind irresistibly recalled the turning of the "other cheek" to the smiter, but the fact that he was at that moment acting in defence of another, not of himself, prevented that from relieving him. Suddenly -- like the lightning flash --  there arose to him the words, "Smite a scorner and the simple will beware!" Indeed, all that we have mentioned, and much more, passed through his troubled brain with the speed of light. Lifting his eyes calmly to the face of his opponent he said -- "I accept your challenge."

"No, no, Charlie!" cried the alarmed Zook, in a remonstrative tone, "you'll do nothing of the sort. The man's a old prize-fighter! You haven't a chance. Why, I'll fight him myself rather than let you do it."

And with that the little man began to square up and twirl his fists and skip about in front of the bully in spite of his lameness -- but took good care to keep well out of his reach.

"It's a bargain, then," said Charlie, holding out his hand.

"Done!" answered the bully, grasping it.

"Well, then, the sooner we settle this business the better," continued Charlie. "Where shall it come off?"

"Prize-fightin's agin the law," suggested an old pauper, who seemed to fear they were about to set to in the kitchen.

"So it is, old man," said Charlie, "and I would be the last to engage in such a thing, but this is not a prize-fight, for there's no prize. It's simply a fight in defence of weakness against brute strength and tyranny."

There were only a few of the usual inhabitants of the kitchen present at the time, for it was yet early in the evening. This was lucky, as it permitted of the fight being gone about quietly.

In the upper part of the building there was an empty room of considerable size which had been used as a furniture store, and happened at that time to have been cleared out, with the view of adding it to the lodging. There, it was arranged, the event should come off, and to this apartment proceeded all the inhabitants of the kitchen who were interested in the matter. A good many, however, remained behind -- some because they did not like fights, some because they did not believe that the parties were in earnest, others because they were too much taken up with and oppressed by their own sorrows, and a few because, being what is called fuddled, they did not understand or care anything about the matter at all. Thus it came to pass that all the proceedings were quiet and orderly, and there was no fear of interruption by the police.

Arrived at the scene of action, a ring was formed by the spectators standing round the walls, which they did in a single row, for there was plenty of room. Then Stoker strode into the middle of the room, pulled off his coat, vest, and shirt, which he flung into a corner, and stood up, stripped to the waist, like a genuine performer in the ring. Charlie also threw off coat and vest, but retained his shirt -- an old striped cotton one in harmony with his other garments.

"I'm not a professional," he said, as he stepped forward; "you've no objection, I suppose, to my keeping on my shirt?"

"None whatever," replied Stoker, with a patronising air; "p'r'aps it may be as well for fear you should kitch cold."

Charlie smiled, and held out his hand -- "You see," he said, "that at least I understand the civilities of the ring."

There was an approving laugh at this as the champions shook hands and stood on guard.

"I am quite willing even yet," said Charlie, while in this attitude, "to settle this matter without fighting if you'll only agree to leave Zook alone in future."

This was a clear showing of the white feather in the opinion of Stoker, who replied with a thundering, "No!" and at the same moment made a savage blow at Charlie's face.

Our hero was prepared for it. He put his head quickly to one side, let the blow pass, and with his left hand lightly tapped the bridge of his opponent's nose.

"Hah! a hammytoor!" exclaimed the ex-pugilist in some surprise.

Charlie said nothing, but replied with the grim smile with which in school-days he had been wont to indicate that he meant mischief. The smile passed quickly, however, for even at that moment he would gladly have hailed a truce, so deeply did he feel what he conceived to be the degradation of his position -- a feeling which neither his disreputable appearance nor his miserable associates had yet been able to produce.

But nothing was further from the intention of Stoker than a truce. Savages usually attribute forbearance to cowardice. War to the knife was in his heart, and he rushed at Charlie with a shower of slogging blows, which were meant to end the fight at once. But they failed to do so. Our hero nimbly evaded the blows, acting entirely on the defensive, and when Stoker at length paused, panting, the hammytoor was standing before him quite cool, and with the grim look intensified.

"If you will have it -- take it!" he exclaimed, and shot forth a blow which one of the juvenile bystanders described as a "stinger on the beak!"

The owner of the beak felt it so keenly, that he lost temper and made another savage assault, which was met in much the same way, with this difference, that his opponent delivered several more stingers on the unfortunate beak, which after that would have been more correctly described as a bulb.

Again the ex-pugilist paused for breath, and again the "hammytoor" stood up before him, smiling more grimly than ever -- panting a little, it is true, but quite unscathed about the face, for he had guarded it with great care although he had received some rather severe body blows.

Seeing this, Stoker descended to mean practices, and in his next assault attempted, and with partial success, to hit below the belt. This roused a spirit of indignation in Charlie, which gave strength to his arm and vigour to his action. The next time Stoker paused for breath, Charlie --  as the juvenile bystander remarked -- "went for him," planted a blow under each eye, a third on his forehead, and a fourth on his chest with such astounding rapidity and force that the man was driven up against the wall with a crash that shook the whole edifice.

Stoker dropped and remained still. There were no seconds, no sponges or calling of time at that encounter. It was altogether an informal episode, and when Charlie saw his antagonist drop, he kneeled down beside him with a feeling of anxiety lest he had killed him.

"My poor man," he said, "are you much hurt?"

"Oh! you've no need to fear for me," said Stoker recovering himself a little, and sitting up -- "but I throw up the sponge. Stoker's day is over w'en 'e's knocked out o' time by a hammytoor, and Zook is free to bile 'is pot unmorlested in futur'."

"Come, it was worth a fight to bring you to that state of mind, my man," said Charlie, laughing. "Here, two of you, help to take him down and wash the blood off him; and I say, youngster," he added, pulling out his purse and handing a sovereign to the juvenile bystander already mentioned, "go out and buy sausages for the whole company."

The boy stared at the coin in his hand in mute surprise, while the rest of the ring looked at each other with various expressions, for Charlie, in the rebound of feeling caused by his opponent's sudden recovery and submission, had totally forgotten his role and was ordering the people about like one accustomed to command.

As part of the orders were of such a satisfactory nature, the people did not object, and, to the everlasting honour of the juvenile bystander who resisted the temptation to bolt with the gold, a splendid supper of pork sausages was smoking on the various tables of the kitchen of that establishment in less than an hour thereafter.

When the late hours of night had arrived, and most of the paupers were asleep in their poor beds, dreaming, perchance, of "better days" when pork-sausages were not so tremendous a treat, little Zook went to the table at which Charlie sat. He was staring at a newspaper, but in reality was thinking about his vain search, and beginning, if truth must be told, to feel discouraged.

"Charlie," said Zook, sitting down beside his champion, "or p'r'aps I should say Mister Charlie, the game's up wi' you, whatever it was."

"What d'you mean, Zook?"

"Well, I just mean that it's o' no manner o' use your tryin' to sail any longer under false colours in this here establishment."

"I must still ask you to explain yourself," said Charlie, with a puzzled look.

"Well, you know," continued the little man, with a deprecatory glance, "w'en a man in ragged clo'se orders people here about as if 'e was the commander-in-chief o' the British Army, an' flings yellow boys about as if 'e was chancellor o' the checkers, an orders sassengers offhand for all 'ands, 'e may be a gentleman -- wery likely 'e is, -- but 'e ain't a redooced one, such as slopes into lodgin'-'ouse kitchens. W'atever little game may 'ave brought you 'ere, sir, it ain't poverty -- an' nobody will be fool enough in this 'ouse to believe it is."

"You are right, Zook. I'm sorry I forgot myself," returned Charlie, with a sigh. "After all, it does not matter much, for I fear my little game -- as you call it -- was nearly played out, and it does not seem as if I were going to win."

Charlie clasped his hands on the table before him, and looked at the newspaper somewhat disconsolately.

"It's bin all along o' takin' up my cause," said the little man, with something like a whimper in his voice. "You've bin wery kind to me, sir, an' I'd give a lot, if I 'ad it, an' would go a long way if I wasn't lame, to 'elp you."

Charlie looked steadily in the honest, pale, careworn face of his companion for a few seconds without speaking. Poverty, it is said, brings together strange bed-fellows. Not less, perhaps, does it lead to unlikely confidants. Under a sudden impulse our hero revealed to poor Zook the cause of his being there -- concealing nothing except names.

"You'll 'scuse me, sir," said the little man, after the narrative was finished, "but I think you've gone on summat of a wild-goose chase, for your man may never have come so low as to seek shelter in sitch places."

"Possibly, Zook; but he was penniless, and this, or the work-house, seemed to me the natural place to look for him in."

"'Ave you bin to the work-'ouses, sir?"

"Yes -- at least to all in this neighbourhood."

"What! in that toggery?" asked the little man, with a grin.

"Not exactly, Zook, I can change my shell like the hermit crabs."

"Well, sir, it's my opinion that you may go on till doomsday on this scent an' find nuthin'; but there's a old 'ooman as I knows on that might be able to 'elp you. Mind I don't say she could, but she might. Moreover, if she can she will."

"How?" asked Charlie, somewhat amused by the earnestness of his little friend.

"Why, this way. She's a good old soul who lost 'er 'usband an' 'er son -- if I ain't mistaken -- through drink, an' ever since, she 'as devoted 'erself body an' soul to save men an' women from drink. She attends temperance meetin's an' takes people there -- a'most drags 'em in by the scruff o' the neck. She keeps 'er eyes open, like a weasel, an' w'enever she sees a chance o' what she calls pluckin' a brand out o' the fire, she plucks it, without much regard to burnin' 'er fingers. Sometimes she gits one an' another to submit to her treatment, an' then she locks 'em up in 'er 'ouse -- though it ain't a big un -- an' treats 'em, as she calls it. She's got one there now, it's my belief, though w'ether it's a he or a she I can't tell. Now, she may 'ave seen your friend goin' about -- if 'e stayed long in Whitechapel."

"It may be so," returned our hero wearily, for he was beginning to lose heart, and the prospect opened up to him by Zook did not on the first blush of it seem very brilliant. "When could I see this old woman?"

"First thing to-morror arter breakfast, sir."

"Very well; then you'll come and breakfast with me at eight?"

"I will, sir, with all the pleasure in life. In this 'ere 'ouse, sir, or in a resterang?"

"Neither. In my lodgings, Zook."

Having given his address to the little man, Charlie bade him good-night and retired to his pauper-bed for the last time.



Chapter Thirty Two.

Success And Future Plans.

Punctual to the minute Zook presented himself to Mrs Butt next morning and demanded audience.

Mrs Butt had been forewarned of the impending visit, and, although she confessed to some uncomfortable feelings in respect of infection and dirt, received him with a gracious air.

"You've come to breakfast, I understand?"

"Well, I believe I 'ave," answered the little man, with an involuntary glance at his dilapidated clothes; "'avin' been inwited -- unless," he added, somewhat doubtfully, "the inwite came in a dream."

"You may go in and clear up that point for yourself," said the landlady, as she ushered the poor man into the parlour, where he was almost startled to find an amiable gentleman waiting to receive him.

"Come along, Zook, I like punctuality. Are you hungry?"

"'Ungry as a 'awk, sir," replied Zook, glancing at the table and rubbing his hands, for there entered his nostrils delicious odours, the causes of which very seldom entered his throat. "W'y, sir, I know'd you was a gent, from the wery first!"

"I have at least entered my native shell," said Charlie, with a laugh. "Sit down. We've no time to waste. Now what'll you have? Coffee, tea, pork-sausage, ham and egg, buttered toast, hot rolls. Just help yourself, and fancy you're in the lodging-house at your own table."

"Well, sir, that would be a stretch o' fancy that would strain me a'most to the bustin' p'int. Coffee, if you please. Oh yes, sugar an' milk in course. I never let slip a chance as I knows on. W'ich bread? well, 'ot rolls is temptin', but I allers 'ad a weakness for sappy things, so 'ot buttered toast -- if you can spare it."

"Spare it, my good man!" said Charlie, laughing. "There's a whole loaf in the kitchen and pounds of butter when you've finished this, not to mention the shops round the corner."

It was a more gratifying treat to Charlie than he had expected, to see this poor man eat to his heart's content of viands which he so thoroughly appreciated and so rarely enjoyed. What Zook himself felt, it is impossible for well-to-do folk to conceive, or an ordinary pen to describe; but, as he sat there, opposite to his big friend and champion, stowing away the good things with zest and devotion of purpose, it was easy to believe that his watery eyes were charged with the tears of gratitude, as well as with those of a chronic cold to which he was subject.

Breakfast over, they started off in quest of the old woman with teetotal proclivities.

"How did you come to know her?" asked Charlie, as they went along.

"Through a 'ouse in the city as I was connected with afore I got run over an' lamed. They used to send me with parcels to this old 'ooman. In course I didn't know for sartin' w'at was in the parcels, but 'avin' a nose, you see, an' bein' able to smell, I guessed that it was a compound o' wittles an' wursted work."

"A strange compound, Zook."

"Well, they wasn't 'zactly compounded -- they was sometimes the one an' sometimes the other; never mixed to my knowledge."

"What house was it that sent you?"

"Withers and Company."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Charlie in surprise. "I know the house well. The head of it is a well-known philanthropist. How came you to leave them? They never would have allowed an old servant to come to your pass --  unless, indeed, he was -- "

"A fool, sir, or wuss," interrupted Zook; "an' that's just what I was. I runned away from 'em, sir, an' I've been ashamed to go back since. But that's 'ow I come to know old Missis Mag, an' it's down 'ere she lives."

They turned into a narrow passage which led to a small court at the back of a mass of miserable buildings, and here they found the residence of the old woman.

"By the way, Zook, what's her name?" asked Charlie.

"Mrs Mag Samson."

"Somehow the name sounds familiar to me," said Charlie, as he knocked at the door.

A very small girl opened it and admitted that her missis was at 'ome; whereupon our hero turned to his companion.

"I'll manage her best without company, Zook," he said; "so you be off; and see that you come to my lodging to-night at six to hear the result of my interview and have tea."

"I will, sir."

"And here, Zook, put that in your pocket, and take a good dinner."

"I will, sir."

"And -- hallo! Zook, come here. Not a word about all this in the lodging-house; -- stay, now I think of it, don't go to the lodging-house at all. Go to a casual ward where they'll make you take a good bath. Be sure you give yourself a good scrub. D'ye hear?"

"Yes, sir." He walked away murmuring, "More 'am and hegg an' buttered toast to-night! Zook, you're in luck to-day -- in clover, my boy! in clover!"

Meanwhile, Charlie Brooke found himself in the presence of a bright-eyed little old woman, who bade him welcome with the native grace of one who is a born, though not a social, lady, and beautified by Christianity. Her visitor went at once straight to the point.

"Forgive my intrusion, Mrs Samson," he said, taking the chair to which the old woman pointed, "but, indeed, I feel assured that you will, when I state that the object of my visit is to ask you to aid in the rescue of a friend from drink."

"No man intrudes on me who comes on such an errand; but how does it happen, sir, that you think I am able to aid you?"

To this Charlie replied by giving her an account of his meeting and conversation with Zook, and followed that up with a full explanation of his recent efforts and a graphic description of Isaac Leather.

The old woman listened attentively, and, as her visitor proceeded, with increasing interest not unmingled with surprise and amusement.

When he had concluded, Mrs Samson rose, and, opening a door leading to another room, held up her finger to impose silence, and softly bade him look in.

He did so. The room was a very small one, scantily furnished, with a low truckle-bed in one corner, and there, on the bed, lay the object of his quest -- Isaac Leather! Charlie had just time to see that the thin pale face was not that of a dead, but of a sleeping, man when the old woman gently pulled him back and re-closed the door.

"That's your man, I think."

"Yes, that's the man -- I thank God for this most astonishing and unlooked-for success."

"Ah! sir," returned the woman, sitting down again, "most of our successes are unlooked for, and, when they do come, we are not too ready to recognise the hand of the Giver."

"Nevertheless you must admit that some incidents do seem almost miraculous," said Charlie. "To have found you out in this great city, the very person who had Mr Leather in her keeping, does seem unaccountable, does it not?"

"Not so unaccountable as it seems to you," replied the old woman, "and certainly not so much of a miracle as it would have been if you had found him by searching the lodging-houses. Here is the way that God seems to have brought it about. I have for many years been a pensioner of the house of Withers and Company, by whom I was employed until the senior partner made me a sort of female city-missionary amongst the poor. I devoted myself particularly to the reclaiming of drunkards --  having special sympathy with them. A friend of mine, Miss Molloy, also employed by the senior partner in works of charity, happened to be acquainted with Mr Leather and his family. She knew of his failing, and she found out -- for she has a strange power, that I never could understand, of inducing people to make a confidant of her, -- she found out (what no one else knew, it seems) that poor Mr Leather wished to put himself under some sort of restraint, for he could not resist temptation when it came in his way. Knowing about me, she naturally advised him to put himself in my hands. He objected at first, but agreed at last on condition that none of his people should be told anything about it. I did not like to receive him on such conditions, but gave in because he would come on no other. Well, sir, you came down here because you had information which led you to think Mr Leather had come to this part of the city. You met with a runaway servant of Withers and Company -- not very wonderful that. He naturally knows about me and fetches you here. Don't you see?"

"Yes, I see," replied Charlie, with an amused expression; "still I cannot help looking on the whole affair as very wonderful, and I hope that that does not disqualify me from recognising God's leading in the matter."

"Nay, young sir," returned the old woman, "that ought rather to qualify you for such recognition, for are not His ways said to be wonderful -- ay, sometimes 'past finding out'? But what we know not now, we shall know hereafter. I thought that when my poor boy went to sea -- "

"Mrs Samson!" exclaimed Charlie, with a sudden start, "I see it now! Was your boy's name Fred?"

"It was."

"And he went to sea in the Walrus, that was wrecked in the Southern Ocean!"

"Yes," exclaimed the old woman eagerly.

"Then," said Charlie, drawing a packet from the breast-pocket of his coat, "Fred gave me this for you. I have carried it about me ever since, in the hope that I might find you. I came to London, but found you had left the address written on the packet, and it never occurred to me that the owners of the Walrus would know anything about the mother of one of the men who sailed in her. I have a message also from your son."

The message was delivered, and Charlie was still commenting on it, when the door of the inner room opened and Isaac Leather stood before them.

"Charlie Brooke!" he exclaimed, in open-eyed amazement, not unmingled with confusion.

"Ay, and a most unexpected meeting on both sides," said Charlie, advancing and holding out his hand. "I bring you good news, Mr Leather, of your son Shank."

"Do you indeed?" said the broken-down man, eagerly grasping his young friend's hand. "What have you to tell me? Oh Charlie, you have no idea what terrible thoughts I've had about that dear boy since he went off to America! My sin has found me out, Charlie. I've often heard that said before, but have never tally believed it till now."

"God sends you a message of mercy, then," said our hero, who thereupon began to relieve the poor man's mind by telling him of his son's welfare and reformation.

But we need not linger over this part of the story, for the reader can easily guess a good deal of what was said to Leather, while old Mrs Samson was perusing the letter of her dead son, and tears of mingled sorrow and joy coursed down her withered cheeks.

That night however, Charlie Brooke conceived a vast idea, and partially revealed it at the tea-table to Zook -- whose real name, by the way, was Jim Smith.

"'Ave you found 'er, sir?" said Mrs Butt, putting the invariable, and by that time annoying, question as Charlie entered his lodging.

"No, Mrs Butt, I haven't found 'er, and I don't expect to find 'er at all."

"Lawk! sir, I'm so sorry."

"Has Mr Zook come?"

"Yes, sir 'e's inside and looks impatient. The smell o' the toast seems a'most too strong a temptation for 'im; I'm glad you've come."

"Look here, Zook," said Charlie, entering his parlour, "go into that bedroom. You'll find a bundle of new clothes there. Put them on. Wrap your old clothes in a handkerchief, and bring them to me. Tea will be ready when you are."

The surprised pauper did as he was bid, without remark, and re-entered the parlour a new man!

"My own mother, if I 'ad one, wouldn't know me, sir," he said, glancing admiringly at his vest.

"Jim Smith, Esquire," returned Charlie, laughing. "I really don't think she would."

"Zook, sir," said the little man, with a grave shake of the head; "couldn't think of changin' my name at my time of life; let it be Zook, if you please, sir, though in course I've no objection to esquire, w'en I 'ave the means to maintain my rank."

"Well, Zook, you have at all events the means to make a good supper, so sit down and go to work, and I'll talk to you while you eat, -- but, stay, hand me the bundle of old clothes."

Charlie opened the window as he spoke, took hold of the bundle, and discharged it into the back yard.

"There," he said, sitting down at the table, "that will prove an object of interest to the cats all night, and a subject of surprise to good Mrs Butt in the morning. Now, Zook," he added, when his guest was fairly at work taking in cargo, "I want to ask you -- have you any objection to emigrate to America?"

"Not the smallest," he said, as well as was possible through a full mouth. "Bein' a orphling, so to speak, owin' to my never 'avin' 'ad a father or mother -- as I knows on -- there's nothin' that chains me to old England 'cept poverty."

"Could you do without drink?"

"Sca'sely, sir, seein' the doctors say that man is about three parts -- or four, is it? -- made up o' water; I would be apt to grow mummified without drink, wouldn't I, sir?"

"Come, Zook -- you know that I mean strong drink -- alcohol in all its forms."

"Oh, I see. Well, sir, as to that, I've bin in the 'abit of doin' without it so much of late from needcessity, that I don't think I'd find much difficulty in knocking it off altogether, if I was to bring principle to bear."

"Well, then," continued Charlie, "(have some more ham?) I have just conceived a plan. I have a friend in America who is a reformed drunkard. His father in this country is also, I hope, a reformed drunkard. There is a good man out there, I understand, who has had a great deal to do with reformed drunkards, and he has got up a large body of friends and sympathisers who have determined to go away into the far west and there organise a total abstinence community, and found a village or town where nothing in the shape of alcohol shall be admitted except as physic.

"Now, I have a lot of friends in England who, I think, would go in for such an expedition if -- "

"Are they all reformed drunkards, sir?" asked Zook in surprise, arresting a mass of sausage in its course as he asked the question.

"By no means," returned Charlie with a laugh, "but they are earnest souls, and I'm sure will go if I try to persuade them."

"You're sure to succeed, sir," said Zook, "if your persuasions is accompanied wi' sassengers, 'am, an' buttered toast," remarked the little man softly, as he came to a pause for a few seconds.

"I'll bring to bear on them all the arguments that are available, you may be sure. Meanwhile I shall count you my first recruit."

"Number 1 it is, sir, w'ich is more than I can say of this here slice," said Zook, helping himself to more toast.

While the poor but happy man was thus pleasantly engaged, his entertainer opened his writing portfolio and began to scribble off note after note, with such rapidity that the amazed pauper at his elbow fairly lost his appetite, and, after a vain attempt to recover it, suggested that it might be as well for him to retire to one of the palatial fourpence-a-night residences in Dean and Flower Street.

"Not to-night. You've done me a good turn that I shall never forget" said Charlie, rising and ringing the bell with needless vigour.

"Be kind enough, Mrs Butt, to show Mr Zook to his bedroom."

"My heye!" murmured the pauper, marching off with two full inches added to his stature. "Not in there, I suppose, missis," he said facetiously, as he passed the coal-hole.

"Oh, lawks! no -- this way," replied the good woman, who was becoming almost imbecile under the eccentricities of her lodger. "This is your bedroom, and I only 'ope it won't turn into a band-box before morning, for of all the transformations an' pantimimes as 'as took place in this 'ouse since Mr Brooke entered it, I -- "

She hesitated, and, not seeing her way quite clearly to the fitting end of the sentence, asked if Mr Zook would 'ave 'ot water in the morning.

"No, thank you, Missis," replied the little man with dignity, while he felt the stubble on his chin; "'avin left my razors at 'ome, I prefers the water cold."

Leaving Zook to his meditations, Mrs Butt retired to bed, remarking, as she extinguished the candle, that Mr Brooke was still "a-writin' like a 'ouse a fire!"



Chapter Thirty Three.

Sweetwater Bluff.

We must now leap over a considerable space, not only of distance, but of time, in order to appreciate fully the result of Charlie Brooke's furious letter-writing and amazing powers of persuasion.

Let the reader try to imagine a wide plateau, dotted with trees and bushes, on one of the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, where that mighty range begins to slide into union with the great prairies. It commands a view of mingled woodland and rolling plain, diversified by river and lake, extending to a horizon so faint and far away as to suggest the idea of illimitable space.

Early one morning in spring, five horsemen, emerging from a belt of woodland, galloped to the slope that led to the summit of this plateau. Drawing rein, they began slowly to ascend. Two of the cavaliers were young, tall, and strong; -- two were portly and old, though still hearty and vigorous; one, who led them, on a coal-black steed, was a magnificent specimen of the backwoodsman, and one, who brought up the rear, was a thin little man, who made up for what he wanted in size by the energy and vigour of his action, as, with hand and heel, he urged an unwilling horse to keep up with the rest of the party.

Arrived at the summit of the plateau, the leading horseman trotted to its eastern edge, and halted as if for the purpose of surveying the position.

"Here we are at last," he said, to the tallest of his comrades; "Sweetwater Bluff -- and the end of our journey!"

"And a most noble end it is!" exclaimed the tall comrade. "Why, Hunky Ben, it far surpasses my expectations and all you have said about it."

"Most o' the people I've had to guide over this trail have said pretty much the same thing in different words, Mr Brooke," returned the scout, dismounting. "Your wife will find plenty o' subjects here for the paintin' she's so fond of."

"Ay, May will find work here to keep her brushes busy for many a day to come," replied Charlie, "though I suspect that other matters will claim most of her time at first, for there is nothing but a wilderness here yet."

"You've yet to larn, sir, that we don't take as long to fix up a town hereaway as you do in the old country," remarked Hunky Ben, as old Jacob Crossley ambled up on the staid creature which we have already introduced as Wheelbarrow.

Waving his hand with enthusiasm the old gentleman exclaimed, "Glorious!" Indeed, for a few minutes he sat with glistening eyes and heaving chest, quite unable to give vent to any other sentiment than "glorious!" This he did at intervals. His interest in the scene, however, was distracted by the sudden advent of Captain Stride, whose horse -- a long-legged roan -- had an awkward tendency, among other eccentricities, to advance sideways with a waltzing gait, that greatly disconcerted the mariner.

"Woa! you brute. Back your tops'ls, won't you? I never did see sitch a craft for heavin' about like a Dutch lugger in a cross sea. She sails side on, no matter where she's bound for. Forges ahead a'most entirely by means of leeway, so to speak. Hallo! woa! Ketch a grip o' the painter, Dick, an' hold on till I git off the hurricane deck o' this walrus -- else I'll be overboard in a -- . There -- " The captain came to the ground suddenly as he spoke, without the use of stirrup, and, luckily, without injury.

"Not hurt I hope?" asked Dick Darvall, assisting his brother-salt to rise.

"Not a bit of it, Dick. You see I'm a'most as active as yourself though double your age, if not more. I say, Charlie, this is a pretty look-out. Don't 'ee think so, Mr Crossley? I was sure that Hunky Ben would find us a pleasant anchorage and safe holding-ground at last, though it did seem as if we was pretty long o' comin' to it. Just as we was leavin' the waggins to ride on in advance I said to my missus -- says I -- Maggie, you may depend -- "

"Hallo! Zook," cried Charlie, as the little man of the slums came limping up, "what have you done with your horse?"

"Cast 'im loose, sir, an' gi'n 'im leave of absence as long as 'e pleases. It's my opinion that some the 'osses o' the western prairies ain't quite eekal to some o' the 'osses I've bin used to in Rotten Row. Is this the place, Hunky? Well, now," continued the little man, with flashing eyes, as he looked round on the magnificent scene, "it'll do. Beats W'itechapel an' the Parks any 'ow. An' there's lots o' poultry about, too!" he added, as a flock of wild ducks went by on whistling wings. "I say, Hunky Ben, w'at's yon brown things over there by the shores o' the lake?"

"Buffalo," answered the scout.

"What! wild uns?"

"There's no tame ones in them diggin's as I knows on. If there was, they'd soon become wild, you bet."

"An' w'at's yon monster crawlin' over the farthest plain, like the great sea-serpent?"

"Why, man," returned the scout, "them's the waggins. Come, now, let's to work an' git the fire lit. The cart wi' the chuck an' tents'll be here in a few minutes, an' the waggins won't be long arter 'em."

"Ay, wi' the women an' kids shoutin' for grub," added Zook, as he limped after the scout, while the rest of the little band dispersed -- some to cut firewood, others to select the best positions for the tents. The waggons, with a supply of food, arrived soon after under the care of Roaring Bull himself, with two of his cowboys. They were followed by Buttercup, who bestrode, man-fashion, a mustang nearly as black as herself and even more frisky.

In a wonderfully short time a number of white tents arose on the plateau and several fires blazed, and at all the fires Buttercup laboured with superhuman effect, assisted by the cowboys, to the unbounded admiration of Zook, who willingly superintended everything, but did little or nothing. A flat rock on the highest point was chosen for the site of a future block-house or citadel, and upon this was ere long spread a breakfast on a magnificent scale. It was barely ready when the first waggons arrived and commenced to lumber up the ascent, preceded by two girls on horseback, who waved their hands, and gave vent to vigorous little feminine cheers as they cantered up the slope.

These two were our old friends whom we knew as May Leather and Mary Jackson, but who must now be re-introduced to the reader as Mrs Charlie Brooke and Mrs Dick Darvall. On the same day they had changed their names at the Ranch of Roaring Bull, and had come to essay wedded life in the far west.

We need hardly say that this was the great experimental emigrant party, led by the Reverend William Reeves, who had resolved to found a colony on total abstinence principles, and with as many as possible of the sins of civilisation left behind. They found, alas! that sin is not so easily got rid of; nevertheless, the effort was not altogether fruitless, and Mr Reeves carried with him a sovereign antidote for sin in the shape of a godly spirit.

The party was a large one, for there were many men and women of the frontier whose experiences had taught them that life was happier and better in every way without the prevalent vices of gambling and drinking.

Of course the emigrants formed rather a motley band. Among them, besides those of our friends already mentioned, there were our hero's mother and all the Leather family. Captain Stride's daughter as well as his "Missus," and Mr Crossley's housekeeper, Mrs Bland. That good woman, however, had been much subdued and rendered harmless by the terrors of the wilderness, to which she had been recently exposed. Miss Molloy was also there, with an enormous supply of knitting needles and several bales of worsted.

Poor Shank Leather was still so much of an invalid as to be obliged to travel in a spring cart with his father, but both men were rapidly regaining physical strength under the influence of temperance, and spiritual strength under a higher power.

Soon the hammer, axe, and saw began to resound in that lovely western wilderness; the net to sweep its lakes; the hook to invade its rivers; the rifle to crack in the forests, and the plough to open up its virgin soil. In less time, almost, than a European would take to wink, the town of Sweetwater Bluff sprang into being; stores and workshops, a school and a church, grew, up like mushrooms; seed was sown, and everything, in short, was done that is characteristic of the advent of a thriving community. But not a gambling or drinking saloon, or a drop of firewater, was to be found in all the town.

In spite of this, Indians brought their furs to it; trappers came to it for supplies; emigrants turned aside to see and rest in it; and the place soon became noted as a flourishing and pre-eminently peaceful spot.



Chapter Thirty Four.

The Last.

But a little cloud arose ere long on the horizon of Sweetwater Bluff. Insignificant at first, it suddenly spread over the sky and burst in a wild storm.

The first intimation of its approach came from Charlie Brooke one quiet autumn evening, in that brief but delightful season known as the Indian Summer.

Charlie entered his garden that evening with a fowling-piece on his shoulder, and two brace of prairie hens at his girdle. May was seated at her cottage door, basking in sunshine, chatting with her mother -- who was knitting of course -- and Shank was conversing with Hunky Ben, who rested after a day of labour.

"There, May, is to-morrow's dinner," said Charlie, throwing the birds at his wife's feet, and sitting down beside her. "Who d'you think I passed when I was out on the plains to-day, Hunky? Your old friend Crux the Cowboy."

"He's no friend o' mine," said the scout, while something like a frown flitted across his usually placid brow. "I'm not over-pleased to hear that he's comin', for it's said that some old uncle or aunt o' his -- I forget which -- has left him a lot o' dollars. I hope he ain't comin' to spend 'em here, for he'd never git along without gamblin' an' drinkin'."

"Then, I can tell you that he is just coming to stay here," returned Charlie, "for he has several waggons with him, and a dozen men. I asked him where he was going to, and he said, to locate himself as a store-keeper at Sweetwater Bluff; but he did not seem inclined to be communicative, so I left him and galloped on to report the news. What d'you think about it?"

"I think it'll be a bad day for Sweetwater Bluff when Crux comes to settle in it. Howsoever, this is a free country, an' we've no right to interfere with him so long as he don't break the laws. But I doubt him. I'm afeard he'll try to sell drink, an' there's some o' our people who are longin' to git back to that."

The other members of the party, and indeed those heads of the town generally who knew Crux, were of much the same opinion, but some of them thought that, being in a free country, no one had a right to interfere. The consequence was that Crux and his men were permitted to go to work. They hired a shed in which to stow their goods, while they were engaged in building a store, and in course of time this was finished; but there was a degree of mystery about the ex-cowboy's proceedings which baffled investigation, and people did not like to press inquiry too far; for it was observed that all the men who had accompanied Crux were young and powerful fellows, well armed with rifle and revolver.

At last however, the work was finished, and the mystery was cleared up, for, one fine morning, the new store was opened as a drinking and gambling saloon; and that same evening the place was in full swing --  sending forth the shouts, songs, cursing and demoniac laughter for which such places are celebrated.

Consternation filled the hearts of the community, for it was not only the men brought there by Crux who kept up their revels in the new saloon, but a sprinkling of the spirited young fellows of the town also, who had never been very enthusiastic in the temperance cause, and were therefore prepared to fall before the first temptation.

At a conference of the chief men of the town it was resolved to try to induce Crux to quit quietly, and for this end to offer to buy up his stock-in-trade. Hunky Ben, being an old acquaintance, was requested to go to the store as a deputation.

But the ex-cowboy was inexorable. Neither the offer of money nor argument had any effect on him.

"Well, Crux," said the scout, at the conclusion of his visit, "you know your own affairs best but, rememberin' as I do, what you used to be, I thought there was more of fair-play about you."

"Fair-play! What d'ye mean?"

"I mean that when folk let you alone, you used to be willin' to let them alone. Here has a crowd o' people come back all this way into the Rockies to escape from the curse o' strong drink and gamblin', an' here has Crux -- a lover o' fair-play -- come all this way to shove that curse right under their noses. I'd thowt better of ye, Crux, lad."

"It don't matter much what you thowt o' me, old man," returned the cowboy, somewhat sharply; "an', as to fair-play, there's a lot of men here who don't agree wi' your humbuggin' notions about temperance an' tee-totalism -- more of 'em, maybe, than you think. These want to have the drink, an' I've come to give it 'em. I see nothin' unfair in that."

Hunky Ben carried his report back to the council, which for some time discussed the situation. As in the case of most councils, there was some difference of opinion: a few of the members being inclined to carry things with a high hand -- being urged thereto by Captain Stride -- while others, influenced chiefly by Mr Reeves, were anxious to try peaceable means.

At last a sub-committee was appointed, at Hunky Ben's suggestion, to consider the whole matter, and take what steps seemed advisable. Hunky was an adroit and modest man -- he could not have been a first-rate scout otherwise! He managed not only to become convener of the committee, but succeeded in getting men chiefly of his own opinion placed on it. At supper that night in Charlie's cottage, while enjoying May's cookery and presence, and waited on by the amused and interested Buttercup, the sub-committee discussed and settled the plan of operations.

"It's all nonsense," said Hunky Ben, "to talk of tryin' to persuade Crux. He's as obstinate as a Texas mule wi' the toothache."

"Rubbish!" exclaimed Captain Stride, smiting the table with his fist. "We mustn't parley with him, but heave him overboard at once! I said so to my missus this very day. 'Maggie,' says I -- "

"And what do you think, Charlie?" asked Mr Crossley.

"I think with Hunky Ben, of course. He knows Crux, and what is best to be done in the circumstances. The only thing that perplexes me, is what shall we do with the liquor when we've paid for it? A lot of it is good wine and champagne, and, although useless as a beverage, it is useful as a medicine, and might be given to hospitals."

"Pour it out!" exclaimed Shank, almost fiercely.

"Ay, the hospitals can look out for themselves," added Shank's father warmly.

"Some hospitals, I've bin told, git on well enough without it altogether," said Dick Darvall. "However, it's a subject that desarves consideration. -- Hallo! Buttercup, what is it that tickles your fancy an' makes your mouth stretch out like that?"

Buttercup became preternaturally grave on the instant, but declined to tell what it was that tickled her fancy.

Shortly after the party rose and left the house, Hunky Ben remarking, with a quiet laugh, that deeds of darkness were best hatched at night.

What the conspirators hatched became pretty evident next day, for, during the breakfast hour, a band of forty horsemen rode slowly down the sloping road which led to the plains, and on the side of which Crux had built his saloon.

Crux and his men turned out in some surprise to watch the cavalcade as it passed. The band was led by Charlie Brooke, and the scout rode in advance on Black Polly as guide.

"Is it the Reds or the Buffalo you're after to-day, Hunky, with such a big crowd?" asked Crux.

"Halt!" cried Charlie, at that moment.

The forty men obeyed, and, turning suddenly to the left, faced the saloon.

"Hands up!" said Charlie, whose men at the same moment pointed their rifles at Crux and his men. These were all too familiar with the order to dare to disobey it.

Our hero then ordered a small detachment of his men to enter the saloon and fetch out all rifles and pistols, and those of Crux's people who chanced to have their weapons about them, were disarmed. Another detachment went off to the stables behind the saloon.

While they were thus engaged, Charlie addressed Crux.

"We have decided to expel you, Crux, from this town," he said, as he drew an envelope from his pocket. "We have tried to convince you that, as the majority of the people here don't want you, it is your duty to go. As you don't seem to see this, we now take the law into our own hands. We love fair-play, however, so you will find in this envelope a cheque which we have reason to believe is fully equal to the value of your saloon and all its contents. Your lost time and trouble is your own affair. As you came without invitation, you must go without compensation. Here are your rifles, and revolvers, emptied of cartridges, and there are your horses saddled."

As he spoke, one detachment of his men handed rifles and revolvers to the party, who were stricken dumb with amazement. At the same time, their horses, saddled and bridled, were led to the front and delivered to them.

"We have no provisions," said Crux, at last recovering the use of his tongue; "and without ammunition we cannot procure any."

"That has been provided for," said our hero, turning to Hunky Ben.

"Ay, Crux," said the scout, "we don't want to starve you, though the 'arth wouldn't lose much if we did. At the other end o' the lake, about five mile from here, you'll find a red rag flyin' at the branch of a tree. In the hole of a rock close beside it, you'll find three days' provisions for you and your men, an' a lot of ammunition."

"Now, mount and go," said Charlie, "and if you ever show face here again, except as friends, your blood be on your own heads!"

Crux did not hesitate. He and his men saw that the game was up; without another word they mounted their horses and galloped away.

While this scene was being enacted a dark creature, with darker designs, entered the drinking saloon and descended to the cellar. Finding a spirit-cask with a tap in it, Buttercup turned it on, then, pulling a match-box out of her pocket she muttered, "I t'ink de hospitals won't git much ob it!" and applied a light. The effect was more powerful than she had expected. The spirit blazed up with sudden fury, singeing off the girl's eyebrows and lashes, and almost blinding her. In her alarm Buttercup dashed up to the saloon, missed her way, and found herself on the stair leading to the upper floor. A cloud of smoke and fire forced her to rush up. She went to the window and yelled, on observing that it was far too high to leap. She rushed to another window and howled in horror, for escape was apparently impossible.

Charlie heard the howl. He and his men had retired to a safe distance when the fire was first observed -- thinking the place empty -- but the howl touched a chord in our hero's sympathetic breast, which was ever ready to vibrate. From whom the howl proceeded mattered little or nothing to Charlie Brooke. Sufficient that it was the cry of a living being in distress. He sprang at once through the open doorway of the saloon, through which was issuing a volume of thick smoke, mingled with flame.

"God help him! the place'll blow up in a few minutes," cried Hunky Ben, losing, for once, his imperturbable coolness, and rushing wildly after his friend. But at that moment the thick smoke burst into fierce flame and drove him back.

Charlie sprang up the staircase three steps at a time, holding his breath to avoid suffocation. He reached the landing, where Buttercup ran, or, rather, fell, almost fainting, into his arms. At the moment an explosion in the cellar shook the building to its foundation, and, shattering one of the windows, caused a draught of air to drive aside the smoke. Charlie gasped a mouthful of air and looked round. Flames were by that time roaring up the only staircase. A glance from the nearest window showed that a leap thence meant broken limbs, if not death, to both. A ladder up to a trap-door suggested an exit by the roof. It might only lead to a more terrible leap, but meanwhile it offered relief from imminent suffocation. Charlie bore the half-dead girl to the top rung, and found the trap-door padlocked, but a thrust from his powerful shoulder wrenched hasp and padlock from their hold, and next moment a wild cheer greeted him as he stood on a corner of the gable. But a depth of forty or fifty feet was below him with nothing to break his fall to the hard earth.

"Jump!" yelled one of the onlookers. "No, don't!" cried another, "you'll be killed."

"Hold your noise," roared Hunky Ben, "and lend a hand here -- sharp! -- the house'll blow up in a minute."

He ran as he spoke towards a cart which was partly filled with hay. Seizing the trams he raised them. Willing hands helped, and the cart was run violently up against the gable -- Hunky shouting to some of the men to fetch more hay.

But there was no time for that. Another explosion took place inside the building, which Charlie knew must have driven in the sides of more casks and let loose fresh fuel. A terrible roar, followed by ominous cracking of the roof, warned him that there was no time to lose. He looked steadily at the cart for a moment and leaped. His friends held their breath as the pair descended. The hay would not have sufficed to break the fall sufficiently, but happily the cart was an old one. When they came down on it like a thunderbolt, the bottom gave way. Crashing through it the pair came to the ground, heavily indeed, but uninjured!

The fall, which almost stunned our hero, had the curious effect of reviving Buttercup, for she muttered something to the effect that, "dat was a mos' drefful smash," as they conveyed her and her rescuer from the vicinity of danger.

This had scarcely been done when the house blew up -- its walls were driven outwards, its roof was blown off, its bottles were shattered, all its baleful contents were scattered around, and, amid an appropriate hurricane of blue fire, that drinking and gambling saloon was blown to atoms.

Would that a like fate might overtake every similar establishment in the world!

This was the first and last attempt to disturb the peace of Sweetwater Bluff. It is said, indeed, that Crux and some of his men did, long afterwards, make their appearance in that happy and flourishing town, but they came as reformed men, not as foes -- men who had found out that in very truth sobriety tends to felicity, that honesty is the best policy, and that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.

<eob>

The Pink Fairy Book

By

Andrew Lang



The Cat's Elopement

[From the Japanische Marchen und Sagen, von David Brauns (Leipzig: Wilhelm Friedrich).]


Once upon a time there lived a cat of marvellous beauty, with a skin as soft and shining as silk, and wise green eyes, that could see even in the dark. His name was Gon, and he belonged to a music teacher, who was so fond and proud of him that he would not have parted with him for anything in the world.

Now not far from the music master's house there dwelt a lady who possessed a most lovely little pussy cat called Koma. She was such a little dear altogether, and blinked her eyes so daintily, and ate her supper so tidily, and when she had finished she licked her pink nose so delicately with her little tongue, that her mistress was never tired of saying, 'Koma, Koma, what should I do without you?'

Well, it happened one day that these two, when out for an evening stroll, met under a cherry tree, and in one moment fell madly in love with each other. Gon had long felt that it was time for him to find a wife, for all the ladies in the neighbourhood paid him so much attention that it made him quite shy; but he was not easy to please, and did not care about any of them. Now, before he had time to think, Cupid had entangled him in his net, and he was filled with love towards Koma. She fully returned his passion, but, like a woman, she saw the difficulties in the way, and consulted sadly with Gon as to the means of overcoming them. Gon entreated his master to set matters right by buying Koma, but her mistress would not part from her. Then the music master was asked to sell Gon to the lady, but he declined to listen to any such suggestion, so everything remained as before.

At length the love of the couple grew to such a pitch that they determined to please themselves, and to seek their fortunes together. So one moonlight night they stole away, and ventured out into an unknown world. All day long they marched bravely on through the sunshine, till they had left their homes far behind them, and towards evening they found themselves in a large park. The wanderers by this time were very hot and tired, and the grass looked very soft and inviting, and the trees cast cool deep shadows, when suddenly an ogre appeared in this Paradise, in the shape of a big, big dog! He came springing towards them showing all his teeth, and Koma shrieked, and rushed up a cherry tree. Gon, however, stood his ground boldly, and prepared to give battle, for he felt that Koma's eyes were upon him, and that he must not run away. But, alas! his courage would have availed him nothing had his enemy once touched him, for he was large and powerful, and very fierce. From her perch in the tree Koma saw it all, and screamed with all her might, hoping that some one would hear, and come to help. Luckily a servant of the princess to whom the park belonged was walking by, and he drove off the dog, and picking up the trembling Gon in his arms, carried him to his mistress.

So poor little Koma was left alone, while Gon was borne away full of trouble, not in the least knowing what to do. Even the attention paid him by the princess, who was delighted with his beauty and pretty ways, did not console him, but there was no use in fighting against fate, and he could only wait and see what would turn up.

The princess, Gon's new mistress, was so good and kind that everybody loved her, and she would have led a happy life, had it not been for a serpent who had fallen in love with her, and was constantly annoying her by his presence. Her servants had orders to drive him away as often as he appeared; but as they were careless, and the serpent very sly, it sometimes happened that he was able to slip past them, and to frighten the princess by appearing before her. One day she was seated in her room, playing on her favourite musical instrument, when she felt something gliding up her sash, and saw her enemy making his way to kiss her cheek. She shrieked and threw herself backwards, and Gon, who had been curled up on a stool at her feet, understood her terror, and with one bound seized the snake by his neck. He gave him one bite and one shake, and flung him on the ground, where he lay, never to worry the princess any more. Then she took Gon in her arms, and praised and caressed him, and saw that he had the nicest bits to eat, and the softest mats to lie on; and he would have had nothing in the world to wish for if only he could have seen Koma again.

Time passed on, and one morning Gon lay before the house door, basking in the sun. He looked lazily at the world stretched out before him, and saw in the distance a big ruffian of a cat teasing and ill-treating quite a little one. He jumped up, full of rage, and chased away the big cat, and then he turned to comfort the little one, when his heart nearly burst with joy to find that it was Koma. At first Koma did not know him again, he had grown so large and stately; but when it dawned upon her who it was, her happiness knew no bounds. And they rubbed their heads and their noses again and again, while their purring might have been heard a mile off.

Paw in paw they appeared before the princess, and told her the story of their life and its sorrows. The princess wept for sympathy, and promised that they should never more be parted, but should live with her to the end of their days. By-and-bye the princess herself got married, and brought a prince to dwell in the palace in the park. And she told him all about her two cats, and how brave Gon had been, and how he had delivered her from her enemy the serpent.

And when the prince heard, he swore they should never leave them, but should go with the princess wherever she went. So it all fell out as the princess wished; and Gon and Koma had many children, and so had the princess, and they all played together, and were friends to the end of their lives.



How the Dragon Was Tricked

From Griechtsche und Albanesische Marchen, von J. G. von Hahn. (Leipzig: Engelmann. 1864.)


Once upon a time there lived a man who had two sons but they did not get on at all well together, for the younger was much handsomer than his elder brother who was very jealous of him. When they grew older, things became worse and worse, and at last one day as they were walking through a wood the elder youth seized hold of the other, tied him to a tree, and went on his way hoping that the boy might starve to death.

However, it happened that an old and humpbacked shepherd passed the tree with his flock, and seeing the prisoner, he stopped and said to him, 'Tell me, my son why are you tied to that tree?'

'Because I was so crooked,' answered the young man; 'but it has quite cured me, and now my back is as straight as can be.'

'I wish you would bind me to a tree,' exclaimed the shepherd, 'so that my back would get straight.'

'With all the pleasure in life,' replied the youth. 'If you will loosen these cords I will tie you up with them as firmly as I can.'

This was soon done, and then the young man drove off the sheep, leaving their real shepherd to repent of his folly; and before he had gone very far he met with a horse boy and a driver of oxen, and he persuaded them to turn with him and to seek for adventures.

By these and many other tricks he soon became so celebrated that his fame reached the king's ears, and his majesty was filled with curiosity to see the man who had managed to outwit everybody. So he commanded his guards to capture the young man and bring him before him.

And when the young man stood before the king, the king spoke to him and said, 'By your tricks and the pranks that you have played on other people, you have, in the eye of the law, forfeited your life. But on one condition I will spare you, and that is, if you will bring me the flying horse that belongs to the great dragon. Fail in this, and you shall be hewn in a thousand pieces.'

'If that is all,' said the youth, 'you shall soon have it.'

So he went out and made his way straight to the stable where the flying horse was tethered. He stretched his hand cautiously out to seize the bridle, when the horse suddenly began to neigh as loud as he could. Now the room in which the dragon slept was just above the stable, and at the sound of the neighing he woke and cried to the horse, 'What is the matter, my treasure? is anything hurting you?' After waiting a little while the young man tried again to loose the horse, but a second time it neighed so loudly that the dragon woke up in a hurry and called out to know why the horse was making such a noise. But when the same thing happened the third time, the dragon lost his temper, and went down into the stable and took a whip and gave the horse a good beating. This offended the horse and made him angry, and when the young man stretched out his hand to untie his head, he made no further fuss, but suffered himself to be led quietly away. Once clear of the stable the young man sprang on his back and galloped off, calling over his shoulder, 'Hi! dragon! dragon! if anyone asks you what has become of your horse, you can say that I have got him!'


But the king said, 'The flying horse is all very well, but I want something more. You must bring me the covering with the little bells that lies on the bed of the dragon, or I will have you hewn into a thousand pieces.'

'Is that all?' answered the youth. 'That is easily done.'

And when night came he went away to the dragon's house and climbed up on to the roof. Then he opened a little window in the roof and let down the chain from which the kettle usually hung, and tried to hook the bed covering and to draw it up. But the little bells all began to ring, and the dragon woke and said to his wife, 'Wife, you have pulled off all the bed-clothes!' and drew the covering towards him, pulling, as he did so, the young man into the room. Then the dragon flung himself on the youth and bound him fast with cords saying as he tied the last knot, 'To-morrow when I go to church you must stay at home and kill him and cook him, and when I get back we will eat him together.'

So the following morning the dragoness took hold of the young man and reached down from the shelf a sharp knife with which to kill him. But as she untied the cords the better to get hold of him, the prisoner caught her by the legs, threw her to the ground, seized her and speedily cut her throat, just as she had been about to do for him, and put her body in the oven. Then he snatched up the covering and carried it to the king.

The king was seated on his throne when the youth appeared before him and spread out the covering with a deep bow. 'That is not enough,' said his majesty; 'you must bring me the dragon himself, or I will have you hewn into a thousand pieces.'

'It shall be done,' answered the youth; 'but you must give me two years to manage it, for my beard must grow so that he may not know me.'

'So be it,' said the king.

And the first thing the young man did when his beard was grown was to take the road to the dragon's house and on the way he met a beggar, whom he persuaded to change clothes with him, and in the beggar's garments he went fearlessly forth to the dragon.

He found his enemy before his house, very busy making a box, and addressed him politely, 'Good morning, your worship. Have you a morsel of bread?'

'You must wait,' replied the dragon, 'till I have finished my box, and then I will see if I can find one.'

'What will you do with the box when it is made?' inquired the beggar.

'It is for the young man who killed my wife, and stole my flying horse and my bed covering,' said the dragon.


'He deserves nothing better,' answered the beggar, 'for it was an ill deed. Still that box is too small for him, for he is a big man.'

'You are wrong,' said the dragon. 'The box is large enough even for me.'

'Well, the rogue is nearly as tall as you,' replied the beggar, 'and, of course, if you can get in, he can. But I am sure you would find it a tight fit.'

'No, there is plenty of room,' said the dragon, tucking himself carefully inside.

But no sooner was he well in, than the young man clapped on the lid and called out, 'Now press hard, just to see if he will be able to get out.'

The dragon pressed as hard as he could, but the lid never moved.

'It is all right,' he cried; 'now you can open it.'

But instead of opening it, the young man drove in long nails to make it tighter still; then he took the box on his back and brought it to the king. And when the king heard that the dragon was inside, he was so excited that he would not wait one moment, but broke the lock and lifted the lid just a little way to make sure he was really there. He was very careful not to leave enough space for the dragon to jump out, but unluckily there was just room for his great mouth, and with one snap the king vanished down his wide red jaws. Then the young man married the king's daughter and ruled over the land, but what he did with the dragon nobody knows.



The Goblin and the Grocer

Translated from the German of Hans Andersen.


There was once a hard-working student who lived in an attic, and he had nothing in the world of his own. There was also a hard-working grocer who lived on the first floor, and he had the whole house for his own.

The Goblin belonged to him, for every Christmas Eve there was waiting for him at the grocer's a dish of jam with a large lump of butter in the middle.

The grocer could afford this, so the Goblin stayed in the grocer's shop; and this teaches us a good deal. One evening the student came in by the back door to buy a candle and some cheese; he had no one to send, so he came himself.


He got what he wanted, paid for it, and nodded a good evening to the grocer and his wife (she was a woman who could do more than nod; she could talk).

When the student had said good night he suddenly stood still, reading the sheet of paper in which the cheese had been wrapped.

It was a leaf torn out of an old book -- a book of poetry

'There's more of that over there!' said the grocer 'I gave an old woman some coffee for the book. If you like to give me twopence you can have the rest.'

'Yes,' said the student, 'give me the book instead of the cheese. I can eat my bread without cheese. It would be a shame to leave the book to be torn up. You are a clever and practical man, but about poetry you understand as much as that old tub over there!'

And that sounded rude as far as the tub was concerned, but the grocer laughed, and so did the student. It was only said in fun.

But the Goblin was angry that anyone should dare to say such a thing to a grocer who owned the house and sold the best butter.

When it was night and the shop was shut, and everyone was in bed except the student, the Goblin went upstairs and took the grocer's wife's tongue. She did not use it when she was asleep, and on whatever object in the room he put it that thing began to speak, and spoke out its thoughts and feelings just as well as the lady to whom it belonged. But only one thing at a time could use it, and that was a good thing, or they would have all spoken together.

The Goblin laid the tongue on the tub in which were the old newspapers.

'Is it true,' he asked, ' that you know nothing about poetry?'

'Certainly not!' answered the tub. 'Poetry is something that is in the papers, and that is frequently cut out. I have a great deal more in me than the student has, and yet I am only a small tub in the grocer's shop.'

And the Goblin put the tongue on the coffee-mill, and how it began to grind! He put it on the butter-cask, and on the till, and all were of the same opinion as the waste-paper tub. and one must believe the majority.

'Now I will tell the student!' and with these words he crept softly up the stairs to the attic where the student lived.

There was a light burning, and the Goblin peeped through the key-hole and saw that he was reading the torn book that he had bought in the shop.


But how bright it was! Out of the book shot a streak of light which grew into a large tree and spread its branches far above the student. Every leaf was alive, and every flower was a beautiful girl's head, some with dark and shining eyes, others with wonderful blue ones. Every fruit was a glittering star, and there was a marvellous music in the student's room. The little Goblin had never even dreamt of such a splendid sight, much less seen it.

He stood on tiptoe gazing and gazing, till the candle in the attic was put out; the student had blown it out and had gone to bed, but the Goblin remained standing outside listening to the music, which very softly and sweetly was now singing the student a lullaby.

'I have never seen anything like this!' said the Goblin. 'I never expected this! I must stay with the student.'

The little fellow thought it over, for he was a sensible Goblin. Then he sighed, 'The student has no jam!'

And on that he went down to the grocer again. And it was a good thing that he did go back, for the tub had nearly worn out the tongue. It had read everything that was inside it, on the one side, and was just going to turn itself round and read from the other side when the Goblin came in and returned the tongue to its owner.

But the whole shop, from the till down to the shavings, from that night changed their opinion of the tub, and they looked up to it, and had such faith in it that they were under the impression that when the grocer read the art and drama critiques out of the paper in the evenings, it all came from the tub.

But the Goblin could no longer sit quietly listening to the wisdom and intellect downstairs. No, as soon as the light shone in the evening from the attic it seemed to him as though its beams were strong ropes dragging him up, and he had to go and peep through the key-hole. There he felt the sort of feeling we have looking at the great rolling sea in a storm, and he burst into tears. He could not himself say why he wept, but in spite of his tears he felt quite happy. How beautiful it must be to sit under that tree with the student, but that he could not do; he had to content himself with the key-hole and be happy there!

There he stood out on the cold landing, the autumn wind blowing through the cracks of the floor. It was cold -- very cold, but he first found it out when the light in the attic was put out and the music in the wood died away. Ah! then it froze him, and he crept down again into his warm corner; there it was comfortable and cosy.

When Christmas came, and with it the jam with the large lump of butter, ah! then the grocer was first with him.

But in the middle of the night the Goblin awoke, hearing a great noise and knocking against the shutters -- people hammering from outside. The watchman was blowing his horn: a great fire had broken out; the whole town was in flames.

Was it in the house? or was it at a neighbour's? Where was it?

The alarm increased. The grocer's wife was so terrified that she took her gold earrings out of her ears and put them in her pocket in order to save something. The grocer seized his account books. and the maid her black silk dress.

Everyone wanted to save his most valuable possession; so did the Goblin, and in a few leaps he was up the stairs and in the student's room. He was standing quietly by the open window looking at the fire that was burning in the neighbour's house just opposite. The Goblin seized the book lying on the table, put it in his red cap, and clasped it with both hands. The best treasure in the house was saved, and he climbed out on to the roof with it -- on to the chimney. There he sat, lighted up by the flames from the burning house opposite, both hands holding tightly on his red cap, in which lay the treasure; and now he knew what his heart really valued most -- to whom he really belonged. But when the fire was put out, and the Goblin thought it over -- then -- 

'I will divide myself between the two,' he said. 'I cannot quite give up the grocer, because of the jam!'

And it is just the same with us. We also cannot quite give up the grocer -- because of the jam.



The House in the Wood

From the German of Grimm.


A poor woodcutter lived with his wife and three daughters in a little hut on the borders of a great forest.

One morning as he was going to his work, he said to his wife, 'Let our eldest daughter bring me my lunch into the wood; and so that she shall not lose her way, I will take a bag of millet with me, and sprinkle the seed on the path.'

When the sun had risen high over the forest, the girl set out with a basin of soup. But the field and wood sparrows, the larks and finches, blackbirds and green finches had picked up the millet long ago, and the girl could not find her way.

She went on and on, till the sun set and night came on. The trees rustled in the darkness, the owls hooted, and she began to be very much frightened. Then she saw in tile distance a light that twinkled between the trees. 'There must be people living yonder,' she thought, 'who will take me in for the night,' and she began walking towards it.

Not long afterwards she came to a house with lights in the windows.

She knocked at the door, and a gruff voice called, 'Come in!'

The girl stepped into the dark entrance, and tapped at the door of the room.

'Just walk in,' cried the voice, and when she opened the door there sat an old gray-haired man at the table. His face was resting on his hands, and his white beard flowed over the table almost down to the ground.

By the stove lay three beasts, a hen, a cock, and a brindled cow. The girl told the old man her story, and asked for a night's lodging.

The man said:

Pretty cock, Pretty hen, And you, pretty brindled cow, What do you say now?

'Duks,' answered the beasts; and that must have meant, 'We are quite willing,' for the old man went on, 'Here is abundance; go into the back kitchen and cook us a supper.'

The girl found plenty of everything in the kitchen, and cooked a good meal, but she did not think of the beasts.

She placed the full dishes on the table, sat down opposite the gray-haired man, and ate till her hunger was appeased.

When she was satisfied, she said, 'But now I am so tired, where is a bed in which I can sleep? '

The beasts answered:

You have eaten with him, You have drunk with him, Of us you have not thought, Sleep then as you ought!

Then the old man said, 'Go upstairs, and there you will find a bedroom; shake the bed, and put clean sheets on, and go to sleep.'

The maiden went upstairs, and when she had made the bed, she lay down.

After some time the gray-haired man came, looked at her by the light of his candle, and shook his head. And when he saw that she was sound asleep, he opened a trapdoor and let her fall into the cellar.

The woodcutter came home late in the evening, and reproached his wife for leaving him all day without food.

'No, I did not,' she answered; 'the girl went off with your dinner. She must have lost her way, but will no doubt come back to-morrow.'

But at daybreak the woodcutter started off into the wood, and this time asked his second daughter to bring his food.

'I will take a bag of lentils,' said he; 'they are larger than millet, and the girl will see them better and be sure to find her way.'

At midday the maiden took the food, but the lentils had all gone; as on the previous day, the wood birds had eaten them all.

The maiden wandered about the wood till nightfall, when she came in the same way to the old man's house, and asked for food and a night's lodging.

The man with the white hair again asked the beasts:

Pretty cock, Pretty hen, And you, pretty brindled cow, What do you say now?

The beasts answered, 'Duks,' and everything happened as on the former day.

The girl cooked a good meal, ate and drank with the old man, and did not trouble herself about the animals.

And when she asked for a bed, they replied:

You have eaten with him You have drunk with him, Of us you have not thought,

Now sleep as you ought!

And when she was asleep, the old man shook his head over her, and let her fall into the cellar.

On the third morning the woodcutter said to his wife, 'Send our youngest child to-day with my dinner. She is always good and obedient, and will keep to the right path, and not wander away like her sisters, idle drones!'

But the mother said, 'Must I lose my dearest child too?'

'Do not fear,' he answered; 'she is too clever and intelligent to lose her way. I will take plenty of peas with me and strew them along; they are even larger than lentils, and will show her the way.'

But when the maiden started off with the basket on her arm, the wood pigeons had eaten up the peas, and she did not know which way to go. She was much distressed, and thought constantly of her poor hungry father and her anxious mother. At last, when it grew dark, she saw the little light, and came to the house in the wood. She asked prettily if she might stay there for the night, and the man with the white beard asked his beasts again:

Pretty cock, Pretty hen, And you, pretty brindled cow, What do you say now?

'Duks,' they said. Then the maiden stepped up to the stove where the animals were lying, and stroked the cock and the hen, and scratched the brindled cow between its horns.

And when at the bidding of the old man she had prepared a good supper, and the dishes were standing on the table, she said, 'Shall I have plenty while the good beasts have nothing? There is food to spare outside; I will attend to them first.'

Then she went out and fetched barley and strewed it before the cock and hen, and brought the cow an armful of sweet-smelling hay.

'Eat that, dear beasts,' she said,' and when you are thirsty you shall have a good drink.'

Then she fetched a bowl of water, and the cock and hen flew on to the edge, put their beaks in, and then held up their heads as birds do when they drink, and the brindled cow also drank her fill. When the beasts were satisfied, the maiden sat down beside the old man at the table and ate what was left for her. Soon the cock and hen began to tuck their heads under their wings, and the brindled cow blinked its eyes, so the maiden said, 'Shall we not go to rest now?'

Pretty cock, Pretty hen, And you, pretty brindled cow, What do you say now?

The animals said, 'Duks:

You have eaten with us, You have drunk with us, You have tended us right, So we wish you good night.'

The maiden therefore went upstairs, made the bed and put on clean sheets and fell asleep. She slept peacefully till midnight, when there was such a noise in the house that she awoke. Everything trembled and shook; the animals sprang up and dashed themselves in terror against the wall; the beams swayed as if they would be torn from their foundations, it seemed as if the stairs were tumbling down, and then the roof fell in with a crash. Then all became still, and as no harm came to the maiden she lay down again and fell asleep. But when she awoke again in broad daylight, what a sight met her eyes! She was lying in a splendid room furnished with royal splendour; the walls were covered with golden flowers on a green ground; the bed was of ivory and the counterpane of velvet, and on a stool near by lay a pair of slippers studded with pearls. The maiden thought she must be dreaming, but in came three servants richly dressed, who asked what were her commands. 'Go,' said the maiden, 'I will get up at once and cook the old man's supper for him, and then I will feed the pretty cock and hen and the brindled cow.'

But the door opened and in came a handsome young man, who said, 'I am a king's son, and was condemned by a wicked witch to live as an old man in this wood with no company but that of my three servants, who were transformed into a cock, a hen, and a brindled cow. The spell could only be broken by the arrival of a maiden who should show herself kind not only to men but to beasts. You are that maiden, and last night at midnight we were freed, and this poor house was again transformed into my royal palace.

As they stood there the king's son told his three servants to go and fetch the maiden's parents to be present at the wedding feast.

'But where are my two sisters?' asked the maid.

'I shut them up in the cellar, but in the morning they shall be led forth into the forest and shall serve a charcoal burner until they have improved, and will never again suffer poor animals to go hungry.'



Uraschimataro and the Turtle

From the Japanische Marchen und Sagen, von David Brauns (Leipzig: Wilhelm Friedrich).


There was once a worthy old couple who lived on the coast, and supported themselves by fishing. They had only one child, a son, who was their pride and joy, and for his sake they were ready to work hard all day long, and never felt tired or discontented with their lot. This son's name was Uraschimataro, which means in Japanese, 'Son of the island,' and he was a fine well-grown youth and a good fisherman, minding neither wind nor weather. Not the bravest sailor in the whole village dared venture so far out to sea as Uraschimataro, and many a time the neighbours used to shake their heads and say to his parents, 'If your son goes on being so rash, one day he will try his luck once too often, and the waves will end by swallowing him up.' But Uraschimataro paid no heed to these remarks, and as he was really very clever in managing a boat, the old people were very seldom anxious about him.

One beautiful bright morning, as he was hauling his well-filled nets into the boat, he saw lying among the fishes a tiny little turtle. He was delighted with his prize, and threw it into a wooden vessel to keep till he got home, when suddenly the turtle found its voice, and tremblingly begged for its life. 'After all,' it said, 'what good can I do you? I am so young and small, and I would so gladly live a little longer. Be merciful and set me free, and I shall know how to prove my gratitude.'

Now Uraschimataro was very good-natured, and besides, he could never bear to say no, so he picked up the turtle, and put it back into the sea.

Years flew by, and every morning Uraschimataro sailed his boat into the deep sea. But one day as he was making for a little bay between some rocks, there arose a fierce whirlwind, which shattered his boat to pieces, and she was sucked under by the waves. Uraschimataro himself very nearly shared the same fate. But he was a powerful swimmer, and struggled hard to reach the shore. Then he saw a large turtle coming towards him, and above the howling of the storm he heard what it said: 'I am the turtle whose life you once saved. I will now pay my debt and show my gratitude. The land is still far distant, and without my help you would never get there. Climb on my back, and I will take you where you will.' Uraschimataro did not wait to be asked twice, and thankfully accepted his friend's help. But scarcely was he seated firmly on the shell, when the turtle proposed that they should not return to the shore at once, but go under the sea, and look at some of the wonders that lay hidden there.

Uraschimataro agreed willingly, and in another moment they were deep, deep down, with fathoms of blue water above their heads. Oh, how quickly they darted through the still, warm sea! The young man held tight, and marvelled where they were going and how long they were to travel, but for three days they rushed on, till at last the turtle stopped before a splendid palace, shining with gold and silver, crystal and precious stones, and decked here and there with branches of pale pink coral and glittering pearls. But if Uraschimataro was astonished at the beauty of the outside, he was struck dumb at the sight of the hall within, which was lighted by the blaze of fish scales.

'Where have you brought me?' he asked his guide in a low voice.

'To the palace of Ringu, the house of the sea god, whose subjects we all are,' answered the turtle. 'I am the first waiting maid of his daughter, the lovely princess Otohime, whom you will shortly see.'

Uraschimataro was still so puzzled with the adventures that had befallen him, that he waited in a dazed condition for what would happen next. But the turtle, who had talked so much of him to the princess that she had expressed a wish to see him, went at once to make known his arrival. And directly the princess beheld him her heart was set on him, and she begged him to stay with her, and in return promised that he should never grow old, neither should his beauty fade. 'Is not that reward enough?' she asked, smiling, looking all the while as fair as the sun itself. And Uraschimataro said 'Yes,' and so he stayed there. For how long? That he only knew later.

His life passed by, and each hour seemed happier than the last, when one day there rushed over him a terrible longing to see his parents. He fought against it hard, knowing how it would grieve the princess, but it grew on him stronger and stronger, till at length he became so sad that the princess inquired what was wrong. Then he told her of the longing he had to visit his old home, and that he must see his parents once more. The princess was almost frozen with horror, and implored him to stay with her, or something dreadful would be sure to happen. 'You will never come back, and we shall meet again no more,' she moaned bitterly. But Uraschimataro stood firm and repeated, 'Only this once will I leave you, and then will I return to your side for ever.' Sadly the princess shook her head, but she answered slowly, 'One way there is to bring you safely back, but I fear you will never agree to the conditions of the bargain.'

'I will do anything that will bring me back to you,' exclaimed Uraschimataro, looking at her tenderly, but the princess was silent: she knew too well that when he left her she would see his face no more. Then she took from a shelf a tiny golden box, and gave it to Uraschimataro, praying him to keep it carefully, and above all things never to open it. 'If you can do this,' she said as she bade him farewell, 'your friend the turtle will meet you at the shore, and will carry you back to me.'

Uraschimataro thanked her from his heart, and swore solemnly to do her bidding. He hid the box safely in his garments, seated himself on the back of the turtle, and vanished in the ocean path, waving his hand to the princess. Three days and three nights they swam through the sea, and at length Uraschimataro arrived at the beach which lay before his old home. The turtle bade him farewell, and was gone in a moment.

Uraschimataro drew near to the village with quick and joyful steps. He saw the smoke curling through the roof, and the thatch where green plants had thickly sprouted. He heard the children shouting and calling, and from a window that he passed came the twang of the koto, and everything seemed to cry a welcome for his return. Yet suddenly he felt a pang at his heart as he wandered down the street. After all, everything was changed. Neither men nor houses were those he once knew. Quickly he saw his old home; yes, it was still there, but it had a strange look. Anxiously he knocked at the door, and asked the woman who opened it after his parents. But she did not know their names, and could give him no news of them.

Still more disturbed, he rushed to the burying ground, the only place that could tell him what he wished to know. Here at any rate he would find out what it all meant. And he was right. In a moment he stood before the grave of his parents, and the date written on the stone was almost exactly the date when they had lost their son, and he had forsaken them for the Daughter of the Sea. And so he found that since he had deft his home, three hundred years had passed by.


Shuddering with horror at his discovery he turned back into the village street, hoping to meet some one who could tell him of the days of old. But when the man spoke, he knew he was not dreaming, though he felt as if he had lost his senses.

In despair he bethought him of the box which was the gift of the princess. Perhaps after all this dreadful thing was not true. He might be the victim of some enchanter's spell, and in his hand lay the counter-charm. Almost unconsciously he opened it, and a purple vapour came pouring out. He held the empty box in his hand, and as he looked he saw that the fresh hand of youth had grown suddenly shrivelled, like the hand of an old, old man. He ran to the brook, which flowed in a clear stream down from the mountain. and saw himself reflected as in a mirror. It was the face of a mummy which looked back at him. Wounded to death, he crept back through the village, and no man knew the old, old man to be the strong handsome youth who had run down the street an hour before. So he toiled wearily back, till he reached the shore, and here he sat sadly on a rock, and called loudly on the turtle. But she never came back any more, but instead, death came soon, and set him free. But before that happened, the people who saw him sitting lonely on the shore had heard his story, and when their children were restless they used to tell them of the good son who from love to his parents had given up for their sakes the splendour and wonders of the palace in the sea, and the most beautiful woman in the world besides.



The Slaying of the Tanuki

From the Japanische Murchen und Sagen.


Near a big river, and between two high mountains, a man and his wife lived in a cottage a long, long time ago. A dense forest lay all round the cottage, and there was hardly a path or a tree in the whole wood that was not familiar to the peasant from his boyhood. In one of his wanderings he had made friends with a hare, and many an hour the two passed together, when the man was resting by the roadside, eating his dinner.

Now this strange friendship was observed by the Tanuki, a wicked, quarrelsome beast, who hated the peasant, and was never tired of doing him an ill turn. Again and again he had crept to the hut, and finding some choice morsel put away for the little hare, had either eaten it if he thought it nice, or trampled it to pieces so that no one else should get it, and at last the peasant lost patience, and made up his mind he would have the Tanuki's blood.

So for many days the man lay hidden, waiting for the Tanuki to come by, and when one morning he marched up the road thinking of nothing but the dinner he was going to steal, the peasant threw himself upon him and bound his four legs tightly, so that he could not move. Then he dragged his enemy joyfully to the house, feeling that at length he had got the better of the mischievous beast which had done him so many ill turns. 'He shall pay for them with his skin,' he said to his wife. 'We will first kill him, and then cook him.' So saying, he hanged the Tanuki, head downwards, to a beam, and went out to gather wood for a fire.

Meanwhile the old woman was standing at the mortar pounding the rise that was to serve them for the week with a pestle that made her arms ache with its weight. Suddenly she heard something whining and weeping in the corner, and, stopping her work, she looked round to see what it was. That was all that the rascal wanted, and he put on directly his most humble air, and begged the woman in his softest voice to loosen his bonds, which her hurting him sorely. She was filled with pity for him, but did not dare to set him free, as she knew that her husband would be very angry. The Tanuki, however, did not despair, and seeing that her heart was softened, began his prayers anew. 'He only asked to have his bonds taken from him,' he said. 'He would give his word not to attempt to escape, and if he was once set free he could soon pound her rice for her.' 'Then you can have a little rest,' he went on, 'for rice pounding is very tiring work, and not at all fit for weak women.' These last words melted the good woman completely, and she unfastened the bonds that held him. Poor foolish creature! In one moment the Tanuki had seized her, stripped off all her clothes, and popped her in the mortar. In a few minutes more she was pounded as fine as the rice; and not content with that, the Tanuki placed a pot on the hearth and made ready to cook the peasant a dinner from the flesh of his own wife!

When everything was complete he looked out of the door, and saw the old man coming from the forest carrying a large bundle of wood. Quick as lightning the Tanuki not only put on the woman's clothes, but, as he was a magician, assumed her form as well. Then he took the wood, kindled the fire, and very soon set a large dinner before the old man, who was very hungry, and had forgotten for the moment all about his enemy. But when the Tanuki saw that he had eaten his fill and would be thinking about his prisoner, he hastily shook off the clothes behind a door and took his own shape. Then he said to the peasant, 'You are a nice sort of person to seize animals and to talk of killing them! You are caught in your own net. It is your own wife that you have eaten, and if you want to find her bones you have only to look under the floor.' With these words he turned and made for the forest.

The old peasant grew cold with horror as he listened, and seemed frozen to the place where he stood. When he had recovered himself a little, he collected the bones of his dead wife, buried them in the garden, and swore over the grave to be avenged on the Tanuki. After everything was done he sat himself down in his lonely cottage and wept bitterly, and the bitterest thought of all was that he would never be able to forget that he had eaten his own wife.

While he was thus weeping and wailing his friend the hare passed by, and, hearing the noise, pricked up his ears and soon recognised the old man's voice. He wondered what had happened, and put his head in at the door and asked if anything was the matter. With tears and groans the peasant told him the whole dreadful story, and the hare, filled with anger and compassion, comforted him as best he could, and promised to help him in his revenge. 'The false knave shall not go unpunished,' said he.

So the first thing he did was to search the house for materials to make an ointment, which he sprinkled plentifully with pepper and then put in his pocket. Next he took a hatchet, bade farewell to the old man, and departed to the forest. He bent his steps to the dwelling of the Tanuki and knocked at the door. The Tanuki, who had no cause to suspect the hare, was greatly pleased to see him, for he noticed the hatchet at once, and began to lay plots how to get hold of it.

To do this he thought he had better offer to accompany the hare, which was exactly what the hare wished and expected, for he knew all the Tanuki's cunning, and understood his little ways. So he accepted the rascal's company with joy, and made himself very pleasant as they strolled along. When they were wandering in this manner through the forest the hare carelessly raised his hatchet in passing, and cut down some thick boughs that were hanging over the path, but at length, after cutting down a good big tree, which cost him many hard blows, he declared that it was too heavy for him to carry home, and he must just leave it where it was. This delighted the greedy Tanuki, who said that they would be no weight for him, so they collected the large branches, which the hare bound tightly on his back. Then he trotted gaily to the house, the hare following after with his lighter bundle.

By this time the hare had decided what he would do, and as soon as they arrived, he quietly set on fire the wood on the back of the Tanuki. The Tanuki, who was busy with something else, observed nothing, and only called out to ask what was the meaning of the crackling that he heard. 'It is just the rattle of the stones which are rolling down the side of the mountain,' the hare said; and the Tanuki was content, and made no further remarks, never noticing that the noise really sprang from the burning boughs on his back, until his fur was in flames, and it was almost too late to put it out. Shrieking with pain, he let fall the burning wood from his back, and stamped and howled with agony. But the hare comforted him, and told him that he always carried with him an excellent plaster in case of need, which would bring him instant relief, and taking out his ointment he spread it on a leaf of bamboo, and laid it on the wound. No sooner did it touch him than the Tanuki leapt yelling into the air, and the hare laughed, and ran to tell his friend the peasant what a trick he had played on their enemy. But the old man shook his head sadly, for he knew that the villain was only crushed for the moment, and that he would shortly be revenging himself upon them. No, the only way every to get any peace and quiet was to render the Tanuki harmless for ever. Long did the old man and the hare puzzle together how this was to be done, and at last they decided that they would make two boats, a small one of wood and a large one of clay. Then they fell to work at once, and when the boats were ready and properly painted, the hare went to the Tanuki, who was still very ill, and invited him to a great fish-catching. The Tanuki was still feeling angry with the hare about the trick he had played him, but he was weak and very hungry, so he gladly accepted the proposal, and accompanied the hare to the bank of the river, where the two boats were moored, rocked by the waves. They both looked exactly alike, and the Tanuki only saw that one was bigger than the other, and would hold more fish, so he sprang into the large one, while the hare climbed into the one which was made of wood. They loosened their moorings, and made for the middle of the stream, and when they were at some distance from the bank, the hare took his oar, and struck such a heavy blow at the other boat, that it broke in two. The Tanuki fell straight into the water, and was held there by the hare till he was quite dead. Then he put the body in his boat and rowed to land, and told the old man that his enemy was dead at last. And the old man rejoiced that his wife was avenged, and he took the hare into his house, and they lived together all their days in peace and quietness upon the mountain.



The Flying Trunk

Translated from the German of Hans Andersen.


There was once a merchant who was so rich that he could have paved the whole street, and perhaps even a little side-street besides, with silver. But he did not do that; he knew another way of spending his money. If he spent a shilling he got back a florin-such an excellent merchant he was till he died.

Now his son inherited all this money. He lived very merrily; he went every night to the theatre, made paper kites out of five-pound notes, and played ducks and drakes with sovereigns instead of stones. In this way the money was likely to come soon to an end, and so it did.

At last he had nothing left but four shillings, and he had no clothes except a pair of slippers and an old dressing-gown.

His friends did not trouble themselves any more about him; they would not even walk down the street with him.

But one of them who was rather good-natured sent him an old trunk with the message, 'Pack up!" That was all very well, but he had nothing to pack up, so he got into the trunk himself.

It was an enchanted trunk, for as soon as the lock was pressed it could fly. He pressed it, and away he flew in it up the chimney, high into the clouds, further and further away. But whenever the bottom gave a little creak he was in terror lest the trunk should go to pieces, for then he would have turned a dreadful somersault-just think of it!

In this way he arrived at the land of the Turks. He hid the trunk in a wood under some dry leaves, and then walked into the town. He could do that quite well, for all the Turks were dressed just as he was-in a dressing-gown and slippers.

He met a nurse with a little child.

'Halloa! you Turkish nurse,' said he, 'what is that great castle there close to the town? The one with the windows so high up?'

'The sultan's daughter lives there,' she replied. 'It is prophesied that she will be very unlucky in her husband, and so no one is allowed to see her except when the sultan and sultana are by.'

'Thank you,' said the merchant's son, and he went into the wood, sat himself in his trunk, flew on to the roof, and crept through the window into the princess's room.

She was lying on the sofa asleep, and was so beautiful that the young merchant had to kiss her. Then she woke up and was very much frightened, but he said he was a Turkish god who had come through the air to see her, and that pleased her very much.

They sat close to each other, and he told her a story about her eyes. They were beautiful dark lakes in which her thoughts swam about like mermaids. And her forehead was a snowy mountain, grand and shining. These were lovely stories.

Then he asked the princess to marry him, and she said yes at once.

'But you must come here on Saturday,' she said, 'for then the sultan and the sultana are coming to tea with me. They will be indeed proud that I receive the god of the Turks. But mind you have a really good story ready, for my parents like them immensely. My mother likes something rather moral and high-flown, and my father likes something merry to make him laugh.'

'Yes, I shall only bring a fairy story for my dowry,' said he, and so they parted. But the princess gave him a sabre set with gold pieces which he could use.

Then he flew away, bought himself a new dressing-gown, and sat down in the wood and began to make up a story, for it had to be ready by Saturday, and that was no easy matter.

When he had it ready it was Saturday.

The sultan, the sultana, and the whole court were at tea with the princess.

He was most graciously received.

'Will you tell us a story?' said the sultana; 'one that is thoughtful and instructive?'

'But something that we can laugh at,' said the sultan.

'Oh, certainly,' he replied, and began: 'Now, listen attentively. There was once a box of matches which lay between a tinder-box and an old iron pot, and they told the story of their youth.

'"We used to be on the green fir-boughs. Every morning and evening we had diamond-tea, which was the dew, and the whole day long we had sunshine, and the little birds used to tell us stories. We were very rich, because the other trees only dressed in summer, but we had green dresses in summer and in winter. Then the woodcutter came, and our family was split up. We have now the task of making light for the lowest people. That is why we grand people are in the kitchen."

'"My fate was quite different," said the iron pot, near which the matches lay.

'"Since I came into the world I have been many times scoured, and have cooked much. My only pleasure is to have a good chat with my companions when I am lying nice and clean in my place after dinner."

'"Now you are talking too fast," spluttered the fire.

'"Yes, let us decide who is the grandest!" said the matches.

'"No, I don't like talking about myself," said the pot.

'"Let us arrange an evening's entertainment. I will tell the story of my life.

'"On the Baltic by the Danish shore-"

'What a beautiful beginning!" said all the plates. "That's a story that will please us all."

'And the end was just as good as the beginning. All the plates clattered for joy.

'"Now I will dance," said the tongs, and she danced. Oh! how high she could kick!

'The old chair-cover in the corner split when he saw her.

'The urn would have sung but she said she had a cold; she could not sing unless she boiled.

'In the window was an old quill pen. There was nothing remarkable about her except that she had been dipped too deeply into the ink. But she was very proud of that.

'"If the urn will not sing," said she, "outside the door hangs a nightingale in a cage who will sing."

'"I don't think it's proper," said the kettle, "that such a foreign bird should be heard."

'"Oh, let us have some acting," said everyone. "Do let us!"

'Suddenly the door opened and the maid came in. Everyone was quite quiet. There was not a sound. But each pot knew what he might have done, and how grand he was.

'The maid took the matches and lit the fire with them. How they spluttered and flamed, to be sure! "Now everyone can see," they thought, "that we are the grandest! How we sparkle! What a light-"

'But here they were burnt out.'

'That was a delightful story!' said the sultana. 'I quite feel myself in the kitchen with the matches. Yes, now you shall marry our daughter.'

'Yes, indeed,' said the sultan, 'you shall marry our daughter on Monday.' And they treated the young man as one of the family.

The wedding was arranged, and the night before the whole town was illuminated.

Biscuits and gingerbreads were thrown among the people, the street boys stood on tiptoe crying hurrahs and whistling through their fingers. It was all splendid.

'Now I must also give them a treat,' thought the merchant's son. And so he bought rockets, crackers, and all the kinds of fireworks you can think of, put them in his trunk, and flew up with them into the air.

Whirr-r-r, how they fizzed and blazed!

All the Turks jumped so high that their slippers flew above their heads; such a splendid glitter they had never seen before.

Now they could quite well understand that it was the god of the Turks himself who was to marry the princess.

As soon as the young merchant came down again into the wood with his trunk he thought, 'Now I will just go into the town to see how the show has taken.'

And it was quite natural that he should want to do this.

Oh! what stories the people had to tell!

Each one whom he asked had seen it differently, but they had all found it beautiful.

'I saw the Turkish god himself,' said one. 'He had eyes like glittering stars, and a beard like foaming water.'

'He flew away in a cloak of fire,' said another. They were splendid things that he heard, and the next day was to be his wedding day.

Then he went back into the wood to sit in his trunk; but what had become of it? The trunk had been burnt. A spark of the fireworks had set it alight, and the trunk was in ashes. He could no longer fly, and could never reach his bride.

She stood the whole day long on the roof and waited; perhaps she is waiting there still.

But he wandered through the world and told stories; though they are not so merry as the one he told about the matches.



The Snow-man

Translated from the German of Hans Andersen.


'How astonishingly cold it is! My body is cracking all over!' said the Snow-man. 'The wind is really cutting one's very life out! And how that fiery thing up there glares!' He meant the sun, which was just setting. 'It sha'n't make me blink, though, and I shall keep quite cool and collected.'

Instead of eyes he had two large three-cornered pieces of slate in his head; his mouth consisted of an old rake, so that he had teeth as well.

He was born amidst the shouts and laughter of the boys, and greeted by the jingling bells and cracking whips of the sledges.

The sun went down, the full moon rose, large, round, clear and beautiful, in the dark blue sky.

'There it is again on the other side!' said the Snow-man, by which he meant the sun was appearing again. 'I have become quite accustomed to its glaring. I hope it will hang there and shine, so that I may be able to see myself. I wish I knew, though, how one ought to see about changing one's position. I should very much like to move about. If I only could, I would glide up and down the ice there, as I saw the boys doing; but somehow or other, I don't know how to run.'

'Bow-wow!' barked the old yard-dog; he was rather hoarse and couldn't bark very well. His hoarseness came on when he was a house-dog and used to lie in front of the stove. 'The sun will soon teach you to run! I saw that last winter with your predecessor, and farther back still with his predecessors! They have all run away!'

'I don't understand you, my friend,' said the Snow-man. 'That thing up there is to teach me to run?' He meant the moon. 'Well, it certainly did run just now, for I saw it quite plainly over there, and now here it is on this side.'

'You know nothing at all about it,' said the yard-dog. 'Why, you have only just been made. The thing you see there is the moon; the other thing you saw going down the other side was the sun. He will come up again tomorrow morning, and will soon teach you how to run away down the gutter. The weather is going to change; I feel it already by the pain in my left hind-leg; the weather is certainly going to change.'

'I can't understand him,' said the Snow-man; 'but I have an idea that he is speaking of something unpleasant. That thing that glares so, and then disappears, the sun, as he calls it, is not my friend. I know that by instinct.'

'Bow-wow!' barked the yard-dog, and walked three times round himself, and then crept into his kennel to sleep. The weather really did change. Towards morning a dense damp fog lay over the whole neighbourhood; later on came an icy wind, which sent the frost packing. But when the sun rose, it was a glorious sight. The trees and shrubs were covered with rime, and looked like a wood of coral, and every branch was thick with long white blossoms. The most delicate twigs, which are lost among the foliage in summer-time, came now into prominence, and it was like a spider's web of glistening white. The lady-birches waved in the wind; and when the sun shone, everything glittered and sparkled as if it were sprinkled with diamond dust, and great diamonds were lying on the snowy carpet.

'Isn't it wonderful?' exclaimed a girl who was walking with a young man in the garden. They stopped near the Snow-man, and looked at the glistening trees. 'Summer cannot show a more beautiful sight,' she said, with her eyes shining.

'And one can't get a fellow like this in summer either,' said the young man, pointing to the Snow-man. 'He's a beauty!'

The girl laughed, and nodded to the Snow-man, and then they both danced away over the snow.

'Who were those two?' asked the Snow-man of the yard-dog. 'You have been in this yard longer than I have. Do you know who they are?'

'Do I know them indeed?' answered the yard-dog. 'She has often stroked me, and he has given me bones. I don't bite either of them!'

'But what are they?' asked the Snow-man.

'Lovers!' replied the yard-dog. 'They will go into one kennel and gnaw the same bone!'

'Are they the same kind of beings that we are?' asked the Snow-man.

'They are our masters,' answered the yard-dog. 'Really people who have only been in the world one day know very little.' That's the conclusion I have come to. Now I have age and wisdom; I know everyone in the house, and I can remember a time when I was not lying here in a cold kennel. Bow-wow!'

'The cold is splendid,' said the Snow-man. 'Tell me some more. But don't rattle your chain so, it makes me crack!'

'Bow-wow!' barked the yard-dog. 'They used to say I was a pretty little fellow; then I lay in a velvet-covered chair in my master's house. My mistress used to nurse me, and kiss and fondle me, and call me her dear, sweet little Alice! But by-and-by I grew too big, and I was given to the housekeeper, and I went into the kitchen. You can see into it from where you are standing; you can look at the room in which I was master, for so I was when I was with the housekeeper. Of course it was a smaller place than upstairs, but it was more comfortable, for I wasn't chased about and teased by the children as I had been before. My food was just as good, or even better. I had my own pillow, and there was a stove there, which at this time of year is the most beautiful thing in the world. I used to creep right under that stove. Ah me! I often dream of that stove still! Bow-wow!'

'Is a stove so beautiful?' asked the Snow-man. 'Is it anything like me?'

'It is just the opposite of you! It is coal-black, and has a long neck with a brass pipe. It eats firewood, so that fire spouts out of its mouth. One has to keep close beside it-quite underneath is the nicest of all. You can see it through the window from where you are standing.'

And the Snow-man looked in that direction, and saw a smooth polished object with a brass pipe. The flicker from the fire reached him across the snow. The Snow-man felt wonderfully happy, and a feeling came over him which he could not express; but all those who are not snow-men know about it.

'Why did you leave her?' asked the Snow-man. He had a feeling that such a being must be a lady. 'How could you leave such a place?'

'I had to!' said the yard-dog. 'They turned me out of doors, and chained me up here. I had bitten the youngest boy in the leg, because he took away the bone I was gnawing; a bone for a bone, I thought! But they were very angry, and from that time I have been chained here, and I have lost my voice. Don't you hear how hoarse I am? Bow-wow! I can't speak like other dogs. Bow-wow! That was the end of happiness!'

The Snow-man, however, was not listening to him any more; he was looking into the room where the housekeeper lived, where the stove stood on its four iron legs, and seemed to be just the same size as the Snow-man.

'How something is cracking inside me!' he said. 'Shall I never be able to get in there? It is certainly a very innocent wish, and our innocent wishes ought to be fulfilled. I must get there, and lean against the stove, if I have to break the window first!'

'You will never get inside there!' said the yard-dog; 'and if you were to reach the stove you would disappear. Bow-wow!'

'I'm as good as gone already!' answered the Snow-man. 'I believe I'm breaking up!'

The whole day the Snow-man looked through the window; towards dusk the room grew still more inviting; the stove gave out a mild light, not at all like the moon or even the sun; no, as only a stove can shine, when it has something to feed upon. When the door of the room was open, it flared up-this was one of its peculiarities; it flickered quite red upon the Snow-man's white face.

'I can't stand it any longer!' he said. 'How beautiful it looks with its tongue stretched out like that!'

It was a long night, but the Snow-man did not find it so; there he stood, wrapt in his pleasant thoughts, and they froze, so that he cracked.

Next morning the panes of the kitchen window were covered with ice, and the most beautiful ice-flowers that even a snow-man could desire, only they blotted out the stove. The window would not open; he couldn't see the stove which he thought was such a lovely lady. There was a cracking and cracking inside him and all around; there was just such a frost as a snow-man would delight in. But this Snow-man was different: how could he feel happy?

'Yours is a bad illness for a Snow-man!' said the yard-dog. 'I also suffered from it, but I have got over it. Bow-wow!' he barked. 'The weather is going to change!' he added.

The weather did change. There came a thaw.

When this set in the Snow-man set off. He did not say anything, and he did not complain, and those are bad signs.

One morning he broke up altogether. And lo! where he had stood there remained a broomstick standing upright, round which the boys had built him!

'Ah! now I understand why he loved the stove,' said the yard-dog. 'That is the raker they use to clean out the stove! The Snow-man had a stove-raker in his body! That's what was the matter with him! And now it's all over with him! Bow-wow!'

And before long it was all over with the winter too! 'Bow-wow!' barked the hoarse yard-dog.

But the young girl sang:

Woods, your bright green garments don! Willows, your woolly gloves put on! Lark and cuckoo, daily sing --    February has brought the spring! My heart joins in your song so sweet; Come out, dear sun, the world to greet!

And no one thought of the Snow-man.



The Shirt-collar

Translated from the German of Hans Andersen.


There was once a fine gentleman whose entire worldly possessions consisted of a boot-jack and a hair-brush; but he had the most beautiful shirt-collar in the world, and it is about this that we are going to hear a story.

The shirt-collar was so old that he began to think about marrying; and it happened one day that he and a garter came into the wash-tub together.

'Hulloa!' said the shirt-collar, 'never before have I seen anything so slim and delicate, so elegant and pretty! May I be permitted to ask your name?'

'I shan't tell you,' said the garter.

'Where is the place of your abode?' asked the shirt-collar.

But the garter was of a bashful disposition, and did not think it proper to answer.

'Perhaps you are a girdle?' said the shirt-collar, 'an under girdle? for I see that you are for use as well as for ornament, my pretty miss!'

'You ought not to speak to me!' said the garter' 'I'm sure I haven't given you any encouragement!'

'When anyone is as beautiful as you,' said the shirt-collar, 'is not that encouragement enough?'

'Go away, don't come so close!' said the garter. 'You seem to be a gentleman!'

'So I am, and a very fine one too!' said the shirt-collar; 'I possess a boot-jack and a hair-brush!'

That was not true; it was his master who owned these things; but he was a terrible boaster.

'Don't come so close,' said the garter. 'I'm not accustomed to such treatment!'

'What affectation!' said the shirt-collar. And then they were taken out of the wash-tub, starched, and hung on a chair in the sun to dry, and then laid on the ironing-board. Then came the glowing iron.

'Mistress widow!' said the shirt-collar, 'dear mistress widow! I am becoming another man, all my creases are coming out; you are burning a hole in me! Ugh! Stop, I implore you!'

'You rag!' said the iron, travelling proudly over the shirt-collar, for it thought it was a steam engine and ought to be at the station drawing trucks.

'Rag!' it said.

The shirt-collar was rather frayed out at the edge, so the scissors came to cut off the threads.

'Oh!' said the shirt-collar, 'you must be a dancer! How high you can kick! That is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen! No man can imitate you!'

'I know that!' said the scissors.

'You ought to be a duchess!' said the shirt-collar. 'My worldly possessions consist of a fine gentleman, a boot-jack, and a hair-brush. If only I had a duchy!'

'What! He wants to marry me?' said the scissors, and she was so angry that she gave the collar a sharp snip, so that it had to be cast aside as good for nothing.

'Well, I shall have to propose to the hair-brush!' thought the shirt-collar. 'It is really wonderful what fine hair you have, madam! Have you never thought of marrying?'

'Yes, that I have!' answered the hair-brush; 'I'm engaged to the boot-jack!'

'Engaged!' exclaimed the shirt-collar. And now there was no one he could marry, so he took to despising matrimony.

Time passed, and the shirt-collar came in a rag-bag to the paper-mill. There was a large assortment of rags, the fine ones in one heap, and the coarse ones in another, as they should be. They had all much to tell, but no one more than the shirt-collar, for he was a hopeless braggart.

'I have had a terrible number of love affairs!' he said. 'They give me no peace. I was such a fine gentleman, so stiff with starch! I had a boot-jack and a hair-brush, which I never used! You should just have seen me then! Never shall I forget my first love! She was a girdle, so delicate and soft and pretty! She threw herself into a wash-tub for my sake! Then there was a widow, who glowed with love for me. But I left her alone, till she became black. Then there was the dancer, who inflicted the wound which has caused me to be here now; she was very violent! My own hair-brush was in love with me, and lost all her hair in consequence. Yes, I have experienced much in that line; but I grieve most of all for the garter,-I mean, the girdle, who threw herself into a wash-tub. I have much on my conscience; it is high time for me to become white paper!'

And so he did! he became white paper, the very paper on which this story is printed. And that was because he had boasted so terribly about things which were not true. We should take this to heart, so that it may not happen to us, for we cannot indeed tell if we may not some day come to the rag-bag, and be made into white paper, on which will be printed our whole history, even the most secret parts, so that we too go about the world relating it, like the shirt-collar.



The Princess in the Chest

Translated from the Danish.


There were once a king and a queen who lived in a beautiful castle, and had a large, and fair, and rich, and happy land to rule over. From the very first they loved each other greatly, and lived very happily together, but they had no heir.

They had been married for seven years, but had neither son nor daughter, and that was a great grief to both of them. More than once it happened that when the king was in a bad temper, he let it out on the poor queen, and said that here they were now, getting old, and neither they nor the kingdom had an heir, and it was all her fault. This was hard to listen to, and she went and cried and vexed herself.

Finally, the king said to her one day, 'This can't be borne any longer. I go about childless, and it's your fault. I am going on a journey and shall be away for a year. If you have a child when I come back again, all will be well, and I shall love you beyond all measure, and never more say an angry word to you. But if the nest is just as empty when I come home, then I must part with you.'

After the king had set out on his journey, the queen went about in her loneliness, and sorrowed and vexed herself more than ever. At last her maid said to her one day, 'I think that some help could be found, if your majesty would seek it.' Then she told about a wise old woman in that country, who had helped many in troubles of the same kind, and could no doubt help the queen as well, if she would send for her. The queen did so, and the wise woman came, and to her she confided her sorrow, that she, was childless, and the king and his kingdom had no heir.

The wise woman knew help for this. 'Out in the king's garden,' said she, 'under the great oak that stands on the left hand, just as one goes out from the castle, is a little bush, rather brown than green, with hairy leaves and long spikes. On that bush there are just at this moment three buds. If your majesty goes out there alone, fasting, before sunrise, and takes the middle one of the three buds, and eats it, then in six months you will bring a princess into the world. As soon as she is born, she must have a nurse, whom I shall provide, and this nurse must live with the child in a secluded part of the palace; no other person must visit the child; neither the king nor the queen must see it until it is fourteen years old, for that would cause great sorrow and misfortune.'

The queen rewarded the old woman richly, and next morning, before the sun rose, she was down in the garden, found at once the little bush with the three buds, plucked the middle one and ate it. It was sweet to taste, but afterwards was as bitter as gall. Six months after this, she brought into the world a little girl. There was a nurse in readiness, whom the wise woman had provided, and preparations were made for her living with the child, quite alone, in a secluded wing of the castle, looking out on the pleasure-park. The queen did as the wise woman had told her; she gave up the child immediately, and the nurse took it and lived with it there.

When the king came home and heard that a daughter had been born to him, he was of course very pleased and happy, and wanted to see her at once.

The queen had then to tell him this much of the story, that it had been foretold that it would cause great sorrow and misfortune if either he or she got a sight of the child until it had completed its fourteenth year.

This was a long time to wait. The king longed so much to get a sight of his daughter, and the queen no less than he, but she knew that it was not like other children, for it could speak immediately after it was born, and was as wise as older folk. This the nurse had told her, for with her the queen had a talk now and again, but there was no one who had ever seen the princess. The queen had also seen what the wise woman could do, so she insisted strongly that her warning should be obeyed. The king often lost his patience, and was determined to see his daughter, but the queen always put him off the idea, and so things went on, until the very day before the princess completed her fourteenth year.

The king and the queen were out in the garden then, and the king said, 'Now I can't and I won't wait any longer. I must see my daughter at once. A few hours, more or less, can't make any difference.'

The queen begged him to have patience till the morning. When they had waited so long, they could surely wait a single day more. But the king was quite unreasonable. 'No nonsense,' said he; 'she is just as much mine as yours, and I will see her,' and with that he went straight up to her room.

He burst the door open, and pushed aside the nurse, who tried to stop him, and there he saw his daughter. She was the loveliest young princess, red and white, like milk and blood, with clear blue eyes and golden hair, but right in the middle of her forehead there was a little tuft of brown hair.

The princess went to meet her father, fell on his neck and kissed him, but with that she said, 'O father, father! what have you done now? to-morrow I must die, and you must choose one of three things: either the land must be smitten with the black pestilence, or you must have a long and bloody war, or you must as soon as I am dead, lay me in a plain wooden chest, and set it in the church, and for a whole year place a sentinel beside it every night.'

The king was frightened indeed, and thought she was raving, but in order to please her, he said, 'Well, of these three things I shall choose the last; if you die, I shall lay you at once in a plain wooden chest, and have it set in the church, and every night I shall place a sentinel beside it. But you shall not die, even if you are ill now.'

He immediately summoned all the best doctors in the country, and they came with all their prescriptions and their medicine bottles, but next day the princess was stiff and cold in death. All the doctors could certify to that and they all put their names to this and appended their seals, and then they had done all they could.

The king kept his promise. The princess's body was lain the same day in a plain wooden chest, and set in the chapel of the castle, and on that night and every night after it, a sentinel was posted in the church, to keep watch over the chest.

The first morning when they came to let the sentinel out, there was no sentinel there. They thought he had just got frightened and run away, and next evening a new one was posted in the church. In the morning he was also gone. So it went every night. When they came in the morning to let the sentinel out, there was no one there, and it was impossible to discover which way he had gone if he had run away. And what should they run away for, every one of them, so that nothing more was over heard or seen of them, from the hour that they were set on guard beside the princess's chest?

It became now a general belief that the princess's ghost walked, and ate up all those who were to guard her chest, and very soon there was no one left who would be placed on this duty, and the king's soldiers deserted the service, before their turn came to be her bodyguard. The king then promised a large reward to the soldier who would volunteer for the post. This did for some time, as there were found a few reckless fellows, who wished to earn this good payment. But they never got it, for in the morning, they too had disappeared like the rest.

So it had gone on for something like a whole year; every night a sentinel had been placed beside the chest, either by compulsion or of his own free will, but not a single one of the sentinels was to be seen, either on the following day or any time thereafter. And so it had also gone with one, on the night before a certain day, when a merry young smith came wandering to the town where the king's castle stood. It was the capital of the country, and people of every king came to it to get work. This smith, whose name was Christian, had come for that same purpose. There was no work for him in the place he belonged to, and he wanted now to seek a place in the capital.

There he entered an inn where he sat down in the public room, and got something to eat. Some under-officers were sitting there, who were out to try to get some one enlisted to stand sentry. They had to go in this way, day after day, and hitherto they had always succeeded in finding one or other reckless fellow. But on this day they had, as yet, found no one. It was too well known how all the sentinels disappeared, who were set on that post, and all that they had got hold of had refused with thanks. These sat down beside Christian, and ordered drinks, and drank along with him. Now Christian was a merry fellow who liked good company; he could both drink and sing, and talk and boast as well, when he got a little drop in his head. He told these under-officers that he was one of that kind of folk who never are afraid of anything. Then he was just the kind of man they liked, said they, and he might easily earn a good penny, before he was a day older, for the king paid a hundred dollars to anyone who would stand as sentinel in the church all night, beside his daughter's chest.

Christian was not afraid of that he wasn't afraid of anything, so they drank another bottle of wine on this, and Christian went with them up to the colonel, where he was put into uniform with musket, and all the rest, and was then shut up in the church, to stand as sentinel that night.

It was eight o'clock when he took up his post, and for the first hour he was quite proud of his courage; during the second hour he was well pleased with the large reward that he would get, but in the third hour, when it was getting near eleven, the effects of the wine passed off, and he began to get uncomfortable, for he had heard about this post; that no one had ever escapeed alive from it, so far as was known. But neither did anyone know what had become of all the sentinels. The thought of this ran in his head so much, after the wine was out of it, that he searched about everywhere for a way of escape, and finally, at eleven o'clock, he found a little postern in the steeple which was not locked, and out at this he crept, intending to run away.

At the same moment as he put his foot outside the church door, he saw standing before him a little man, who said, 'Good evening, Christian, where are you going?'

With that he felt as if he were rooted to the spot and could not move.

'Nowhere,' said he.

'Oh, yes,' said the little man, 'You were just about to run away, but you have taken upon you to stand sentinel in the church to-night, and there you must stay.'

Christian said, very humbly, that he dared not, and therefore wanted to get away, and begged to be let go.

'No,' said the little one, 'you must remain at your post, but I shall give you a piece of good advice; you shall go up into the pulpit, and remain standing there. You need never mind what you see or hear, it will not be able to do you any harm, if you remain in your place until you hear the lid of the chest slam down again behind the dead; then all danger is past, and you can go about the church, wherever you please.'

The little man then pushed him in at the door again, and locked it after him. Christian made haste to get up into the pulpit, and stood there, without noticing anything, until the clock struck twelve. Then the lid of the princess's chest sprang up, and out of it there came something like the princess, dressed as you see in the picture. It shrieked and howled, 'Sentry, where are you? Sentry, where are you? If you don't come, you shall get the most cruel death anyone had ever got.'

It went all round the church, and when it finally caught sight of the smith, up in the pulpit, it came rushing thither and mounted the steps. But it could not get up the whole way, and for all that it stretched and strained, it could not touch Christian, who meanwhile stood and trembled up in the pulpit. When the clock struck one, the appearance had to go back into the chest again, and Christian heard the lid slam after it. After this there was dead silence in the church. He lay down where he was and fell asleep, and did not awake before it was bright daylight, and he heard steps outside, and the noise of the key being put into the lock. Then he came down from the pulpit, and stood with his musket in front of the princess's chest.

It was the colonel himself who came with the patrol, and he was not a little surprised when he found the recruit safe and sound. He wanted to have a report, but Christian would give him none, so he took him straight up to the king, and announced for the first time that here was the sentinel who had stood guard in the church over-night. The king immediately got out of bed, and laid the hundred dollars for him on the table, and then wanted to question him. 'Have you seen anything?' said he. 'Have you seen my daughter?' 'I have stood at my post,' said the young smith, 'and that is quite enough; I undertook nothing more.' He was not sure whether he dared tell what he had seen and heard, and besides he was also a little conceited because he had done what no other man had been able to do, or had had courage for. The king professed to be quite satisfied, and asked him whether he would engage himself to stand on guard again the following night. 'No, thank you,' said Christian, 'I will have no more of that!'

'As you please,' said the king, 'you have behaved like a brave fellow, and now you shall have your breakfast. You must be needing something to strengthen you after that turn.'

The king had breakfast laid for him, and sat down at the table with him in person; he kept constantly filling his glass for him and praising him, and drinking his health. Christian needed no pressing, but did full justice both to the food and drink, and not least to the latter. Finally he grew bold, and said that if the king would give him two hundred dollars for it, he was his man to stand sentry next night as well.

When this was arranged, Christian bade him 'Good-day,' and went down among the guards, and then out into the town along with other soldiers and under-officers. He had his pocket full of money, and treated them, and drank with them and boasted and made game of the good-for-nothings who were afraid to stand on guard, because they were frightened that the dead princess would eat them. See whether she had eaten him! So the day passed in mirth and glee, but when eight o'clock came, Christian was again shut up in the church, all alone.

Before he had been there two hours, he got tired of it, and thought only of getting away. He found a little door behind the altar which was not locked, and at ten o'clock he slipped out at it, and took to his heels and made for the beach. He had got half-way thither, when all at once the same little man stood in front of him and said, 'Good evening, Christian, where are you going?' 'I've leave to go where I please,' said the smith, but at the same time he noticed that he could not move a foot. 'No, you have undertaken to keep guard to-night as well,' said the little man, 'and you must attend to that.' He then took hold of him, and however unwilling he was, Christian had to go with him right back to the same little door that he had crept out at. When they got there, the little man said to him, 'Go in front of the altar now, and take in your hand the book that is lying there. There you shall stay till you hear the lid of the chest slam down over the dead. In that way you will come to no harm.'

With that the little man shoved him in at the door, and locked it. Christian then immediately went in front of the altar, and took the book in his hand, and stood thus until the clock struck twelve, and the appearance sprang out of the chest. 'Sentry, where are you? Sentry, where are you?' it shrieked, and then rushed to the pulpit, and right up into it. But there was no one there that night. Then it howled and shrieked again,

My father has set no sentry in, War and Pest this night begin.

At the same moment, it noticed the smith standing in front of the altar, and came rushing towards him. 'Are you there?' it screamed; 'now I'll catch you.' But it could not come up over the step in front of the altar, and there it continued to howl, and scream, and threaten, until the clock struck one, when it had to go into the chest again, and Christian heard the lid slam above it. That night, however, it had not the same appearance as on the previous one; it was less ugly.

When all was quiet in the church, the smith lay down before the altar and slept calmly till the following morning, when the colonel came to fetch him. He was taken up to the king again, and things went on as the day before. He got his money, but would give no explanation whether he had seen the king's daughter, and he would not take the post again, he said. But after he had got a good breakfast, and tasted well of the king's wines, he undertook to go on guard again the third night, but he would not do it for less than the half of the kingdom, he said, for it was a dangerous post, and the king had to agree, and promise him this.

The remainder of the day went like the previous one. He played the boastful soldier, and the merry smith, and he had comrades and boon-companions in plenty. At eight o'clock he had to put on his uniform again, and was shut up in the church. He had not been there for an hour before he had come to his senses, and thought, 'It's best to stop now, while the game is going well.' The third night, he was sure, would be the worst; he had been drunk when he promised it, and the half of the kingdom, the king could never have been in earnest about that! So he decided to leave, without waiting so long as on the previous nights. In that way he would escape the little man who had watched him before. All the doors and posterns were locked, but he finally though of creeping up to a window, and opening that, and as the clock struck nine, he crept out there. It was fairly high in the wall, but he got to the ground with no bones broken, and started to run. He got down to the shore without meeting anyone, and there he got into a boat, and pushed off from land. He laughed immensely to himself at the thought of how cleverly he had managed and how he had cheated the little man. Just then he heard a voice from the shore, 'Good evening, Christian, where are you going?' He gave no answer. 'To-night your legs will be too short,' he thought, and pulled at the oars. But he then felt something lay hold of the boat, and drag it straight in to shore, for all that he sat and struggled with the oars.

The man then laid hold of him, and said, 'You must remain at your post, as you have promised,' and whether he liked it or not, Christian had just to go back with him the whole way to the church.

He could never get in at that window again, Christian said; it was far too high up.

'You must go in there, and you shall go in there,' said the little man, and with that he lifted him up on to the window-sill. Then he said to him: 'Notice well now what you have to do. This evening you must stretch yourself out on the left-hand side of her chest. The lid opens to the right, and she comes out to the left. When she has got out of the chest and passed over you, you must get into it and lie there, and that in a hurry, without her seeing you. There you must remain lying until day dawns, and whether she threatens you or entreats you, you must not come out of it, or give her any answer. Then she has no power over you, and both you and she are freed.'

The smith then had to go in at the window, just as he came out, and went and laid himself all his length on the left side of the princess's chest, close up to it, and there he lay stiff as a rock until the clock struck twelve. Then the lid sprang up to the right, and the princess came out, straight over him, and rushed round the church, howling and shrieking 'Sentry, where are you? Sentry, where are you?' She went towards the altar, and right up to it, but there was no one there; then she screamed again,

My father has set no sentry in, War and Pest will now begin.

Then she went round the whole church, both up and down, sighing and weeping,

My father has set no sentry in, War and Pest will now begin.

Then she went away again, and at the same moment the clock in the tower struck one.

Then the smith heard in the church a soft music, which grew louder and louder, and soon filled the whole building. He heard also a multitude of footsteps, as if the church was being filled with people. He heard the priest go through the service in front of the altar, and there was singing more beautiful than he had ever heard before. Then he also heard the priest offer up a prayer of thanksgiving because the land had been freed from war and pestilence, and from all misfortune, and the king's daughter delivered from the evil one. Many voices joined in, and a hymn of praise was sung; then he heard the priest again, and heard his own name and that of the princess, and thought that he was being wedded to her. The church was packed full, but he could see nothing. Then he heard again the many footsteps as ol' folk leaving the church, while the music sounded fainter and fainter, until it altogether died away. When it was silent, the light of day began to break in through the windows.

The smith sprang up out of the chest and fell on his knees and thanked God. The church was empty, but up in front of the altar lay the princess, white and red, like a human being, but sobbing and crying, and shaking with cold in her white shroud. The smith took his sentry coat and wrapped it round her; then she dried her tears, and took his hand and thanked him, and said that he had now freed her from all the sorcery that had been in her from her birth, and which had come over her again when her father broke the command against seeing her until she had completed her fourteenth year.

She said further, that if he who had delivered her would take her in marriage, she would be his. If not, she would go into a nunnery, and he could marry no other as long as she lived, for he was wedded to her with the service of the dead, which he had heard.

She was now the most beautiful young princess that anyone could wish to see, and he was now lord of half the kingdom, which had been promised him for standing on guard the third nigh. So they agreed that they would have each other, and love each other all their days.

With the first sunbeam the watch came and opened the church, and not only was the colonel there, but the king in person, come to see what had happened to the sentinel. He found them both sitting hand in hand on the step in front of the altar, and immediately knew his daughter again, and took her in his arms, thanking God and her deliverer. He made no objections to what they had arranged, and so Christian the smith held his wedding with the princess, and got half the kingdom at once, and the whole of it when the king died.

As for the other sentries, with so many doors and windows open, no doubt they had run away, and gone into the Prussian service. And as for what Christian said he saw, he had been drinking more wine than was good for him.



The Three Brothers

Translated from the German of the Brothers Grimm.


There was once a man who had three sons, and no other possessions beyond the house in which he lived. Now the father loved his three sons equally, so that he could not make up his mind which of them should have the house after his death, because he did not wish to favour any one more than the others. And he did not want to sell the house, because it had belonged to his family for generations; otherwise he could have divided the money equally amongst them. At last an idea struck him, and he said to his sons: 'You must all go out into the world, and look about you, and each learn a trade, and then, when you return, whoever can produce the best masterpiece shall have the house.'

The sons were quite satisfied. The eldest wished to be a blacksmith, the second a barber, and the third a fencing-master. They appointed a time when they were to return home, and then they all set out.

It so happened that each found a good master, where he learnt all that was necessary for his trade in the best possible way. The blacksmith had to shoe the king's horses, and thought to himself, 'Without doubt the house will be yours!' The barber shaved the best men in the kingdom, and he, too, made sure that the house would be his. The fencing-master received many a blow, but he set his teeth, and would not allow himself to be troubled by them, for he thought to himself, 'If you are afraid of a blow you will never get the house.'

When the appointed time had come the three brothers met once more, and they sat down and discussed the best opportunity of showing off their skill. Just then a hare came running across the field towards them. 'Look!' said the barber, 'here comes something in the nick of time!' seized basin and soap, made a lather whilst the hare was approaching, and then, as it ran at full tilt, shaved its moustaches, without cutting it or injuring a single hair on its body.

'I like that very much indeed,' said the father. 'Unless the others exert themselves to the utmost, the house will be yours.'

Soon after they saw a man driving a carriage furiously towards them. 'Now, father, you shall see what I can do!' said the blacksmith, and he sprang after the carriage, tore off the four shoes of the horse as it was going at the top of its speed, and shod it with four new ones without checking its pace.

'You are a clever fellow!' said the father, 'and know your trade as well as your brother. I really don't know to which of you I shall give the house.'

Then the third son said, 'Father, let me also show you something;' and, as it was beginning to rain, he drew his sword and swung it in cross cuts above his head, so that not a drop fell on him, and the rain fell heavier and heavier, till at last it was coming down like a waterspout, but he swung his sword faster and faster, and kept as dry as if he were under cover.

When the father saw this he was astonished, and said, 'You have produced the greatest masterpiece: the house is yours.'

Both the other brothers were quite satisfied, and praised him too, and as they were so fond of each other they all three remained at home and plied their trades: and as they were so experienced and skilful they earned a great deal of money. So they lived happily together till they were quite old, and when one was taken ill and died the two others were so deeply grieved that they were also taken ill and died too. And so, because they had all been so clever, and so fond of each other, they were all laid in one grave.



The Snow-queen

Translated from the German of Hans Andersen by Miss Alma Alleyne.


There was once a dreadfully wicked hobgoblin. One day he was in capital spirits because he had made a looking-glass which reflected everything that was good and beautiful in such a way that it dwindled almost to nothing, but anything that was bad and ugly stood out very clearly and looked much worse. The most beautiful landscapes looked like boiled spinach, and the best people looked repulsive or seemed to stand on their heads with no bodies; their faces were so changed that they could not be recognised, and if anyone had a freckle you might be sure it would be spread over the nose and mouth.

That was the best part of it, said the hobgoblin.

But one day the looking-glass was dropped, and it broke into a million-billion and more pieces.

And now came the greatest misfortune of all, for each of the pieces was hardly as large as a grain of sand and they flew about all over the world, and if anyone had a bit in his eye there it stayed, and then he would see everything awry, or else could only see the bad sides of a case. For every tiny splinter of the glass possessed the same power that the whole glass had.

Some people got a splinter in their hearts, and that was dreadful, for then it began to turn into a lump of ice.

The hobgoblin laughed till his sides ached, but still the tiny bits of glass flew about.

And now we will hear all about it.

In a large town, where there were so many people and houses that there was not room enough for everybody to have gardens, lived two poor children. They were not brother and sister, but they loved each other just as much as if they were. Their parents lived opposite one another in two attics, and out on the leads they had put two boxes filled with flowers. There were sweet peas in it, and two rose trees, which grow beautifully, and in summer the two children were allowed to take their little chairs and sit out under the roses. Then they had splendid games.

In the winter they could not do this, but then they put hot pennies against the frozen window-panes, and made round holes to look at each other through.

His name was Kay, and hers was Gerda.

Outside it was snowing fast.

'Those are the white bees swarming,' said the old grandmother.

'Have they also a queen bee?' asked the little boy, for he knew that the real bees have one.

'To be sure,' said the grandmother. 'She flies wherever they swarm the thickest. She is larger than any of them, and never stays upon the earth, but flies again up into the black clouds. Often at midnight she flies through the streets, and peeps in at all the windows, and then they freeze in such pretty patterns and look like flowers.'

'Yes, we have seen that,' said both children; they knew that it was true.

'Can the Snow-queen come in here?' asked the little girl.

'Just let her!' cried the boy, 'I would put her on the stove, and melt her!'

But the grandmother stroked his hair, and told some more stories.

In the evening, when little Kay was going to bed, he jumped on the chair by the window, and looked through the little hole. A few snow-flakes were falling outside, and one of the, the largest, lay on the edge of one of the window-boxes. The snow-flake grew larger and larger till it took the form of a maiden, dressed in finest white gauze.

She was so beautiful and dainty, but all of ice, hard bright ice.

Still she was alive; her eyes glittered like two clear stars, but there was no rest or peace in them. She nodded at the window, and beckoned with her hand. The little boy was frightened, and sprang down from the chair. It seemed as if a great white bird had flown past the window.

The next day there was a harder frost than before.

Then came the spring, then the summer, when the roses grew and smelt more beautifully than ever.

Kay and Gerda were looking at one of their picture-books -- the clock in the great church-tower had just struck five, when Kay exclaimed, 'Oh! something has stung my heart, and I've got something in my eye!'

The little girl threw her arms round his neck; he winked hard with both his eyes; no, she could see nothing in them.

'I think it is gone now,' said he; but it had not gone. It was one of the tiny splinters of the glass of the magic mirror which we have heard about, that turned everything great and good reflected in it small and ugly. And poor Kay had also a splinter in his heart, and it began to change into a lump of ice. It did not hurt him at all, but the splinter was there all the same.

'Why are you crying?' he asked; 'it makes you look so ugly! There's nothing the matter with me. Just look! that rose is all slug-eaten, and this one is stunted! What ugly roses they are!'

And he began to pull them to pieces.

'Kay, what are you doing?' cried the little girl.

And when he saw how frightened she was, he pulled off another rose, and ran in at his window away from dear little Gerda.

When she came later on with the picture book, he said that it was only fit for babies, and when his grandmother told them stories, he was always interrupting with, 'But -- ' and then he would get behind her and put on her spectacles, and speak just as she did. This he did very well, and everybody laughed. Very soon he could imitate the way all the people in the street walked and talked.

His games were now quite different. On a winter's day he would take a burning glass and hold it out on his blue coat and let the snow-flakes fall on it.

'Look in the glass, Gerda! Just see how regular they are! They are much more interesting than real flowers. Each is perfect; they are all made according to rule. If only they did not melt!'

One morning Kay came out with his warm gloves on, and his little sledge hung over his shoulder. He shouted to Gerda, 'I am going to the market-place to play with the other boys,' and away he went.

In the market-place the boldest boys used often to fasten their sledges to the carts of the farmers, and then they got a good ride.

When they were in the middle of their games there drove into the square a large sledge, all white, and in it sat a figure dressed in a rough white fur pelisse with a white fur cap on.

The sledge drove twice round the square, and Kay fastened his little sledge behind it and drove off. It went quicker and quicker into the next street. The driver turned round, and nodded to Kay ina friendly way as if they had known each other before. Every time that Kay tried to unfasten his sledge the driver nodded again, and Kay sat still once more. Then they drove out of the town, and the snow began to fall so thickly that the little boy could not see his hand before him, and on and on they went. He quickly unfastened the cord to get loose from the big sledge, but it was of no use; his little sledge hung on fast, and it went on like the wind.

Then he cried out, but nobody heard him. He was dreadfully frightened.

The snowflakes grew larger and larger till they looked like great white birds. All at once they flew aside, the large sledge stood still, and the figure who was driving stood up. The fur cloak and cap were all of snow. It was a lady, tall and slim, and glittering. It was the Snow-queen.

'We have come at a good rate,' she said; 'but you are almost frozen. Creep in under my cloak.'

And she set him close to her in the sledge and drew the cloak over him. He felt as though he were sinking into a snow-drift.

'Are you cold now?' she asked, and kissed his forehead. The kiss was cold as ice and reached down to his heart, which was already half a lump of ice.

'My sledge! Don't forget my sledge!' He thought of that first, and it was fastened to one of the great white birds who flew behind with the sledge on its back.

The Snow-queen kissed Kay again, and then he forgot all about little Gerda, his grandmother, and everybody at home.

'Now I must not kiss you any more,' she said, 'or else I should kiss you to death.'

Then away they flew over forests and lakes, over sea and land. Round them whistled the cold wind, the wolves howled, and the snow hissed; over them flew the black shrieking crows. But high up the moon shone large and bright, and thus Kay passed the long winter night. In the day he slept at the Snow-queen's feet.

But what happened to little Gerda when Kay did not come back?

What had become of him? Nobody knew. The other boys told how they had seen him fasten his sledge on to a large one which had driven out of the town gate.

Gerda cried a great deal. The winter was long and dark to her.

Then the spring came with warm sunshine. 'I will go and look for Kay,' said Gerda.

So she went down to the river and got into a little boat that was there. Presently the stream began to carry it away.

'Perhaps the river will take me to Kay,' thought Gerda. She glided down, past trees and fields, till she came to a large cherry garden, in which stood a little house with strange red and blue windows and a straw roof. Before the door stood two wooden soldiers, who were shouldering arms.

Gerda called to them, but they naturally did not answer. The river carried the boat on to the land.

Gerda called out still louder, and there came out of the house a very old woman. She leant upon a crutch, and she wore a large sun-hat which was painted with the most beautiful flowers.

'You poor little girl!' said the old woman.

And then she stepped into the water, brought the boat in close with her crutch, and lifted little Gerda out.

'And now come and tell me who you are, and how you came here,' she said.

Then Gerda told her everything, and asked her if she had seen Kay. But she said he had not passed that way yet, but he would soon come.

She told Gerda not to be sad, and that she should stay with her and take of the cherry trees and flowers, which were better than any picture-bok, as they could each tell a story.

She then took Gerda's hand and led her into the little house and shut the door.

The windows were very high, and the panes were red, blue, and yellow, so that the light came through in curious colours. On the table were the most delicious cherries, and the old woman let Gerda eat as many as she liked, while she combed her hair with a gold comb as she ate.

The beautiful sunny hair rippled and shone round the dear little face, which was so soft and sweet. 'I have always longed to have a dear little girl just like you, and you shall see how happy we will be together.'

And as she combed Gerda's hair, Gerda thought less and less about Kay, for the old woman was a witch, but not a wicked witch, for she only enchanted now and then to amuse herself, and she did want to keep little Gerda very much.

So she went into the garden and waved her stick over all the rose bushes and blossoms and all; they sank down into the black earth, and no one could see where they had been.

The old woman was afraid that if Gerda saw the roses she would begin to think about her own, and then would remember Kay and run away.

Then she led Gerda out into the garden. How glorious it was, and what lovely scents filled the air! All the flowers you can think of blossomed there all the year round.

Gerda jumped for joy and played there till the sun set behind the tall cherry trees, and then she slept in a beautiful bed with red silk pillows filled with violets, and she slept soundly and dreamed as a queen does on her wedding day.

The next day she played again with the flowers in the warm sunshine, and so many days passed by. Gerda knew every flower, but although there were so many, it seemed to her as if one were not there, though she could not remember which.

She was looking one day at the old woman's sun-hat which had hte painted flowers on it, and there she saw a rose.

The witch had forgotten to make that vanish when she had made the other roses disappear under the earth. it was so difficult to think of everything.

'Why, there are no roses here!' cried Gerda,, and she hunted amongst all the flowers, but not one was to be found. Then she sat down and cried, but her tears fell just on the spot where a rose bush had sunk, and when her warm tears watered the earth, the bush came up in full bloom just as it had been before. Gerda kissed the roses and thought of the lovely roses at home, and with them came the thought of little Kay.

'Oh, what have I been doing!' said the little girl. 'I wanted to look for Kay.'

She ran to the end of the garden. The gate was shut, but she pushed against the rusty lock so that it came open.

She ran out with her little bare feet. No one came after her. At last she could not run any longer, and she sat down on a large stone. When she looked round she saw that the summer was over; it was late autumn. It had not changed in the beautiful garden, where were sunshine and flowers all the year round.

'Oh, dear, how late I have made myself!' said Gerda. 'It's autumn already! I cannot rest!' And she sprang up to run on.

Oh, how tired and sore her little feet grew, and it became colder and colder.

She had to rest again, and there on the snow in front of her was a large crow.

It had been looking at her for some time, and it nodded its head and said, 'Caw! caw! good day.' Then it asked the little girl why she was alone in the world. She told the crow her story, and asked if he had seen Kay.

The crow nodded very thoughtfully and said, 'It might be! It might be!'

'What! Do you think you have?' cried the little girl, and she almost squeezed the crow to death as she kissed him.

'Gently, gently!' said the crow. 'I think -- I know I think -- it might be little Kay, but now he has forgotten you for the princess!'

'Does he live with a princess?' asked Gerda.

'Yes, listen,' said the crow.

Then he told her all he knew.

'In the kingdom in which we are now sitting lives a princess who is dreadfully clever. She has read all the newspapers in the world and has forgotten them again. She is as clever as that. The other day she came to the throne, and that is not so pleasant as people think. Then she began to say, "Why should I not marry?" But she wanted a husband who could answer when he was spoken to, not one who would stand up stiffly and look respectable -- that would be too dull.

'When she told all the Court ladies, they were delighted. You can believe every word I say,' said the crow, 'I have a tame sweetheart in the palace, and she tells me everything.'

Of course his sweetheart was a crow.

'The newspapers came out next morning with a border of hearts round it, and the princess's monogram on it, and inside you could read that every good-looking young man might come into the palace and speak to the princess, and whoever should speak loud enough to be heard would be well fed and looked after, and the one who spoke best should become the princess's husband. Indeed,' said the crow, 'you can quite believe me. It is as true as that I am sitting here.

'Young men came in streams, and there was such a crowding and a mixing together! But nothing came of it on the first nor on the second day. They could all speak quite well when they were in the street, but as soon as they came inside the palace door, and saw the guards in silver, and upstairs the footmen in gold, and the great hall all lighted up, then their wits left them! And when they stood in front of the throne where the princess was sitting, then they could not think of anything to say except to repeat the last word she had spoken, and she did not much care to hear that again. It seemed as if they were walking in their sleep until they came out into the street again, when they could speak once more. There was a row stretching from the gate of the town up to the castle.

'They were hungry and thirsty, but in the palace they did not even get a glass of water.

'A few of the cleverest had brought some slices of bread and butter with them, but they did not share them with their neighbour, for they thought, "If he looks hungry, the princess will not take him!"'

'But what about Kay?' asked Gerda. 'When did he come? Was he in the crowd?'

'Wait a bit; we are coming to him! On the third day a little figure came without horse or carriage and walked jauntily up to the palace. His eyes shone as yours do; he had lovely curling hair, but quite poor clothes.'

'That was Kay!' cried Gerda with delight. 'Oh, then I have found him!' and she clapped her hands.

'He had a little bundle on his back,' said the crow.

'No, it must have been his skates, for he went away with his skates!'

'Very likely,' said the crow, 'I did not see for certain. But I know this from my sweetheart, that when he came to the palace door and saw the royal guards in silver, and on the stairs the footmen in gold, he was not the least bit put out. He nodded to them, saying, "It must be rather dull standing on the stairs; I would rather go inside!"

'The halls blazed with lights; councillors and ambassadors were walking about in noiseless shoes carrying gold dishes. It was enough to make one nervous! His boots creaked dreadfully loud, but he was not frightened.'

'That must be Kay!' said Gerda. 'I know he had new boots on; I have heard them creaking in his grandmother's room!'

'They did creak, certainly!' said the crow. 'And, not one bit afraid, up he went to the princess, who was sitting on a large pearl as round as a spinning wheel. All the ladies-in-waiting were standing round, each with their attendants, and the lords-in-waiting with their attendants. The nearer they stood to the door the prouder they were.'

'It must have been dreadful!' said little Gerda. 'And Kay did win the princess?'

'I heard from my tame sweetheart that he was merry and quick-witted; he had not come to woo, he said, but to listen to the princess's wisdom. And the end of it was that they fell in love with each other.'

'Oh, yes; that was Kay!' said Gerda. 'He was so clever; he could do sums with fractions. Oh, do lead me to the palace!'

'That's easily said!' answered the crow, 'but how are we to manage that? I must talk it over with my tame sweetheart. She may be able to advise us, for I must tell you that a little girl like you could never get permission to enter it.'

'Yes, I will get it!' said Gerda. 'When Kay hears that I am there he will come out at once and fetch me!'

'Wait for me by the railings,' said the crow, and he nodded his head and flew away.

It was late in the evening when he came back.

'Caw, caw!' he said, 'I am to give you her love, and here is a little roll for you. She took it out of the kitchen; there's plenty there, and you must be hungry. You cannot come into the palace. The guards in silver and the footmen in gold would not allow it. But don't cry! You shall get in all right. My sweetheart knows a little back-stairs which leads to the sleeping-room, and she knows where to find the key.'

They went into the garden, and when the lights in the palace were put out one after the other, the crow led Gerda to a back-door.

Oh, how Gerda's heart beat with anxiety and longing! It seemed as if she were going to do something wrong, but she only wanted to know if it were little Kay. Yes, it must be he! She remembered so well his clever eyes, his curly hair. She could see him smiling as he did when they were at home under the rose trees! He would be so pleased to see her, and to hear how they all were at home.

Now they were on the stairs; a little lamp was burning, and on the landing stood the tame crow. She put her head on one side and looked at Gerda, who bowed as her grandmother had taught her.

'My betrothed has told me many nice things about you, my dear young lady,' she said. 'Will you take the lamp while I go in front? We go this way so as to meet no one.'

Through beautiful rooms they came to the sleeping-room. In the middle of it, hung on a thick rod of gold, were two beds, shaped like lilies, one all white, in which lay the princess, and the other red, in which Gerda hoped to find Kay. She pushed aside the curtain, and saw a brown neck. Oh, it was Kay! She called his name out loud, holding the lamp towards him.

He woke up, turned his head and -- it was not Kay!

It was only his neck that was like Kay's, but he was young and handsome. The princess sat up in her lily-bed and asked who was there.

Then Gerda cried, and told her story and all that the crows had done.

'You poor child!' said the prince and princess, and they praised the crows, and said that they were not angry with them, but that they must not do it again. Now they should have a reward.

'Would you like to fly away free?' said the princess, 'or will you have a permanent place as court crows with what you can get in the kitchen?'

And both crows bowed and asked for a permanent appointment, for they thought of their old age.

And they put Gerda to bed, and she folded her hands, thinking, as she fell asleep, 'How good people and animals are to me!'

The next day she was dressed from head to foot in silk and satin. They wanted her to stay on in the palace, but she begged for a little carriage and a horse, and a pair of shoes so that she might go out again into the world to look for Kay.

They gave her a muff as well as some shoes; she was warmly dressed, and when she was ready, there in front of the door stood a coach of pure gold, with a coachman, footmen and postilions with gold crowns on.

The prince and princess helped her into the carriage and wished her good luck.

The wild crow who was now married drove with her for the first three miles; the other crow could not come because she had a bad headache.

'Good-bye, good-bye!' called the prince and princess; and little Gerda cried, and the crow cried.

When he said good-bye, he flew on to a tree and waved with his black wings as long as the carriage, which shone like the sun, was in sight.

They came at last to a dark wood, but the coach lit it up like a torch. When the robbers saw it, they rushed out, exclaiming, 'Gold! gold!'

They seized the horses, killed the coachman, footmen and postilions, and dragged Gerda out of the carriage.

'She is plump and tender! I will eat her!' said the old robber-queen, and she drew her long knife, which glittered horribly.

'You shall not kill her!' cried her little daughter. 'She shall play with me. She shall give me her muff and her beautiful dress, and she shall sleep in my bed.'

The little robber-girl was as big as Gerda, but was stronger, broader, with dark hair and black eyes. She threw her arms round Gerda and said, 'They shall not kill you, so long as you are not naughty. Aren't you a princess?'

'No,' said Gerda, and she told all that had happened to her, and how dearly she loved little Kay.

The robber-girl looked at her very seriously, and nodded her head, saying, 'They shall not kill you, even if you are naughty, for then I will kill you myself!'

And she dried Gerda's eyes, and stuck both her hands in the beautiful warm muff.

The little robber-girl took Gerda to a corner of the robbers' camp where she slept.

All round were more than a hundred wood-pigeons which seemed to be asleep, but they moved a little when the two girls came up.

There was also, near by, a reindeer which the robber-girl teased by tickling it with her long sharp knife.

Gerda lay awake for some time.

'Coo, coo!' said the wood-pigeons. 'We have seen little Kay. A white bird carried his sledge; he was sitting in the Snow-queen's carriage which drove over the forest when our little ones were in the nest. She breathed on them, and all except we two died. Coo, coo!'

'What are you saying over there?' cried Gerda. 'Where was the Snow-queen going to? Do you know at all?'

'She was probably travelling to Lapland, where there is always ice and snow. Ask the reindeer.'

'There is capital ice and snow there!' said the reindeer. 'One can jump about there in the great sparkling valleys. There the Snow-queen has her summer palace, but her best palace is up by the North Pole, on the island called Spitzbergen.'

'O Kay, my little Kay!' sobbed Gerda.

'You must lie still,' said the little robber-girl, 'or else I shall stick my knife into you!'

In the morning Gerda told her all that the wood-pigeons had said. She nodded. 'Do you know where Lapland is?' she asked the reindeer.

'Who should know better than I?' said the beast, and his eyes sparkled. 'I was born and bred there on the snow-fields.'

'Listen!' said the robber-girl to Gerda; 'you see that all the robbers have gone; only my mother is left, and she will fall asleep in the afternoon -- then I will do something for you!'

When her mother had fallen asleep, the robber-girl went up to the reindeer and said, 'I am going to set you free so that you can run to Lapland. But you must go quickly and carry this little girl to the Snow-queen's palace, where her playfellow is. You must have heard all that she told about it, for she spoke loud enough!'

The reindeer sprang high for joy. The robber-girl lifted little Gerda up, and had the foresight to tie her on firmly, and even gave her a little pillow for a saddle. 'You must have your fur boots,' she said, 'for it will be cold; but I shall keep your muff, for it is so cosy! But, so that you may not freeze, here are my mother's great fur gloves; they will come up to your elbows. Creep into them!'

And Gerda cried for joy.

'Don't make such faces!' said the little robber-girl. 'You must look very happy. And here are two loaves and a sausage; now you won't be hungry!'

They were tied to the reindeer, the little robber-girl opened the door, made all the big dogs come away, cut through the halter with her sharp knife, and said to the reindeer, 'Run now! But take great care of the little girl.'

And Gerda stretched out her hands with the large fur gloves towards the little robber-girl and said, 'Good-bye!'

Then the reindeer flew over the ground, through the great forest, as fast as he could.

The wolves howled, the ravens screamed, the sky seemed on fire.

'Those are my dear old northern lights,' said the reindeer; 'see how they shine!'

And then he ran faster still, day and night.

The loaves were eaten, and the sausage also, and then they came to Lapland.

They stopped by a wretched little house; the roof almost touched the ground, and the door was so low that you had to creep in and out.

There was no one in the house except an old Lapland woman who was cooking fish over an oil-lamp. The reindeer told Gerda's whole history, but first he told his own, for that seemed to him much more important, and Gerda was so cold that she could not speak.

'Ah, you poor creatures!' said the Lapland woman; 'you have still further to go! You must go over a hundred miles into Finland, for there the Snow-queen lives, and every night she burns Bengal lights. I will write some words on a dried stock-fish, for I have no paper, and you must give it to the Finland woman, for she can give you better advice than I can.'

And when Gerda was warmed and had had something to eat and drink, the Lapland woman wrote on a dried stock-fish, and begged Gerda to take care of it, tied Gerda securely on the reindeer's back, and away they went again.

The whole night was ablaze with northern lights, and then they came to Finland and knocked at the Finland woman's chimney, for door she had none.

Inside it was so hot that the Finland woman wore very few clothes; she loosened Gerda's clothes and drew off her fur gloves and boots. She laid a piece of ice on the reindeer's head, and then read what was written on the stock-fish. She read it over three times till she knew it by heart, and then put the fish in the saucepan, for she never wasted anything.

Then the reindeer told his story, and afterwards little Gerda's and the Finland woman blinked her eyes but said nothing.

'You are very clever,' said the reindeer. 'I know. Cannot you give the little girl a drink so that she may have the strength of twelve men and overcome the Snow-queen?'

'The strength of twelve men!' said the Finland woman; 'that would not help much. Little Kay is with the Snow-queen and he likes everything there very much and thinks it the best place in the world. But that is because he has a splinter of glass in his heart and a bit in his eye. If these do not come out, he will never be free, and the Snow-queen will keep her power over him.'

'But cannot you give little Gerda something so that she can have power over her?'

'I can give her no greater power than she has already; don't you see how great it is? Don't you see how men and beasts must help her when she wanders into the wide world with her bare feet? She is powerful already, because she is a dear little innocent child. If she cannot by herself conquer the Snow-queen and take away the glass splinters from little Kay, we cannot help her! The Snow-queen's garden begins two miles from here. You can carry the little maiden so far; put her down by the large bush with red berries growing in the snow. Then you must come back here as fast as you can.'

Then the Finland woman lifted little Gerda on the reindeer and away he sped.

'Oh, I have left my gloves and boots behind!' cried Gerda. She missed them in the piercing cold, but the reindeer did not dare to stop. On he ran till he came to the bush with red berries. Then he set Gerda down and kissed her mouth, and great big tears ran down his cheeks, and then he ran back. There stood poor Gerda, without shoes or gloves in the middle of the bitter cold of Finland.

She ran on as fast as she could. A regiment of gigantic snowflakes came against her, but they melted when they touched her, and she went on with fresh courage.

And now we must see what Kay was doing. He was not thinking of Gerda, and never dreamt that she was standing outside the palace.

The walls of the palace were built of driven snow, and the doors and windows of piercing winds. There were more than a hundred halls in it all of frozen snow. The largest was several miles long; the bright Northern lights lit them up, and very large and empty and cold and glittering they were! In the middle of the great hall was a frozen lake which had cracked in a thousand pieces; each piece was exactly like the other. Here the Snow-queen used to sit when she was at home.

Little Kay was almost blue and black with cold, but he did not feel it, for she had kissed away his feelings and his heart was a lump of ice.

He was pulling about some sharp, flat pieces of ice, and trying to fit one into the other. He thought each was most beautiful, but that was because of the splinter of glass in his eye. He fitted them into a great many shapes, but he wanted to make them spell the word 'Love.' The Snow-queen had said, 'If you can spell out that word you shalt be your own master. I will give you the whole world and a new pair of skates.'

But he could not do it.

'Now I must fly to warmer countries,' said the Snow-queen. 'I must go and powder my black kettles!' (This was what she called Mount Etna and Mount Vesuvius.) 'It does the lemons and grapes good.'

And off she flew, and Kay sat alone in the great hall trying to do his puzzle.

He sat so still that you would have thought he was frozen.

Then it happened that little Gerda stepped into the hall. The biting cold winds became quiet as if they had fallen asleep when she appeared in the great, empty, freezing hall.

She caught sight of Kay; she recognised him, and ran and put her arms round his neck, crying, 'Kay! dear little Kay! I have found you at last!'

But he sat quite still and cold. Then Gerda wept hot tears which fell on his neck and thawed his heart and swept away the bit of the looking-glass. He looked at her and then he burst into tears. He cried so much that the glass splinter swam out of his eye; then he knew her, and cried out, 'Gerda! dear little Gerda! Where have you been so long? and where have I been?'

And he looked round him.

'How cold it is here! How wide and empty!' and he threw himself on Gerda, and she laughed and wept for joy. It was such a happy time that the pieces of ice even danced round them for joy, and when they were tired and lay down again they formed themselves into the letters that the Snow-queen had said he must spell in order to become his own master and have the whole world and a new pair of skates.

And Gerda kissed his cheeks and they grew rosy; she kissed his eyes and they sparkled like hers; she kissed his hands and feet and he became warm and glowing. The Snow-queen might come home now; his release -- the word 'Love' -- stood written in sparkling ice.

They took each other's hands and wandered out of the great palace; they talked about the grandmother and the roses on the leads, wherever they came the winds hushed and the sun came out. When they reached the bush with red berries there stood the reindeer waiting for them.

He carried Kay and Gerda first to the Finland woman, who warmed them in her hot room and gave them advice for their journey home.

Then they went to the Lapland woman, who gave them new clothes and mended their sleigh. The reindeer ran with them until they came to the green fields fresh with the spring green. Here he said good-bye.

They came to the forest, which was bursting into bud, and out of it came a splendid horse which Gerda knew; it was the one which had drawn the gold coach ridden by a young girl with a red cap on and pistols in her belt. It was the little robber girl who was tired of being at home and wanted to go out into the world. She and Gerda knew each other at once.

'You are a nice fellow!' she said to Kay. 'I should like to know if you deserve to be run all over the world!'

But Gerda patted her cheeks and asked after the prince and princess.

'They are travelling about,' said the robber girl.

'And the crow?' asked Gerda.

'Oh, the crow is dead!' answered the robber-girl. 'His tame sweetheart is a widow and hops about with a bit of black crape round her leg. She makes a great fuss, but that's all nonsense. But tell me what happened to you, and how you caught him.'

And Kay and Gerda told her all.

'Dear, dear!' said the robber-girl, shook both their hands, and promised that if she came to their town she would come and see them. Then she rode on.

But Gerda and Kay went home hand in hand. There they found the grandmother and everything just as it had been, but when they went through the doorway they found they were grown-up.

There were the roses on the leads; it was summer, warm, glorious summer.



The Fir-tree

Translated from the German of Hans Christian Andersen.


There was once a pretty little fir-tree in a wood. It was in a capital position, for it could get sun, and there was enough air, and all around grew many tall companions, both pines and firs. It did not heed the warm sun and the fresh air, or notice the little peasant children who ran about chattering when they came out to gather wild strawberries and raspberries. Often they found a whole basketful and strung strawberries on a straw; they would sit down by the little fir-tree and say, 'What a pretty little one this is!' The tree did not like that at all.

By the next year it had grown a whole ring taller, and the year after that another ring more, for you can always tell a fir-tree's age from its rings.

'Oh! if I were only a great tree like the others!' sighed the little fir-tree, 'then I could stretch out my branches far and wide and look out into the great world! The birds would build their nests in my branches, and when the wind blew I would bow to it politely just like the others!' It took no pleasure in the sunshine, nor in the birds, nor in the rose-coloured clouds that sailed over it at dawn and at sunset. Then the winter came, and the snow lay white and sparkling all around, and a hare would come and spring right over the little fir-tree, which annoyed it very much. But when two more winters had passed the fir-tree was so tall that the hare had to run round it. 'Ah! to grow and grow, and become great and old! that is the only pleasure in life,' thought the tree. In the autumn the woodcutters used to come and hew some of the tallest trees; this happened every year, and the young fir-tree would shiver as the magnificent trees fell crashing and crackling to the ground, their branches hewn off, and the great trunks left bare, so that they were almost unrecognisable. But then they were laid on waggons and dragged out of the wood by horses. 'Where are they going? What will happen to them?'

In spring, when the swallows and storks came, the fir-tree asked them, 'Do you know where they were taken? Have you met them?'

The swallows knew nothing of them, but the stork nodded his head thoughtfully, saying, 'I think I know. I met many new ships as I flew from Egypt; there were splendid masts on the ships. I'll wager those were they! They had the scent of fir-trees. Ah! those are grand, grand!'

'Oh! if I were only big enough to sail away over the sea too! What sort of thing is the sea? what does it look like?'

'Oh! it would take much too long to tell you all that,' said the stork, and off he went.

'Rejoice in your youth,' said the sunbeams, 'rejoice in the sweet growing time, in the young life within you.'

And the wind kissed it and the dew wept tears over it, but the fir-tree did not understand.

Towards Christmas-time quite little trees were cut down, some not as big as the young fir-tree, or just the same age, and now it had no peace or rest for longing to be away. These little trees, which were chosen for their beauty, kept all their branches; they were put in carts and drawn out of the wood by horses.

'Whither are those going?' asked the fir-tree; 'they are no bigger than I, and one there was much smaller even! Why do they keep their branches? Where are they taken to?'

'We know! we know!' twittered the sparrows. 'Down there in the city we have peeped in at the windows, we know where they go! They attain to the greatest splendour and magnificence you can imagine! We have looked in at the windows and seen them planted in the middle of the warm room and adorned with the most beautiful things-golden apples, sweet-meats, toys and hundreds of candles.'

'And then?' asked the fir-tree, trembling in every limb with eagerness, 'and then? what happens then?'

'Oh, we haven't seen anything more than that. That was simply matchless!'

'Am I too destined to the same brilliant career?' wondered the fir-tree excitedly. 'That is even better than sailing over the sea! I am sick with longing. If it were only Christmas! Now I am tall and grown-up like those which were taken away last year. Ah, if I were only in the cart! If I were only in the warm room with all the splendour and magnificence! And then? Then comes something better, something still more beautiful, else why should they dress us up? There must be something greater, something grander to come -- but what? Oh! I am pining away! I really don't know what's the matter with me!'

'Rejoice in us,' said the air and sunshine, 'rejoice in your fresh youth in the free air!'

But it took no notice, and just grew and grew; there it stood fresh and green in winter and summer, and all who saw it said, 'What a beautiful tree!' And at Christmas-time it was the first to be cut down. The axe went deep into the pith; the tree fell to the ground with a groan; it felt bruised and faint. It could not think of happiness, it was sad at leaving its home, the spot where it had sprung up; it knew, too, that it would never see again its dear old companions, or the little shrubs and flowers, perhaps not even the birds. Altogether the parting was not pleasant.

When the tree came to itself again it was packed in a yard with other trees, and a man was saying, 'This is a splendid one, we shall only want this.'

Then came two footmen in livery and carried the fir-tree to a large and beautiful room. There were pictures hanging on the walls, and near the Dutch stove stood great Chinese vases with lions on their lids; there were armchairs, silk-covered sofas, big tables laden with picture-books and toys, worth hundreds of pounds-at least, so the children said. The fir-tree was placed in a great tub filled with sand, but no one could see that it was a tub, for it was all hung with greenery and stood on a gay carpet. How the tree trembled! What was coming now? On its branches they hung little nets cut out of coloured paper, each full of sugarplums; gilt apples and nuts hung down as if they were growing, over a hundred red, blue, and white tapers were fastened among the branches. Dolls as life-like as human beings -- the fir-tree had never seen any before were suspended among the green, and right up at the top was fixed a gold tinsel star; it was gorgeous, quite unusually gorgeous!

'To-night,' they all said, 'to-night it will be lighted!'

'Ah!' thought the tree, 'if it were only evening! Then the tapers would soon be lighted. What will happen then? I wonder whether the trees will come from the wood to see me, or if the sparrows will fly against the window panes? Am I to stand here decked out thus through winter and summer?'

It was not a bad guess, but the fir-tree had real bark-ache from sheer longing, and bark-ache in trees is just as bad as head-ache in human beings.

Now the tapers were lighted. What a glitter! What splendour! The tree quivered in all its branches so much, that one of the candles caught the green, and singed it. 'Take care!' cried the young ladies, and they extinguished it.

Now the tree did not even dare to quiver. It was really terrible! It was so afraid of losing any of its ornaments, and it was quite bewildered by all the radiance.

And then the folding doors were opened, and a crowd of children rushed in, as though they wanted to knock down the whole tree, whilst the older people followed soberly. The children stood quite silent, but only for a moment, and then they shouted again, and danced round the tree, and snatched off one present after another.

'What are they doing?' thought the tree. 'What is going to happen?' And the tapers burnt low on the branches, and were put out one by one, and then the children were given permission to plunder the tree. They rushed at it so that all its boughs creaked; if it had not been fastened by the gold star at the top to the ceiling, it would have been overthrown.

The children danced about with their splendid toys, and no one looked at the tree, except the old nurse, who came and peeped amongst the boughs, just to see if a fig or an apple had been forgotten.

'A story! a story!' cried the children, and dragged a little stout man to the tree; he sat down beneath it, saying, 'Here we are in the greenwood, and the tree will be delighted to listen! But I am only going to tell one story. Shall it be Henny Penny or Humpty Dumpty who fell downstairs, and yet gained great honour and married a princess?'

'Henny Penny!' cried some; 'Humpty Dumpty!' cried others; there was a perfect babel of voices! Only the fir-tree kept silent, and thought, 'Am I not to be in it? Am I to have nothing to do with it?'

But it had already been in it, and played out its part. And the man told them about Humpty Dumpty who fell downstairs and married a princess. The children clapped their hands and cried, 'Another! another!' They wanted the story of Henny Penny also, but they only got Humpty Dumpty. The fir-tree stood quite astonished and thoughtful; the birds in the wood had never related anything like that. 'Humpty Dumpty fell downstairs and yet married a princess! yes, that is the way of the world!' thought the tree, and was sure it must be true, because such a nice man had told the story. 'Well, who knows? Perhaps I shall fall downstairs and marry a princess.' And it rejoiced to think that next day it would be decked out again with candles, toys, glittering ornaments, and fruits. 'To-morrow I shall quiver again with excitement. I shall enjoy to the full all my splendour. To-morrow I shall hear Humpty Dumpty again, and perhaps Henny Penny too.' And the tree stood silent and lost in thought all through the night.

Next morning the servants came in. 'Now the dressing up will begin again,' thought the tree. But they dragged it out of the room, and up the stairs to the lumber-room, and put it in a dark corner, where no ray of light could penetrate. 'What does this mean?' thought the tree. 'What am I to do here? What is there for me to hear?' And it leant against the wall, and thought and thought. And there was time enough for that, for days and nights went by, and no one came; at last when some one did come, it was only to put some great boxes into the corner. Now the tree was quite covered; it seemed as if it had been quite forgotten.

'Now it is winter out-doors,' thought the fir-tree. 'The ground is hard and covered with snow, they can't plant me yet, and that is why I am staying here under cover till the spring comes. How thoughtful they are! Only I wish it were not so terribly dark and lonely here; not even a little hare! It was so nice out in the wood, when the snow lay all around, and the hare leapt past me; yes, even when he leapt over me: but I didn't like it then. It's so dreadfully lonely up here.'

'Squeak, squeak!' said a little mouse, stealing out, followed by a second. They sniffed at the fir-tree, and then crept between its boughs. 'It's frightfully cold,' said the little mice. 'How nice it is to be here! Don't you think so too, you old fir-tree?'

'I'm not at all old,' said the tree; 'there are many much older than I am.'

'Where do you come from?' asked the mice, 'and what do you know?' They were extremely inquisitive. 'Do tell us about the most beautiful place in the world. Is that where you come from? Have you been in the storeroom, where cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from the ceiling, where one dances on tallow candles, and where one goes in thin and comes out fat?'

'I know nothing about that,' said the tree. 'But I know the wood, where the sun shines, and the birds sing.' And then it told them all about its young days, and the little mice had never heard anything like that before, and they listened with all their ears, and said: 'Oh, how much you have seen! How lucky you have been!'

'I?' said the fir-tree, and then it thought over what it had told them. 'Yes, on the whole those were very happy times.' But then it went on to tell them about Christmas Eve, when it had been adorned with sweet-meats and tapers.

'Oh!' said the little mice, 'how lucky you have been, you old fir-tree!'

'I'm not at all old' said the tree. 'I only came from the wood this winter. I am only a little backward, perhaps, in my growth.'

'How beautifully you tell stories!' said the little mice. And next evening they came with four others, who wanted to hear the tree's story, and it told still more, for it remembered everything so clearly and thought: 'Those were happy times! But they may come again. Humpty dumpty fell downstairs, and yet he married a princess; perhaps I shall also marry a princess!' And then it thought of a pretty little birch-tree that grew out in the wood, and seemed to the fir-tree a real princess, and a very beautiful one too.

'Who is Humpty Dumpty?' asked the little mice.

And then the tree told the whole story; it could remember every single word, and the little mice were ready to leap on to the topmost branch out of sheer joy! Next night many more mice came, and on Sunday even two rats; but they did not care about the story, and that troubled the little mice, for now they thought less of it too.

'Is that the only story you know?' asked the rats.

'The only one,' answered the tree. 'I heard that on my happiest evening, but I did not realise then how happy I was.'

'That's a very poor story. Don't you know one about bacon or tallow candles? a storeroom story?'

'No,' said the tree.

'Then we are much obliged to you,' said the rats, and they went back to their friends.

At last the little mice went off also, and the tree said, sighing: 'Really it was very pleasant when the lively little mice sat round and listened whilst I told them stories. But now that's over too. But now I will think of the time when I shall be brought out again, to keep up my spirits.'

But when did that happen? Well, it was one morning when they came to tidy up the lumber-room; they threw it really rather roughly on the floor, but a servant dragged it off at once downstairs, where there was daylight once more.

'Now life begins again!' thought the tree. It felt the fresh air, the first rays of the sun, and there it was out in the yard! Everything passed so quickly; the tree quite forgot to notice itself, there was so much to look at all around. The yard opened on a garden full of flowers; the roses were so fresh and sweet, hanging over a little trellis, the lime-trees were in blossom, and the swallows flew about, saying: 'Quirre-virre-vil, my husband has come home;' but it was not the fir-tree they meant.

'Now I shall live,' thought the tree joyfully, stretching out its branches wide; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow; and it was lying in a corner among weeds and nettles. The golden star was still on its highest bough, and it glittered in the bright sunlight. In the yard some of the merry children were playing, who had danced so gaily round the tree at Christmas. One of the little ones ran up, and tore off the gold star.

'Look what was left on the ugly old fir-tree!' he cried, and stamped on the boughs so that they cracked under his feet.

And the tree looked at all the splendour and freshness of the flowers in the garden, and then looked at itself, and wished that it had been left lying in the dark corner of the lumber-room; it thought of its fresh youth in the wood, of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little mice who had listened so happily to the story of Humpty Dumpty.

'Too late! Too late!' thought the old tree. 'If only I had enjoyed myself whilst I could. Now all is over and gone.'

And a servant came and cut the tree into small pieces, there was quite a bundle of them; they flickered brightly under the great copper in the brew-house; the tree sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a pistol-shot; so the children who were playing there ran up, and sat in front of the fire, gazing at it, and crying, 'Piff! puff! bang!' But for each report, which was really a sigh, the tree was thinking of a summer's day in the wood, or of a winter's night out there, when the stars were shining; it thought of Christmas Eve, and of Humpty Dumpty, which was the only story it had heard, or could tell, and then the tree had burnt away.

The children played on in the garden, and the youngest had the golden star on his breast, which the tree had worn on the happiest evening of its life; and now that was past -- and the tree had passed away -- and the story too, all ended and done with.

And that's the way with all stories!

Here our Danish author ends. This is what people call sentiment, and I hope you enjoy it!



Hans, the Mermaid's Son

Translated from the Danish.


In a village there once lived a smith called Basmus, who was in a very poor way. He was still a young man, and a strong handsome fellow to boot, but he had many little children and there was little to be earned by his trade. He was, however, a diligent and hard-working man, and when he had no work in the smithy he was out at sea fishing, or gathering wreckage on the shore.

It happened one time that he had gone out to fish in good weather, all alone in a little boat, but he did not come home that day, nor the following one, so that all believed he had perished out at sea. On the third day, however, Basmus came to shore again and had his boat full of fish, so big and fat that no one had ever seen their like. There was nothing the matter with him, and he complained neither of hunger or thirst. He had got into a fog, he said, and could not find land again. What he did not tell, however, was where he had been all the time; that only came out six years later, when people got to know that he had been caught by a mermaid out on the deep sea, and had been her guest during the three days that he was missing. From that time forth he went out no more to fish; nor, indeed, did he require to do so, for whenever he went down to the shore it never failed that some wreckage was washed up, and in it all kinds of valuable things. In those days everyone took what they found and got leave to keep it, so that the smith grew more prosperous day by day.

When seven years had passed since the smith went out to sea, it happened one morning, as he stood in the smithy, mending a plough, that a handsome young lad came in to him and said, 'Good-day, father; my mother the mermaid sends her greetings, and says that she has had me for six years now, and you can keep me for as long.'

He was a strange enough boy to be six years old, for he looked as if he were eighteen, and was even bigger and stronger than lads commonly are at that age.

'Will you have a bite of bread?' said the smith.

'Oh, yes,' said Hans, for that was his name.

The smith then told his wife to cut a piece of bread for him. She did so, and the boy swallowed it at one mouthful and went out again to the smithy to his father.

'Have you got all you can eat?' said the smith.

'No,' said Hans, 'that was just a little bit.'

The smith went into the house and took a whole loaf, which he cut into two slices and put butter and cheese between them, and this he gave to Hans. In a while the boy came out to the smithy again.

'Well, have you got as much as you can eat?' said the smith.

'No, not nearly,' said Hans; 'I must try to find a better place than this, for I can see that I shall never get my fill here.'

Hans wished to set off at once, as soon as his father would make a staff for him of such a kind as he wanted.

'It must be of iron,' said he, 'and one that can hold out.'

The smith brought him an iron rod as thick as an ordinary staff, but Hans took it and twisted it round his finger, so that wouldn't do. Then the smith came dragging one as thick as a waggon-pole, but Hans bent it over his knee and broke it like a straw. The smith then had to collect all the iron he had, and Hans held it while his father forged for him a staff, which was heavier than the anvil. When Hans had got this he said, 'Many thanks, father; now I have got my inheritance.' With this he set off into the country, and the smith was very pleased to be rid of that son, before he ate him out of house and home.

Hans first arrived at a large estate, and it so happened that the squire himself was standing outside the farmyard.

'Where are you going?' said the squire.

'I am looking for a place,' said Hans, 'where they have need of strong fellows, and can give them plenty to eat.'

'Well,' said the squire, 'I generally have twenty-four men at this time of the year, but I have only twelve just now, so I can easily take you on.'

'Very well,' said Hans, 'I shall easily do twelve men's work, but then I must also have as much to eat as the twelve would.'

All this was agreed to, and the squire took Hans into the kitchen, and told the servant girls that the new man was to have as much food as the other twelve. It was arranged that he should have a pot to himself, and he could then use the ladle to take his food with.

It was in the evening that Hans arrived there, so he did nothing more that day than eat his supper -- a big pot of buck-wheat porridge, which he cleaned to the bottom and was then so far satisfied that he said he could sleep on that, so he went off to bed. He slept both well and long, and all the rest were up and at their work while he was still sleeping soundly. The squire was also on foot, for he was curious to see how the new man would behave who was both to eat and work for twelve.

But as yet there was no Hans to be seen, and the sun was already high in the heavens, so the squire himself went and called on him.

'Get up, Hans,' he cried; 'you are sleeping too long.'

Hans woke up and rubbed his eyes. 'Yes, that's true,' he said, 'I must get up and have my breakfast.'

So he rose and dressed himself, and went into the kitchen, where he got his pot of porridge; he swallowed all of this, and then asked what work he was to have.

He was to thresh that day, said the squire; the other twelve men were already busy at it. There were twelve threshing-floors, and the twelve men were at work on six of them -- two on each. Hans must thresh by himself all that was lying upon the other six floors. He went out to the barn and got hold of a flail. Then he looked to see how the others did it and did the same, but at hte first stroke he smashed the flail in pieces. There were several flails hanging there, and Hans took the one after the other, but they all went the same way, every one flying in splinters at the first stroke. He then looked round for something else to work with, and found a pair of strong beams lying near. Next he caught sight of a horse-hide nailed up on the barn-door. With the beams he made a flail, using the skin to tie them together. The one beam he used as a handle, and the other to strike with, and now that was all right. But the barn was too low, there was no room to swing the flail, and the floors were too small. Hans, however, found a remedy for this -- he simply lifted the whole roof off the barn, and set it down in the field beside. He then emptied down all the corn that he could lay his hands on and threshed away. He went through one lot after another, and it was ll the same to him what he got hold of, so before midday he had threshed all the squire's grain, his rye and wheat and barley and oats, all mixed through each other. When he was finished with this, he lifted the roof up on the barn again, like setting a lid on a box, and went in and told the squire that the job was done.

The squire opened his eyes at this announcement; and came out to see if it was really true. It was true, sure enough, but he was scarcely delighted with the mixed grain that he got from all his crops. However, when he saw the flail that Hans had used, and learned how he had made room for himself to swing it, he was so afraid of the strong fellow, that he dared not say anything, except that it was a good thing he had got it threshed; but it had still to be cleaned.

'What does that mean?' asked Hans.

It was explained to him that the corn and the chaff had to be separated; as yet both were lying in one heap, right up to the roof. Hans began to take up a little and sift it in his hands, but he soon saw that this would never do. He soon thought of a plan, however; he opened both barn-doors, and then lay down at one end and blew, so that all the chaff flew out and lay like a sand-bank at the other end of the barn, and the grain was as clean as it could be. Then he reported to the squire that that job also was done. The squire said that that was well; there was nothing more for him to do that day. Off went Hans to the kitchen, and got as much as he could eat; then he went and took a midday nap which lasted till supper-time.

Meanwhile the squire was quite miserable, and made his moan to his wife, saying that she must help him to find some means to getting rid of this strong fellow, for he durst not give him his leave. She sent for the steward, and it was arranged that next day all the men should go to the forest for fire-wood, and that they should make a bargain among them, that the one who came home last with his load should be hanged. They thought they could easily manage that it would be Hans who would lose his life, for the others would be early on the road, while Hans would certainly oversleep himself. In the evening, therefore, the men sat and talked together, saying that next morning they must set out early to the forest, and as they had a hard day's work and a long journey before them, they would, for their amusement, make a compact, that whichever of them came home last with his load should lose his life on the gallows. So Hans had no objections to make.

Long before the sun was up next morning, all the twelve men were on foot. They took all the best horses and carts, and drove off to the forest. Hans, however, lay and slept on, and the squire said, 'Just let him lie.'

At last, Hans thought it was time to have his breakfast, so he got up and put on his clothes. He took plenty of time to his breakfast, and then went out to get his horse and cart ready. The others had taken everything that was any good, so that he had a difficulty in scraping together four wheels of different sizes and fixing them to an old cart, and he could find no other horses than a pair of old hacks. He did not know where it lay, but he followed the track of the other carts, and in that way came to it all right. On coming to the gate leading into the forest, he was unfortunate enough to break it in pieces, so he took a huge stone that was lying on the field, seven ells long, and seven ells broad, and set this in the gap, then he went on and joined the others. These laughed at him heartily, for they had laboured as hard as they could since daybreak, and had helped each other to fell trees and put them on the carts, so that all of these were now loaded except one.

Hans got hold of a woodman's axe and proceeded to fell a tree, but he destroyed the edge and broke the shaft at the first blow. He therefore laid down the axe, put his arms round the tree, and pulled it up by the roots. This he threw upon his cart, and then another and another, and thus he went on while all the others forgot their work, and stood with open mouths, gazing at this strange woodcraft. All at once they began to hurry; the last cart was loaded, and they whipped up their horses, so as to be the first to arrive home.

When Hans had finished his work, he again put his old hacks into the cart, but they could not move it from the spot. He was annoyed at this, and took them out again, twisted a rope round the cart, and all the trees, lifted the whole affair on his back, and set off home, leading the horses behind him by the rein. When he reached the gate, he found the whole row of carts standing there, unable to get any further for the stone which lay in the gap.

'What!' said Hans, 'can twelve men not move that stone?' With that he lifted it and threw it out of hte way, and went on with his burden on his back, and the horses behind him, and arrived at the farm long before any of the others. The squire was walking about there, looking and looking, for he was very curious to know what had happened. Finally, he caught sight of Hans coming along in this fashion, and was so frightened that he did not know what to do, but he shut the gate and put on the bar. When Hans reached the gate of the courtyard, he laid down the trees and hammered at it, but no one came to open it. He then took the trees and tossed them over the barn into the yard, and the cart after them, so that every wheel flew off in a different direction.

When the squire saw this, he thought to himself, 'The horses will come the same way if I don't open the door,' so he did this.

'Good day, master,' said Hans, and put the horses into the stable, and went into the kitchen, to get something to eat. At length the other men came home with their loads. When they came in, Hans said to them, 'Do you remember the bargain we made last night? Which of you is it that's going to be hanged?' 'Oh,' said they, 'that was only a joke; it didn't mean anything.' 'Oh well, it doesn't matter, 'said Hans, and there was no more about it.

The squire, however, and his wife and the steward, had much to say to each other about the terrible man they had got, and all were agreed that they must get rid of him in some way or other. The steward said that he would manage this all right. Next morning they were to clean the well, and they would use of that opportunity. They would get him down into the well, and then have a big mill-stone ready to throw down on top of him -- that would settle him. After that they could just fill in the well, and then escape being at any expense for his funeral. Both the squire and his wife thought this a splendid idea, and went about rejoicing at the thought that now they would get rid of Hans.

But Hans was hard to kill, as we shall see. He slept long next morning, as he always did, and finally, as he would not waken by himself, the squire had to go and call him. 'Get up, Hans, you are sleeping too long,' he cried. Hans woke up and rubbed his eyes. 'That's so,' said he, 'I shall rise and have my breakfast.' He got up then and dressed himself, while the breakfast stood waiting for him. When he had finished the whole of this, he asked what he was to do that day. He was told to help the other men to clean out the well. That was all right, and he went out and found the other men waiting for him. To these he said that they could choose whichever task they liked -- either to go down into the well and fill the buckets while he pulled them up, or pull them up, and he alone would go down to the bottom of the well. They answered that they would rather stay above-ground, as there would be no room for so many of them down in the well.

Hans therefore went down alone, and began to clean out the well, but the men had arranged how they were to act, and immediately each of them seized a stone from a heap of huge blocks, and threw them down above him, thinking to kill him with these. Hans, however, gave no more heed to this than to shout up to them, to keep the hens away from the well, for they were scraping gravel down on the top of him.

They then saw that they could not kill him with little stones, but they had still the big one left. The whole twelve of them set to work with poles and rollers and rolled the big mill-stone to the brink of the well. It was with the greatest difficulty that they got it thrown down there, and now they had no doubt that he had got all that he wanted. But the stone happened to fall so luckily that his head went right through the hole in the middle of the mill-stone, so that it sat round his neck like a priest's collar. At this, Hans would stay down no longer. He came out of the well, with the mill-stone round his neck, ad went straight to the squire and complained that the other men were trying to make a fool of him. He would not be their priest, he said; he had too little learning for that. Saying this, he bent down his head and shook the stone off, so that it crushed one of the squire's big toes.

The squire went limping in to his wife, and the steward was sent for. He was told that he must devise some plan for getting rid of this terrible person. The scheme he had devised before had been of no use, and now good counsel was scarce.

'Oh, no' said the steward, 'there are good enough ways yet. The squire can send him this evening to fish in Devilmoss Lake: he will never escape alive from there, for no one can go there by night for Old Eric.'

That was a grand idea, both the squire and his wife thought, and so he limped out again to Hans, and said that he would punish his men for having tried to make a fool of him. Meanwhile, Hans could do a little job where he would be free from these rascals. He should go out on the lake and fish there that night, and would then be free from all work on the following day.

'All right,' said Hans; 'I am well content with that, but I must have something with me to eat -- a baking of bread, a cask of butter, a barrel of ale, and a keg of brandy. I can't do with less than that.'

The squire said that he could easily get all that, so Hans got all of these tied up together, hung them over his shoulder on his good staff, and tramped away to Devilmoss Lake.

There he got into the boat, rowed out upon the lake, and got everything ready to fish. As he now lay out there in the middle of the lake, and it was pretty late in the evening, he thought he would have something to eat first, before starting to work. Just as he was at his busiest with this, Old Eric rose out of the lake, caught him by the cuff of the neck, whipped him out of the boat, and dragged him down to the bottom. It was a lucky thing that Hans had his walking-stick with him that day, and had just time to catch hold of it when he felt Old Eric's claws in his neck, so when they got down to the bottom he said, 'Stop now, just wait a little; here is solid ground.' With that he caught Old Eric by the back of the neck with one hand, and hammered away on his back with the staff, till he beat him out as flat as a pancake. Old Eric then began to lament and howl, begging him just to let him go, and he would never come back to the lake again.

'No, my good fellow,' said Hans, 'you won't get off until you promise to bring all the fish in the lake up to the squire's courtyard, before to-morrow morning.'

Old Eric eagerly promised this, if Hans would only let him go; so Hans rowed ashore, ate up the rest of his provisions, and went home to bed.

Next morning, when the squire rose and opened his front door, the fish came tumbling into the porch, and the whole yard was crammed full of them. He ran in again to his wife, for he could never devise anything himself, and said to her, 'What shall we do with him now? Old Eric hasn't taken him. I am certain that all the fish are out of the lake, for the yard is just filled with them.'

'Yes, that's a bad business,' said she; 'you must see if you can't get him sent to Purgatory, to demand tribute.' The squire therefore made his way to the men's quarters, to speak to Hans, and it took him all his time to push his way along the walls, under the eaves, on account of the fish that filled the yard. He thanked Hans for having fished so well, and said that now he had an errand for him, which he could only give to a trusty servant, and that was to journey to Purgatory, and demand three years tribute, which, he said, was owing to him from that quarter.

'Willingly,' said Hans; 'but what road do I go, to get there?'

The squire stood, and did not know what to say, and had first to go in to his wife to ask her.

'Oh, what a fool you are!' said she, 'can't you direct him straight forward, south through the wood? Whether he gets there or not, we shall be quit of him.'

Out goes the squire again to Hans.

'The way lies straight forward, south through the wood,' said he.

Hans then must have his provisions for the journey; two bakings of bread, two casks of butter, two barrels of ale, and two kegs of brandy. He tied all these up together, and got them on his shoulder hanging on his good walking-stick, and off he tramped southward.

After he had got through the wood, there was more than one road, and he was in doubt which of them was the right one, so he sat down and opened up his bundle of provisions. He found he had left his knife at home, but by good chance, there was a plough lying close at hand, so he took the coulter of this to cut the bread with. As he sat there and took his bite, a man came riding past him.

'Where are you from?' said Hans.

'From Purgatory,' said the man.

'Then stop and wait a little,' said Hans; but the man was in a hurry, and would not stop, so Hans ran after him and caught the horse by the tail. This brought it down on its hind legs, and the man went flying over its head into a ditch. 'Just wait a little,' said Hans; 'I am going the same way.' He got his provisions tied up again, and laid them on the horse's back; then he took hold of the reins and said to the man, 'We two can go along together on foot.'

As they went on their way Hans told the stranger both about the errand he had on hand and the fun he had had with Old Eric. The other said but little but he was well acquainted with the way, and it was no long time before they arrived at the gate. There both horse and rider disappeared, and Hans was left alone outside. 'They will come and let me in presently,' he thought to himself; but no one came. He hammered at the gate; still no one appeared. Then he got tired of waiting, and smashed at the gate with his staff until he knocked it in pieces and got inside. A whole troop of little demons came down upon him and asked what he wanted. His master's compliments, said Hans, and he wanted three years' tribute. At this they howled at him, and were about to lay hold of him and drag him off; but when they had got some raps from his walking-stick they let go again, howled still louder than before, and ran in to Old Eric, who was still in bed, after his adventure in the lake. They told him that a messenger had come from the squire at Devilmoss to demand three years' tribute. He had knocked the gate to pieces and bruised their arms and legs with his iron staff.

'Give him three years'! give him ten!' shouted Old Eric, 'only don't let him come near me.'

So all the little demons came dragging so much silver and gold that it was something awful. Hans filled his bundle with gold and silver coins, put it on his neck, and tramped back to his master, who was scared beyond all measure at seeing him again.

But Hans was also tired of service now. Of all the gold and silver he brought with him he let the squire keep one half, and he was glad enough, both for the money and at getting rid of Hans. The other half he took home to his father the smith in Furreby. To him also he said, 'Farewell;' he was now tired of living on shore among mortal men, and preferred to go home again to his mother. Since that time no one has ever seen Hans, the Mermaid's son.



Peter Bull

From the Danish.


There once lived in Denmark a peasant and his wife who owned a very good farm, but had no children. They often lamented to each other that they had no one of their own to inherit all the wealth that they possessed. They continued to prosper, and became rich people, but there was no heir to it all.

One year it happened that they owned a pretty little bull-calf, which they called Peter. It was the prettiest little creature they had ever seen -- so beautiful and so wise that it understood everything that was said to it, and so gentle and so full of play that both the man and his wife came to be as fond of it as if it had been their own child.

One day the man said to his wife, 'I wonder, now, whether our parish clerk could teach Peter to talk; in that case we could not do better than adopt him as our son, and let him inherit all that we possess.'

'Well, I don't know,' said his wife, 'our clerk is tremendously learned, and knows much more than his Paternoster, and I could almost believe that he might be able to teach Peter to talk, for Peter has a wonderfully good head too. You might at least ask him about it.'

Off went the man to the clerk, and asked him whether he thought he could teach a bull-calf that they had to speak, for they wished so much to have it as their heir.

The clerk was no fool; he looked round about to see that no one could overhear them, and said, 'Oh, yes, I can easily do that, but you must not speak to anyone about it. It must be done in all secrecy, and the priest must not know of it, otherwise I shall get into trouble, as it is forbidden. It will also cost you something, as some very expensive books are required.'

That did not matter at all, the man said; they would not care so very much what it cost. The clerk could have a hundred dollars to begin with to buy the books. He also promised to tell no one about it, and to bring the calf round in the evening.

He gave the clerk the hundred dollars on the spot, and in the evening took the calf round to him, and the clerk promised to do his best with it. In a week's time he came back to the clerk to hear about the calf and see how it was thriving. The clerk, however, said that he could not get a sight of it, for then Peter would long after him and forget all that he had already learned. He was getting on well with his learning, but another hundred dollars were needed, as they must have more books. The peasant had the money with him, so he gave it to the clerk, and went home again with high hopes.

In another week the man came again to learn what progress Peter had made now.

'He is getting on very well,' said the clerk.

'I suppose he can't say anything yet?' said the man.

'Oh, yes,' said the clerk, 'he can say "Moo" now.'

'Do you think he will get on with his learning?' asked the peasant.

'Oh, yes,' said the clerk, 'but I shall want another hundred dollars for books. Peter can't learn well out of the ones that he has got.'

'Well, well,' said the man, 'what must be spent shall be spent.'

So he gave the clerk the third hundred dollars for books, and a cask of good old ale for Peter. The clerk drank the ale himself, and gave the calf milk, which he thought would be better for it.

Some weeks passed, during which the peasant did not come round to ask after the calf, being frightened lest it should cost him another hundred dollars, for he had begun to squirm a bit at having to part with so much money. Meanwhile the clerk decided that the calf was as fat as it could be, so he killed it. After he had got all the beef out of the way he went inside, put on his black clothes, and made his way to the peasant's house.

As soon as he had said 'Good-day' he asked, 'Has Peter come home here?'

'No, indeed, he hasn't,' said the man; 'surely he hasn't run away?'

'I hope,' said the clerk, 'that he would not behave so contemptibly after all the trouble I have had to teach him, and all that I have spent upon him. I have had to spend at least a hundred dollars of my own money to buy books for him before I got him so far on. He could say anything he liked now, so he said to-day that he longed to see his parents again. I was willing to give him that pleasure, but I was afraid that he wouldn't be able to find the way here by himself, so I made myself ready to go with him. When we had got outside the house I remembered that I had left my stick inside, and went in again to get it. When I came out again Peter had gone off on his own account. I thought he would be here, and if he isn't I don't know where he is.'

The peasant and his wife began to lament bitterly that Peter had run away in this fashion just when they were to have so much joy of him, and after they had spent so much on his education. The worst of it was that now they had no heir after all. The clerk comforted them as best he could; he also was greatly distressed that Peter should have behaved in such a way just when he should have gained honour from his pupil. Perhaps he had only gone astray, and he would advertise him at church next Sunday, and find out where anyone had seen him. Then he bade them 'Good-bye,' and went home nad dined on a good fat veal roast.

Now it so happened that the clerk took in a newspaper, and one day he chanced to read in its columns of a new merchant who had settled in a town at some distance, and whose name was 'Peter Bull.' He put the newspaper in his pocket, and went round to the sorrowing couple who had lost their heir. He read the paragraph to them, and added, 'I wonder, now, whether that could be your bull-calf Peter?'

'Yes, of course it is,' said the man; 'who else would it be?'

His wife then spoke up and said, 'You must set out, good man, and see about him, for it is him, I am perfectly certain. Take a good sum of money with you, too; for who knows but what he may want some cash now that he has turned a merchant!'

Next day the man got a bag of money on his back and a sandwich in his pocket, and his pipe in his mouth, and set out for the town where the new merchant lived. It was no short way, and he travelled for many days before he finally arrived there. He reached it one morning, just at daybreak, found out the right place, and asked if the merchant was at home. Yes, he was, said the people, but he was not up yet.

'That doesn't matter,' said the peasant, 'for I am his father. Just show me up to his bedroom.'

He was shown up to the room, and as soon as he entered it, ad caught sight of the merchant, he recognised him at once. He had the same broad forehead, the same thick neck, and same red hair, but in other respects he was now like a human being. The peasant rushed straight up to him and took a firm hold of him. 'O Peter,' said he, 'what a sorrow you have caused us, both myself and your mother, by running off like this just as we had got you well educated! Get up, now, so that I can see you properly, and have a talk with you.'

The merchant thought that it was a lunatic who had made his way in to him, and thought it best to take things quietly.

'All right,' said he, 'I shall do so at once.' He got out of bed and made haste to dress himself.

'Ay,' said the peasant, 'now I can see how clever our clerk is. He has done well by you, for now you look just like a human being. If one didn't know it, one would never think that it was you we got from the red cow; will you come home with me now?'

'No,' said the merchant, 'I can't find time just now. I have a big business to look after.'

'You could have the farm at once, you know,' said the peasant, 'and we old people would retire. But if you would rather stay in business, of course you may do so. Are you in want of anything?'

'Oh, yes,' said the merchant; 'I want nothing so much as money. A merchant has always a use for that.'

'I can well believe that,' said the peasant, 'for you had nothing at all to start with. I have brought some with me for that very end.' With that he emptied his bag of money out upon the table, so that it was all covered with bright dollars.

When the merchant saw what kind of man he had before him he began to speak him fair, and invited him to stay with him for some days, so that they might have some more talk together.

'Very well,' said the peasant, 'but you must call me "Father."'

'I have neither father nor mother alive,' said Peter Bull.

'I know that,' said the man; 'your real father was sold at Hamburg last Michaelmas, and your real mother died while calving in spring; but my wife and I have adopted you as our own, and you are our only heir, so you must call me "Father."'

Peter Bull was quite willing to do so, and it was settled that he should keep the money, while the peasant made his will and left to him all that he had, before he went home to his wife, and told her the whole story.

She was delighted to hear that it was true enough about Peter Bull -- that he was no other than their own bull-calf.

'You must go at once and tell the clerk,' said she, 'and pay him the hundred dollars of his own money that he spent upon our son. He has earned them well, and more besides, for all the joy he has given us in having such a son and heir.'

The man agreed with this, and thanked the clerk for all he had done, and gave him two hundred dollars. Then he sold the farm, and removed with his wife to the town where their dear son and heir was living. To him they gave all their wealth, and lived with him till their dying day.



The Bird 'Grip'

Translated from the Swedish.


It happened once that a king, who had a great kingdom and three sons, became blind, and no human skill or art could restore to him his sight. At last there came to the palace an old woman, who told him that in the whole world there was only one thing that could give him back his sight, and that was to get the bird Grip; his song would open the King's eyes.

When the king's eldest son heard this he offered to bring the bird Grip, which was kept in a cage by a king in another country, and carefully guarded as his greatest treasure. The blind king was greatly rejoiced at his son's resolve, fitted him out in the best way he could, and let him go. When the prince had ridden some distance he came to an inn, in which there were many guests, all of whom were merry, and drank and sang and played at dice. This joyous life pleased the prince so well that he stayed in the inn, took part in the playing and drinking, and forgot both his blind father and the bird Grip.

Meanwhile the king waited with both hope and anxiety for his son's return, but as time went on and nothing was heard of him, the second prince asked leave to go in search of his brother, as well as to bring the bird Grip. The king granted his request, and fitted him out in the finest fashion. But when the prince came to the inn and found his brother among his merry companions, he also remained there and forgot both the bird Grip and his blind father.

When the king noticed that neither of his sons returned, although a long time had passed since the second one set out, he was greatly distressed, for not only had he lost all hope of getting back his sight, but he had also lost his two eldest sons. The youngest now came to him, and offered to go in search of his brothers and to bring the bird Grip; he was quite certain that he would succeed in this. The king was unwilling to risk his third son on such an errand, but he begged so long that his father had at last to consent. This prince also was fitted out in the finest manner, like his brothers, and so rode away.

He also turned into the same inn as his brothers, and when these saw him they assailed him with many entreaties to remain with them and share their merry life. But he answered that now, when he had found them, his next task was to get the bird Grip, for which his blind father was longing, and so he had not a single hour to spare with them in the inn. He then said farewell to his brothers, and rode on to find another inn in which to pass the night. When he had ridden a long way, and it began to grow dark, he came to a house which lay deep in the forest. Here he was received in a very friendly manner by the host, who put his horse into the stable, and led the prince himself into the guest-chamber, where he ordered a maid-servant to lay the cloth and set down the supper. It was now dark, and while the girl was laying the cloth and setting down the dishes, and the prince had begun to appease his hunger, he heard the most piteous shrieks and cries from the next room. He sprang up from the table and asked the girl what those cries were, and whether he had fallen into a den of robbers. The girl answered that these shrieks were heard every night, but it was no living being who uttered them; it was a dead man, who life the host had taken because he could not pay for the meals he had had in the inn. The host further refused to bury the dead man, as he had left nothing to pay the expenses of the funeral, and every night he went and scourged the dead body of his victim.

When she had said this she lifted the cover off one of the dishes, and the prince saw that there lay on it a knife and an axe. He understood then that the host meant to ask him by this what kind of death he preferred to die, unless he was willing to ransom his life with his money. He then summoned the host, gave him a large sum for his own life, and paid the dead man's debt as well, besides paying him for burying the body, which the murderer now promised to attend to.

The prince, however, felt that his life was not safe in this murderer's den, and asked the maid to help him to escape that night. She replied that the attempt to do so might cost her her own life, as the key of the stable in which the prince's horse stood lay under the host's pillow; but, as she herself was a prisoner there, she would help him to escape if he would take her along with him. He promised to do so, and they succeeded in getting away from the inn, and rode on until they came to another far away from it, where the prince got a good place for the girl before proceeding on his journey.

As he now rode all alone through a forest there met him a fox, who greeted him in a friendly fashion, and asked him where he was going, and on what errand he was bent. The prince answered that his errand was too important to be confided to everyone that he met.

'You are right in that,' said the fox, 'for it relates to the bird Grip, which you want to take and bring home to your blind father; I could help you in this, but in that case you must follow my counsel.'

The prince thought that this was a good offer, especially as the fox was ready to go with him and show him the way to the castle, where the bird Grip sat in his cage, and so he promised to obey the fox's instructions. When they had traversed the forest together they saw the castle at some distance. Then the fox gave the prince three grains of gold, one of which he was to throw into the guard-room, another into the room where the bird Grip sat, and the third into its cage. He could then take the bird, but he must beware of stroking it; otherwise it would go ill with him.

The prince took the grains of gold, and promised to follow the fox's directions faithfully. When he came to the guard-room of the castle he threw one of the grains in there, and the guards at once fell asleep. The same thing happened with those who kept watch in the room beside the bird Grip, and when he threw the third grain into its cage the bird also fell asleep. When the prince got the beautiful bird into his hand he could not resist the temptation to stroke it, whereupon it awoke and began to scream. At this the whole castle woke up, and the prince was taken prisoner.

As he now sat in his prison, and bitterly lamented that his own disobedience had brought himself into trouble, and deprived his father of the chance of recovering his sight, the fox suddenly stood in front of him. The prince was very pleased to see it again, and received with great meekness all its reproaches, as well as promised to be more obedient in the future, if the fox would only help him out of his fix. The fox said that he had come to assist him, but he could do no more than advise the prince, when he was brought up for trial, to answer 'yes' to all the judge's questions, and everything would go well. The prince faithfully followed his instructions, so that when the judge asked him whether he had meant to steal the bird Grip he said 'Yes,' and when the judge asked him if he was a master-thief he again answered 'Yes.'

When the king heard that he admitted being a master-thief, he said that he would forgive him the attempt to steal the bird if he would go to the next kingdom and carry off the world's most beautiful princess, and bring her to him. To this also the prince said 'Yes.'

When he left the castle he met the fox, who went along with him to the next kingdom, and when they came near the castle there, gave him three grains of gold -- one to throw into the guard-room, another into the princess's chamber, and the third into her bed. At the same time he strictly warned him not to kiss the princess. The prince went into the castle, and did with the grains of gold as the fox had told him, so that sleep fell upon everyone there; but when he had taken the princess into his arms he forgot the fox's warning, at the sight of her beauty, and kissed her. Then both she and all the others in the castle woke; the prince was taken prisoner, and put into a strong dungeon.

Here the fox again came to him and reproached him with his disobedience, but promised to help him out of this trouble also if he would answer 'yes' to everything they asked him at his trial. The prince willingly agreed to this, and admitted to the judge that he had meant to steal the princess, and that he was a master-thief.

When the king learned this he said he would forgive his offence if he would go to the next kingdom and steal the horse with the four golden shoes. To this also the prince said 'Yes.'

When he had gone a little way from the castle he met the fox, and they continued on their journey together. When they reached the end of it the prince for the third time received three grains of gold from the fox, with directions to throw one into the guard-chamber, another into the stable, and the third into the horse's stall. But the fox told him that above the horse's stall hung a beautiful golden saddle, which he must not touch, if he did not want to bring himself into new troubles worse than those he had escaped from, for then the fox could help him no longer.

The prince promised to be firm this time. He threw the grains of gold in the proper places, and untied the horse, but with that he caught sight of the golden saddle, and thought that none but it could suit so beautiful a horse, especially as it had golden shoes. But just as he stretched out his hand to take it he received from some invisible being so hard a blow on the arm that it was made quite numb. This recalled to him his promise and his danger, so he led out the horse without looking at the golden saddle again.

The fox was waiting for him outside the castle, and the prince confessed to him that he had very nearly given way to temptation this time as well. 'I know that,' said the fox, 'for it was I who struck you over the arm.'

As they now went on together the prince said that he could not forget the beautiful princess, and asked the fox whether he did not think that she ought to ride home to his father's palace on this horse with the golden shoes. The fox agreed that this would be excellent; if the prince would now go and carry her off he would give him three grains of gold for that purpose. The prince was quite ready, and promised to keep better command of himself this time, and not kiss her.

He got the grains of gold and entered the castle, where he carried off the princess, set her on the beautiful horse, and held on his way. When they came near to the castle where the bird Grip sat in his cage he again asked the fox for three grains of gold. These he got, and with them he was successful in carrying off the bird.

He was now full of joy, for his blind father would now recover his sight, while he himself owned the world's most beautiful princess and the horse with the golden shoes.

The prince and princess travelled on together with mirth and happiness, and the fox followed them until they came to the forest where the prince first met with him.

'Here our ways part,' said the fox. 'You have now got all that your heart desired, and you will have a prosperous journey to your father's palace if only you do not ransom anyone's life with money.'

The prince thanked the fox for all his help, promised to give heed to his warning, said farewell to him, and rode on, with the princess by his side and the bird Grip on his wrist.

They soon arrived at the inn where the two eldest brothers had stayed, forgetting their errand. But now no merry song or noise of mirth was heard from it. When the prince came nearer he saw two gallows erected, and when he entered the inn along with the princess he saw that all the rooms were hung with black, and that everything inside foreboded sorrow and death. He asked the reason of this, and was told that two princes were to be hanged that day for debt; they had spent all their money in feasting and playing, and were now deeply in debt to the host, and as no one could be found to ransom their lives they were about to be hanged according to the law.

The prince knew that it was his two brothers who had thus forfeited their lives and it cut him to the heart to think that two princes should suffer such a shameful death; and, as he had sufficient money with him, he paid their debts, and so ransomed their lives.

At first the brothers were grateful for their liberty, but when they saw the youngest brother's treasures they became jealous of his good fortune, and planned how to bring him to destruction, and then take the bird Grip, the princess, and the horse with the golden shoes, and convey them to their blind father. After they had agreed on how to carry out their treachery they enticed the prince to a den of lions and threw him down among them. Then they set the princess on horseback, took the bird Grip, and rode homeward. The princess wept bitterly, but they told her that it would cost her her life if she did not say that the two brothers had won all the treasures.

When they arrived at their father's palace there was great rejoicing, and everyone praised the two princes for their courage and bravery.

When the king inquired after the youngest brother they answered that he had led such a life in the inn that he had been hanged for debt. The king sorrowed bitterly over this, because the youngest prince was his dearest son, and the joy over the treasures soon died away, for the bird Grip would not sing so that the king might recover his sight, the princess wept night and day, and no one dared to venture so close to the horse as to have a look at his golden shoes.

Now when the youngest prince was thrown down into the lions' den he found the fox sitting there, and the lions, instead of tearing him to pieces, showed him the greatest friendliness. Nor was the fox angry with him for having forgot his last warning. He only said that sons who could so forget their old father and disgrace their royal birth as those had done would not hesitate to betray their brother either. Then he took the prince up out of the lion's den and gave him directions what to do now so as to come by his rights again.

The prince thanked the fox with all his heart for his true friendship, but the fox answered that if he had been of any use to him he would now for his own part ask a service of him. The prince replied that he would do him any service that was in his power.

'I have only one thing to ask of you,' said the fox, 'and that is, that you should cut off my head with your sword.'

The prince was astonished, and said that he could not bring himself to cut the had off his truest friend, and to this he stuck in spite of all the fox's declarations that it was the greatest service he could do him. At this the fox became very sorrowful, and declared that the prince's refusal to grant his request now compelled him to do a deed which he was very unwilling to do -- if the prince would not cut off his head, then he must kill the prince himself. Then at last the prince drew his good sword and cut off the fox's head, and the next moment a youth stood before him.

'Thanks,' said he, 'for this service, which has freed me from a spell that not even death itself could loosen. I am the dead man who lay unburied in the robber's inn, where you ransomed me and gave me honourable burial, and therefore I have helped you in your journey.'

With this they parted and the prince, disguising himself as a horse-shoer, went up to his father's palace and offered his services there.

The king's men told him that a horse-shoer was indeed wanted at the palace, but he must be one who could lift up the feet of the horse with the golden shoes, and such a one they had not yet been able to find. The prince asked to see the horse, and as soon as he entered the stable the steed began to neigh in a friendly fashion, and stood as quiet and still as a lamb while the prince lifted up his hoofs, one after the other, and showed the king's men the famous golden shoes.

After this the king's men began to talk about the bird Grip, and how strange it was that he would not sing, however well he was attended to. The horse-shoer then said that he knew the bird very well; he had seen it when it sat in its cage in another king's palace, and if it did not sing now it must be because it did not have all that it wanted. He himself knew so much about the bird's ways that if he only got to see it he could tell at once what it lacked.

The king's men now took counsel whether they ought to take the stranger in before the king, for in his chamber sat the bird Grip along with the weeping princess. It was decided to risk doing so, and the horse-shoer was led into the king's chamber, where he had no sooner called the bird by its name than it began to sing and the princess to smile. Then the darkness cleared away from the king's eyes, and the more the bird sang the more clearly did he see, till at last in the strange horse-shoer he recognised his youngest son. Then the princess told the king how treacherously his eldest sons had acted, and he had them banished from his kingdom; but the youngest prince married the princess, and got the horse with the golden shoes and half the kingdom from his father, who kept for himself so long as he lived the bird Grip, which now sang with all its heart to the king and all his court.



Snowflake

Slavonic story. Contes Populaires Slaves, traduits par Louis Leger. Paris: Leroux, Editeur.


Once upon a time there lived a peasant called Ivan, and he had a wife whose name was Marie. They would have been quite happy except for one thing: they had no children to play with, and as they were now old people they did not find that watching the children of their neighbours at all made up to them for having one of their own.

One winter, which nobody living will ever forget, the snow lay so deep that it came up to the knees of even the tallest man. When it had all fallen, and the sun was shining again, the children ran out into the street to play, and the old man and his wife sat at their window and gazed at them. The children first made a sort of little terrace, and stamped it hard and firm, and then they began to make a snow woman. Ivan and Marie watched them, the while thinking about many things.

Suddenly Ivan's face brightened, and, looking at his wife, he said, 'Wife, why shouldn't we make a snow woman too?'

'Why not?' replied Marie, who happened to be in a very good temper; 'it might amuse us a little. But there is no use making a woman. Let us make a little snow child, and pretend it is a living one.'

'Yes, let us do that,' said Ivan, and he took down his cap and went into the garden with his old wife.

Then the two set to work with all their might to make a doll out of the snow. They shaped a little body and two little hands and two little feet. On top of all they placed a ball of snow, out of which the head was to be.

'What in the world are you doing?' asked a passer-by.

'Can't you guess?' returned Ivan.

'Making a snow-child,' replied Marie.

They had finished the nose and the chin. Two holes were left for the eyes, and Ivan carefully shaped out the mouth. No sooner had he done so than he felt a warm breath upon his cheek. He started back in surprise and looked -- and behold! the eyes of the child met his, and its lips, which were as red as raspberries, smiled at him!

'What is it?' cried Ivan, crossing himself. 'Am I mad, or is the thing bewitched?'

The snow-child bent its head as if it had been really alive. It moved its little arms and its little legs in the snow that lay about it just as the living children did theirs.

'Ah! Ivan, Ivan,' exclaimed Marie, trembling with joy, 'heaven has sent us a child at last!' And she threw herself upon Snowflake (for that was the snow-child's name) and covered her with kisses. And the loose snow fell away from Snowflake as an egg shell does from an egg, and it was a little girl whom Marie held in her arms.

'Oh! my darling Snowflake!' cried the old woman, and led her into the cottage.

And Snowflake grew fast; each hour as well as each day made a difference, and every day she became more and more beautiful. The old couple hardly knew how to contain themselves for joy, and thought of nothing else. The cottage was always full of village children, for they amused Snowflake, and there was nothing in the world they would not have done to amuse her. She was their doll, and they were continually inventing new dresses for her, and teaching her songs or playing with her. Nobody knew how clever she was! She noticed everything, and could learn a lesson in a moment. Anyone would have taken her for thirteen at least! And, besides all that, she was so good and obedient; and so pretty, too! Her skin was as white as snow, her eyes as blue as forget-me-nots, and her hair was long and golden. Only her cheeks had no colour in them, but were as fair as her forehead.

So the winter went on, till at last the spring sun mounted higher in the heavens and began to warm the earth. The grass grew green in the fields, and high in the air the larks were heard singing. The village girls met and danced in a ring, singing, 'Beautiful spring, how came you here? How came you here? Did you come on a plough, or was it a harrow?' Only Snowflake sat quite still by the window of the cottage.

'What is the matter, dear child?' asked Marie. 'Why are you so sad? Are you ill? or have they treated you unkindly?'

'No,' replied Snowflake, 'it is nothing, mother; no one has hurt me; I am well.'

The spring sun had chased away the last snow from its hiding place under the hedges; the fields were full of flowers; nightingales sang in the trees, and all the world was gay. But the gayer grew the birds and the flowers the sadder became Snowflake. She hid herself from her playmates, and curled herself up where the shadows were deepest, like a lily amongst its leaves. Her only pleasure was to lie amid the green willows near some sparkling stream. At the dawn and at twilight only she seemed happy. When a great storm broke, and the earth was white with hail, she became bright and joyous as the Snowflake of old; but when the clouds passed, and the hail melted beneath the sun, Snowflake would burst into tears and weep as a sister would weep over her brother.

The spring passed, and it was the eve of St. John, or Midsummer Day. This was the greatest holiday of the year, when the young girls met in the woods to dance and play. They went to fetch Snowflake, and said to Marie: 'Let her come and dance with us.'

But Marie was afraid; she could not tell why, only she could not bear the child to go. Snowflake did not wish to go either, but they had no excuse ready. So Marie kissed the girl and said: 'Go, my Snowflake, and be happy with your friends, and you, dear children, be careful of her. You know she is the light of my eyes to me.'

'Oh, we will take care of her,' cried the girls gaily, and they ran off to the woods. There they wore wreaths, gathered nosegays, and sang songs some sad, some merry. And whatever they did Snowflake did too.

When the sun set they lit a fire of dry grass, and placed themselves in a row, Snowflake being the last of all. 'Now, watch us,' they said, 'and run just as we do.'

And they all began to sing and to jump one after another across the fire.

Suddenly, close behind them, they heard a sigh, then a groan. 'Ah!' They turned hastily and looked at each other. There was nothing. They looked again. Where was Snowflake? She has hidden herself for fun, they thought, and searched for her everywhere. 'Snowflake! Snowflake!' But there was no answer. 'Where can she be? Oh, she must have gone home.' They returned to the village, but there was no Snowflake.

For days after that they sought her high and low. They examined every bush and every hedge, but there was no Snowflake. And long after everyone else had given up hope Ivan and Marie would wander through the woods crying 'Snowflake, my dove, come back, come back!' And sometimes they thought they heard a call, but it was never the voice of Snowflake.

And what had become of her? Had a fierce wild beast seized her and dragged her into his lair in the forest? Had some bird carried her off across the wide blue sea?

No, no beast had touched her, no bird had borne her away. With the first breath of flame that swept over her when she ran with her friends Snowflake had melted away, and a little soft haze floating upwards was all that remained of her.



I Know What I Have Learned

From the Danish.


There was once a man who had three daughters, and they were all married to trolls, who lived underground. One day the man thought that he would pay them a visit, and his wife gave him some dry bread to eat by the way. After he had walked some distance he grew both tired and hungry, so he sat down on the east side of a mound and began to eat his dry bread. The mound then opened, and his youngest daughter came out of it, and said, 'Why, father! why are you not coming in to see me?'

'Oh,' said he, 'if I had known that you lived here, and had seen any entrance, I would have come in.'

Then he entered the mound along with her.

The troll came home soon after this, and his wife told him that her father was come, and asked him to go and buy some beef to make broth with.

'We can get it easier than that!' said the troll.

He fixed an iron spike into one of the beams of the roof, and ran his head against this till he had knocked several large pieces off his head. He was just as well as ever after doing this, and they got their broth without further trouble.

The troll then gave the old man a sackful of money, and laden with this he betook himself homewards. When he came near his home he remembered that he had a cow about to calve, so he laid down the money on the ground, ran home as fast as he could, and asked his wife whether the cow had calved yet.

'What kind of a hurry is this to come home in?' said she. 'No, the cow has not calved yet.'

'Then you must come out and help me in with a sackful of money,' said the man.

'A sackful of money?' cried his wife.

'Yes, a sackful of money,' said he. 'Is that so very wonderful?'

His wife did not believe very much what he told her, but she humoured him, and went out with him.

When they came to the spot where he had left it there was no money there; a thief had come along and stolen it. His wife then grew angry and scolded him heartily.

'Well, well!' said he, 'hang the money! I know what I have learned.'

'What have you learned?' said she.

'Ah! I know that,' said the man.

After some time had passed the man had a mind to visit his second eldest daughter. His wife again gave him some dry bread to eat, and when he grew tired and hungry he sat down on the east side of a mound and began to eat it. As he sat there his daughter came up out of the mound, and invited him to come inside, which he did very willingly.

Soon after this the troll came home. It was dark by that time, and his wife bade him go and buy some candles.

'Oh, we shall soon get a light,' said the troll. With that he dipped his fingers into the fire, and they then gave light without being burned in the least.

The old man got two sacks of money here, and plodded away homewards with these. When he was very nearly home he again thought of the cow that was with calf, so he laid down the money, ran home, and asked his wife whether the cow had calved yet.

'Whatever is the matter with you?' said she. 'You come hurrying as if the whole house was about to fall. You may set your mind at rest: the cow has not calved yet.'

The man now asked her to come and help him home with the two sacks of money. She did not believe him very much, but he continued to assure her that it was quite true, till at last she gave in and went with him. When they came to the spot there had again been a thief there and taken the money. It was no wonder that the woman was angry about this, but the man only said, 'Ah, if you only knew what I have learned.'

A third time the man set out -- to visit his eldest daughter. When he came to a mound he sat down on the east side of it and ate the dry bread which his wife had given him to take with him. The daughter then came out of the mound and invited her father to come inside.

In a little the troll came home, and his wife asked him to go and buy some fish.

'We can get them much more easily than that,' said the troll. 'Give me your dough trough and your ladle.'

They seated themselves in the trough, and rowed out on the lake which was beside the mound. When they had got out a little way the troll said to his wife, 'Are my eyes green?'

'No, not yet,' said she.

He rowed on a little further and asked again, 'Are my eyes not green yet?'

'Yes,' said his wife, 'they are green now.'

Then the troll sprang into the water and ladled up so many fish that in a short time the trough could hold no more. They then rowed home again, and had a good meal off the fish.

The old man now got three sacks full of money, and set off home with them. When he was almost home the cow again came into his head, and he laid down the money. This time, however, he took his wooden shoes and laid them above the money, thinking that no one would take it after that. Then he ran home and asked his wife whether the cow had calved. It had not, and she scolded him again for behaving in this way, but in the end he persuaded her to go with him to help him with the three sacks of money.

When they came to the spot they found only the wooden shoes, for a thief had come along in the meantime and taken all the money. The woman was very angry, and broke out upon her husband; but he took it all very quietly, and only said, 'Hang the money! I know what I have learned.'

'What have you learned I should like to know?' said his wife.

'You will see that yet,' said the man.

One day his wife took a fancy for broth, and said to him, 'Oh, go to the village, and buy a piece of beef to make broth.'

'There's no need of that,' said he; 'we can get it an easier way.' With that he drove a spike into a beam, and ran his head against it, and in consequence had to lie in bed for a long time afterwards.

After he had recovered from this his wife asked him one day to go and buy candles, as they had none.

'No,' he said, 'there's no need for that;' and he stuck his hand into the fire. This also made him take to bed for a good while.

When he had got better again his wife one day wanted fish, and asked him to go and buy some. The man, however, wished again to show what he had learned, so he asked her to come along with him and bring her dough trough and a ladle. They both seated themselves in this, and rowed upon the lake. When they had got out a little way the man said, 'Are my eyes green?'

'No,' said his wife; 'why should they be?'

They rowed a little further out, and he asked again, 'Are my eyes not green yet?'

'What nonsense is this?' said she; 'why should they be green?'

'Oh, my dear,' said he, 'can't you just say that they are green?'

'Very well,' said she, 'they are green.'

As soon as he heard this he sprang out into the water with the ladle for the fishes, but he just got leave to stay there with them!



The Cunning Shoemaker

Sicilianische Mahrchen.


Once upon a time there lived a shoemaker who could get no work to do, and was so poor that he and his wife nearly died of hunger. At last he said to her, 'It is no use waiting on here -- I can find nothing; so I shall go down to Mascalucia, and perhaps there I shall be more lucky.'

So down he went to Mascalucia, and walked through the streets crying, 'Who wants some shoes?' And very soon a window was pushed up, and a woman's head was thrust out of it.

'Here are a pair for you to patch,' she said. And he sat down on her doorstep and set about patching them.

'How much do I owe you?' she asked when they were done.

'A shilling.'

'Here is eighteen pence, and good luck to you.' And he went his way. He turned into the next street and set up his cry again, and it was not long before another window was pushed up and another head appeared.

'Here are some shoes for you to patch.'

And the shoemaker sat down on the doorstep and patched them.

'How much do I owe you?' asked the woman when the shoes were finished.

'A florin.'

'Here is a crown piece, and good luck to you.' And she shut the window.

'Well,' thought the shoemaker, 'I have done finely. But I will not go back to my wife just yet, as, if I only go on at this rate, I shall soon have enough money to buy a donkey.'

Having made up his mind what was best to do, he stayed in the town a few days longer till he had four gold pieces safe in his purse. Then he went to the market and for two of them he bought a good strong donkey, and, mounting on its back, he rode home to Catania. But as he entered a thick wood he saw in the distance a band of robbers who were coming quickly towards him.

'I am lost,' thought he; 'they are sure to take from me all the money that I have earned, and I shall be as poor as ever I was. What can I do?' However, being a clever little man and full of spirit, he did not lose heart, but, taking five florins, he fastened them out of sight under the donkey's thick mane. Then he rode on.

Directly the robber came up to him they seized him exactly as he had foretold and took away all his money.

'Oh, dear friends!' he cried, wringing his hands, 'I am only a poor shoemaker, and have nothing but this donkey left in the world.'

As he spoke the donkey gave himself a shake, and down fell the five florins.

'Where did that come from?' asked the robbers.

'Ah,' replied the shoemaker, 'you have guessed my secret. The donkey is a golden donkey, and supplies me with all my money.'

'Sell him to us,' said the robbers. 'We will give you any price you like.'

The shoemaker at first declared that nothing would induce him to sell him, but at last he agreed to hand him over to the robbers for fifty gold pieces. 'But listen to what I tell you,' said he. 'You must each take it in turn to own him for a night and a day, or else you will all be fighting over the money.'

With these words they parted, the robbers driving the donkey to their cave in the forest and the shoemaker returning home, very pleased with the success of his trick. He just stopped on the way to pick up a good dinner, and the next day spent most of his gains in buying a small vineyard.

Meanwhile the robbers had arrived at the cave where they lived, and the captain, calling them all round him, announced that it as his right to have the donkey for the first night. His companions agreed, and then he told his wife to put a mattress in the stable. She asked if he had gone out of his mind, but he answered crossly, 'What is that to you? Do as you are bid, and to-morrow I will bring you some treasures.'

Very early the captain awoke and searched the stable, but could find nothing, and guessed that Master Joseph had been making fun of them. 'Well,' he said to himself, 'if I have been taken in, the others shall not come off any better.'

So, when one of his men arrived and asked him eagerly how much money he had got, he answered gaily, 'Oh, comrade, if you only knew! But I shall say nothing about it till everyone has had his turn!'

One after another they all took the donkey, but no money was forthcoming for anybody. At length, when all the band had been tricked, they held a council, and resolved to march to the shoemaker's house and punish him well for his cunning. Just as before, the shoemaker saw them a long way off, and began to think how he could outwit them again. When he had hit upon a plan he called his wife, and said to her, 'Take a bladder and fill it with blood, and bind it round your neck. When the robbers come and demand the money they gave me for the donkey I shall shout to you and tell you to get it quickly. You must argue with me, and decline to obey me, and then I shall plunge my knife into the bladder, and you must fall to the ground as if you were dead. There you must lie till I play on my guitar; then get up and begin to dance.'

The wife made haste to do as she was bid, and there was no time to lose, for the robbers were drawing very near the house. They entered with a great noise, and overwhelmed the shoemaker with reproaches for having deceived them about the donkey.

'The poor beast must have lost its power owing to the change of masters,' said he; 'but we will not quarrel about it. You shall have back the fifty gold pieces that you gave for him. 'Aite,' he cried to his wife, 'go quickly to the chest upstairs, and bring down the money for these gentlemen.'

'Wait a little,' answered she; 'I must first bake this fish. It will be spoilt if I leave it now.'

'Go this instant, as you are bid,' shouted the shoemaker, stamping as if he was in a great passion; but, as she did not stir, he drew his knife, and stabbed her in the neck. The blood spurted out freely, and she fell to the ground as if she was dead.

'What have you done?' asked the robbers, looking at him in dismay. 'The poor woman was doing nothing.'

'Perhaps I was hasty, but it is easily set right,' replied the shoemaker, taking down his guitar and beginning to play. Hardly had he struck the first notes than his wife sat up; then got on her feet and danced.

The robbers stared with open mouths, and at last they said, 'Master Joseph, you may keep the fifty gold pieces. But tell us what you will take for your guitar, for you must sell it to us?'

'Oh, that is impossible!' replied the shoemaker, 'for every time I have a quarrel with my wife I just strike her dead, and so give vent to my anger. This has become such a habit with me that I don't think I could break myself of it; and, of course, if I got rid of the guitar I could never bring her back to life again.'

However, the robbers would not listen to him, and at last he consented to take forty gold pieces for the guitar.

Then they all returned to their cave in the forest, delighted with their new purchase, and longing for a chance of trying its powers. But the captain declared that the first trial belonged to him, and after that the others might have their turn.

That evening he called to his wife and said, 'What have you got for supper?'

'Macaroni,' answered she.

'Why have you not boiled a fish?' he cried, and stabber in the neck so that she fell dead. The captain, who was not in the least angry, seized the guitar and began to play; but, let him play as loud as he would, the dead woman never stirred. 'Oh, lying shoemaker! Oh, abominable knave! Twice has he got the better of me. But I will pay him out!'

So he raged and swore, but it did him no good. The fact remained that he had killed his wife and could not bring her back again.

The next morning came one of the robbers to fetch the guitar, and to hear what had happened.

'Well, how have you got on?'

'Oh, splendidly! I stabbed my wife, and then began to play, and now she is as well as ever.'

'Did you really? Then this evening I will try for myself.'

Of course the same thing happened over again, till all the wives had been killed secretly, and when there were no more left they whispered to each other the dreadful tale, and swore to be avenged on the shoemaker.

The band lost no time in setting out for his house, and, as before, the shoemaker saw them coming from afar. He called to his wife, who was washing in the kitchen: 'Listen, Aita: when the robbers come and ask for me say I have gone to the vineyard. Then tell the dog to call me, and chase him from the house.'

When he had given these directions he ran out of the back door and hid behind a barrel. A few minutes later the robbers arrived, and called loudly for the shoemaker.

'Alas! good gentlemen, he is up in the vineyard, but I will send the dog after him at once. Here! now quickly to the vineyard, and tell your master some gentlemen are here who wish to speak to him. Go as fast as you can.' And she opened the door and let the dog out.

'You can really trust the dog to call your husband?' asked the robbers.

'Dear me, yes! He understands everything, and will always carry any message I give him.'

By-and-bye the shoemaker came in and said, 'Good morning, gentlemen; the dog tells me you wish to speak to me.'

'Yes, we do,' replied the robber; 'we have come to speak to you about that guitar. It is your fault that we have murdered all our wives; and, though we played as you told us, none of them ever came back to life.'

'You could not have played properly,' said the shoemaker. 'It was your own fault.'

'Well, we will forget all about it,' answered the robbers, 'if you will only sell us your dog.'

'Oh, that is impossible! I should never get on without him.'

But the robbers offered him forty gold pieces, and at last he agreed to let them have the dog.

So they departed, taking the dog with them, and when they got back to their cave the captain declared that it was his right to have the first trial.

He then called his daughter, and said to her, 'I am going to the inn; if anybody wants me, loose the dog, and send him to call me.'

About an hour after some one arrived on business, and the girl untied the dog and said, 'Go to the inn and call my father!' The dog bounded off, but ran straight to the shoemaker.

When the robber got home and found no dog he thought 'He must have gone back to his old master,' and, though night had already fallen, he went off after him.

'Master Joseph, is the dog here?' asked he.

'Ah! yes, the poor beast is so fond of me! You must give him time to get accustomed to new ways.'

So the captain brought the dog back, and the following morning handed him over to another of the band, just saying that the animal really could do what the shoemaker had said.

The second robber carefully kept his own counsel, and fetched the dog secretly back from the shoemaker, and so on through the whole band. At length, when everybody had suffered, they met and told the whole story, and next day they all marched off in fury to the man who had made game of them. After reproaching him with having deceived them, they tied him up in a sack, and told him they were going to throw him into the sea. The shoemaker lay quite still, and let them do as they would.

They went on till they came to a church, and the robbers said, 'The sun is hot and the sack is heavy; let us leave it here and go in and rest.' So they put the sack down by the roadside, and went into the church.

Now, on a hill near by there was a swineherd looking after a great herd of pigs and whistling merrily.

When Master Joseph heard him he cried out as loud as he could, 'I won't; I won't, I say.'

'What won't you do?' asked the swineherd.

'Oh,' replied the shoemaker. 'They want me to marry the king's daughter, and I won't do it.'

'How lucky you are!' sighed the swineherd. 'Now, if it were only me!'

'Oh, if that's all!' replied the cunning shoemaker, 'get you into this sack, and let me out.'

Then the swineherd opened the sack and took the place of the shoemaker, who went gaily off, driving the pigs before him.

When the robbers were rested they came out of the church, took up the sack, and carried it to the sea, where they threw it in, and it sank directly. As they came back they met the shoemaker, and stared at him with open mouths.

'Oh, if you only knew how many pigs live in the sea,' he cried. 'And the deeper you go the more there are. I have just brought up these, and mean to return for some more.'

'There are still some left there?'

'Oh, more than I could count,' replied the shoemaker. 'I will show you what you must do.' Then he led the robbers back to the shore. 'Now,' said he, 'you must each of you tie a stone to your necks, so that you may be sure to go deep enough, for I found the pigs that you saw very deep down indeed.'

Then the robbers all tied stones round their necks, and jumped in, and were drowned, and Master Joseph drove his pigs home, and was a rich man to the end of his days.



The King Who Would Have a Beautiful Wife

Sicilianische Mahrchen.


Fifty years ago there lived a king who was very anxious to get married; but, as he was quite determined that his wife should be as beautiful as the sun, the thing was not so easy as it seemed, for no maiden came up to his standard. Then he commanded a trusty servant to search through the length and breadth of the land till he found a girl fair enough to be queen, and if he had the good luck to discover one he was to bring her back with him.

The servant set out at once on his journey, and sought high and low-in castles and cottages; but though pretty maidens were plentiful as blackberries, he felt sure that none of them would please the king.

One day he had wandered far and wide, and was feeling very tired and thirsty. By the roadside stood a tiny little house, and here he knocked and asked for a cup of water. Now in this house dwelt two sisters, and one was eighty and the other ninety years old. They were very poor, and earned their living by spinning. This had kept their hands very soft and white, like the hands of a girl, and when the water was passed through the lattice, and the servant saw the small, delicate fingers, he said to himself: 'A maiden must indeed be lovely if she has a hand like that.' And he made haste back, and told the king.

'Go back at once,' said his majesty, 'and try to get a sight of her.'

The faithful servant departed on his errand without losing any time, and again he knocked at the door of the little house and begged for some water. As before, the old woman did not open the door, but passed the water through the lattice.

'Do you live here alone?' asked the man.

'No,' replied she, 'my sister lives with me. We are poor girls, and have to work for our bread.'

'How old are you?'

'I am fifteen, and she is twenty.'

Then the servant went back to the king, and told him all he knew. And his majesty answered: 'I will have the fifteen-year-old one. Go and bring her here.'

The servant returned a third time to the little house and knocked at the door. In reply to his knock the lattice window was pushed open, and a voice inquired what it was he wanted.

'The king has desired me to bring back the youngest of you to become his queen,' he replied.

'Tell his majesty I am ready to do his bidding, but since my birth no ray of light has fallen upon my face. If it should ever do so I shall instantly grow black. Therefore beg, I pray you, his most gracious majesty to send this evening a shut carriage, and I will return in it to the castle.

When the king heard this he ordered his great golden carriage to be prepared, and in it to be placed some magnificent robes; and the old woman wrapped herself in a thick veil, and was driven to the castle.

The king was eagerly awaiting her, and when she arrived he begged her politely to raise her veil and let him see her face.

But she answered: 'Here the tapers are too bright and the light too strong. Would you have me turn black under your very eyes?'

And the king believed her words, and the marriage took place without the veil being once lifted. Afterwards, when they were alone, he raised the corner, and knew for the first time that he had wedded a wrinkled old woman. And, in a furious burst of anger, he dashed open the window and flung her out. But, luckily for her, her clothes caught on a nail in the wall, and kept her hanging between heaven and earth.

While she was thus suspended, expecting every moment to be dashed to the ground, four fairies happened to pass by.

'Look, sisters,' cried one, 'surely that is the old woman that the king sent for. Shall we wish that her clothes may give way, and that she should be dashed to the ground?'

'Oh no! no!' exclaimed another. 'Let us wish her something good. I myself will wish her youth.'

'And I beauty.'

'And I wisdom.'

'And I a tender heart.'

So spake the fairies, and went their way, leaving the most beautiful maiden in the world behind them.

The next morning when the king looked from his window he saw this lovely creature hanging on the nail. 'Ah! what have I done? Surely I must have been blind last night!'

And he ordered long ladders to be brought and the maiden to be rescued. Then he fell on his knees before her, and prayed her to forgive him, and a great feast was made in her honour.

Some days after came the ninety-year-old sister to the palace and asked for the queen.

'Who is that hideous old witch?' said the king.

'Oh, an old neighbour of mine, who is half silly,' she replied.

But the old woman looked at her steadily, and knew her again, and said: 'How have you managed to grow so young and beautiful? I should like to be young and beautiful too.'

This question she repeated the whole day long, till at length the queen lost patience and said: 'I had my old head cut off, and this new head grew in its place.'

Then the old woman went to a barber, and spoke to him, saying, 'I will give you all you ask if you will only cut off my head, so that I may become young and lovely.'

'But, my good woman, if I do that you will die!'

But the old woman would listen to nothing; and at last the barber took out his knife and struck the first blow at her neck.

'Ah!' she shrieked as she felt the pain.

'Il faut souffrir pour etre belle,' said the barber, who had been in France.

And at the second blow her head rolled off, and the old woman was dead for good and all.



Catherine and Her Destiny

Sicilianische Mahrchen von Laura Gonzenbach. Leipzig, Engelmann, 1870.


Long ago there lived a rich merchant who, besides possessing more treasures than any king in the world, had in his great hall three chairs, one of silver, one of gold, and one of diamonds. But his greatest treasure of all was his only daughter, who was called Catherine.

One day Catherine was sitting in her own room when suddenly the door flew open, and in came a tall and beautiful woman holding in her hands a little wheel.

'Catherine,' she said, going up to the girl, 'which would you rather have-a happy youth or a happy old age?'

Catherine was so taken by surprise that she did not know what to answer, and the lady repeated again, 'Which would you rather have-a happy youth or a happy old age?'

Then Catherine thought to herself, 'If I say a happy youth, then I shall have to suffer all the rest of my life. No, I would bear trouble now, and have something better to look forward to.' So she looked up and replied, 'Give me a happy old age.'

'So be it,' said the lady, and turned her wheel as she spoke, vanishing the next moment as suddenly as she had come.

Now this beautiful lady was the Destiny of poor Catherine.

Only a few days after this the merchant heard the news that all his finest ships, laden with the richest merchandise, had been sunk in a storm, and he was left a beggar. The shock was too much for him. He took to his bed, and in a short time he was dead of his disappointment.

So poor Catherine was left alone in the world without a penny or a creature to help her. But she was a brave girl and full of spirit, and soon made up her mind that the best thing she could do was to go to the nearest town and become a servant. She lost no time in getting herself ready, and did not take long over her journey; and as she was passing down the chief street of the town a noble lady saw her out of the window, and, struck by her sad face, said to her: 'Where are you going all alone, my pretty girl?'

'Ah, my lady, I am very poor, and must go to service to earn my bread.'

'I will take you into my service,' said she; and Catherine served her well.

Some time after her mistress said to Catherine, 'I am obliged to go out for a long while, and must lock the house door, so that no thieves shall get in.'

So she went away, and Catherine took her work and sat down at the window. Suddenly the door burst open, and in came her Destiny.

'Oh! so here you are, Catherine! Did you really think I was going to leave you in peace?' And as she spoke she walked to the linen press where Catherine's mistress kept all her finest sheets and underclothes, tore everything in pieces, and flung them on the floor. Poor Catherine wrung her hands and wept, for she thought to herself, 'When my lady comes back and sees all this ruin she will think it is my fault,' and starting up, she fled through the open door. Then Destiny took all the pieces and made them whole again, and put them back in the press, and when everything was tidy she too left the house.

When the mistress reached home she called Catherine, but no Catherine was there. 'Can she have robbed me?' thought the old lady, and looked hastily round the house; but nothing was missing. She wondered why Catherine should have disappeared like this, but she heard no more of her, and in a few days she filled her place.

Meanwhile Catherine wandered on and on, without knowing very well where she was going, till at last she came to another town. Just as before, a noble lady happened to see her passing her window, and called out to her, 'Where are you going all alone, my pretty girl?'

And Catherine answered, 'Ah, my lady, I am very poor, and must go to service to earn my bread.'

'I will take you into my service,' said the lady; and Catherine served her well, and hoped she might now be left in peace. But, exactly as before, one day that Catherine was left in the house alone her Destiny came again and spoke to her with hard words: 'What! are you here now?' And in a passion she tore up everything she saw, till in sheer misery poor Catherine rushed out of the house. And so it befell for seven years, and directly Catherine found a fresh place her Destiny came and forced her to leave it.

After seven years, however, Destiny seemed to get tired of persecuting her, and a time of peace set in for Catherine. When she had been chased away from her last house by Destiny's wicked pranks she had taken service with another lady, who told her that it would be part of her daily work to walk to a mountain that overshadowed the town, and, climbing up to the top, she was to lay on the ground some loaves of freshly baked bread, and cry with a loud voice, 'O Destiny, my mistress,' three times. Then her lady's Destiny would come and take away the offering. 'That will I gladly do,' said Catherine.

So the years went by, and Catherine was still there, and every day she climbed the mountain with her basket of bread on her arm. She was happier than she had been, but sometimes, when no one saw her, she would weep as she thought over her old life, and how different it was to the one she was now leading. One day her lady saw her, and said, 'Catherine, what is it? Why are you always weeping?' And then Catherine told her story.

'I have got an idea,' exclaimed the lady. 'To-morrow, when you take the bread to the mountain, you shall pray my Destiny to speak to yours, and entreat her to leave you in peace. Perhaps something may come of it!'

At these words Catherine dried her eyes, and next morning, when she climbed the mountain, she told all she had suffered, and cried, 'O Destiny, my mistress, pray, I entreat you, of my Destiny that she may leave me in peace.'

And Destiny answered, 'Oh, my poor girl, know you not your Destiny lies buried under seven coverlids, and can hear nothing? But if you will come to-morrow I will bring her with me.'

And after Catherine had gone her way her lady's Destiny went to find her sister, and said to her, 'Dear sister, has not Catherine suffered enough? It is surely time for her good days to begin?'

And the sister answered, 'To-morrow you shall bring her to me, and I will give her something that may help her out of her need.'

The next morning Catherine set out earlier than usual for the mountain, and her lady's Destiny took the girl by the hand and led her to her sister, who lay under the seven coverlids. And her Destiny held out to Catherine a ball of silk, saying, 'Keep this -- it may be useful some day;' then pulled the coverings over her head again.

But Catherine walked sadly down the hill, and went straight to her lady and showed her the silken ball, which was the end of all her high hopes.

'What shall I do with it?' she asked. 'It is not worth sixpence, and it is no good to me!'

'Take care of it,' replied her mistress. 'Who can tell how useful it may be?'

A little while after this grand preparations were made for the king's marriage, and all the tailors in the town were busy embroidering fine clothes. The wedding garment was so beautiful nothing like it had ever been seen before, but when it was almost finished the tailor found that he had no more silk. The colour was very rare, and none could be found like it, and the king made a proclamation that if anyone happened to possess any they should bring it to the court, and he would give them a large sum.

'Catherine!' exclaimed the lady, who had been to the tailors and seen the wedding garment, 'your ball of silk is exactly the right colour. Bring it to the king, and you can ask what you like for it.'

Then Catherine put on her best clothes and went to the court, and looked more beautiful than any woman there.

'May it please your majesty,' she said, 'I have brought you a ball of silk of the colour you asked for, as no one else has any in the town.'

'Your majesty,' asked one of the courtiers, 'shall I give the maiden its weight in gold?'

The king agreed, and a pair of scales were brought; and a handful of gold was placed in one scale and the silken ball in the other. But lo! let the king lay in the scales as many gold pieces as he would, the silk was always heavier still. Then the king took some larger scales, and heaped up all his treasures on one side, but the silk on the other outweighed them all. At last there was only one thing left that had not been put in, and that was his golden crown. And he took it from his head and set it on top of all, and at last the scale moved and the ball had founds its balance.

'Where got you this silk?' asked the king.

'It was given me, royal majesty, by my mistress,' replied Catherine.

'That is not true,' said the king, 'and if you do not tell me the truth I will have your head cut off this instant.'

So Catherine told him the whole story, and how she had once been as rich as he.

Now there lived at the court a wise woman, and she said to Catherine, 'You have suffered much, my poor girl, but at length your luck has turned, and I know by the weighing of the scales through the crown that you will die a queen.'

'So she shall,' cried the king, who overheard these words; 'she shall die my queen, for she is more beautiful than all the ladies of the court, and I will marry no one else.'

And so it fell out. The king sent back the bride he had promised to wed to her own country, and the same Catherine was queen at the marriage feast instead, and lived happy and contented to the end of her life.



How the Hermit Helped to Win the King's Daughter

Sicilianische Mahrchen


Long ago there lived a very rich man who had three sons. When he felt himself to be dying he divided his property between them, making them share alike, both in money and lands. Soon after he died the king set forth a proclamation through the whole country that whoever could build a ship that should float both on land and sea should have his daughter to wife.

The eldest brother, when he heard it, said to the other, 'I think I will spend some of my money in trying to build that ship, as I should like to have the king for my father-in-law.' So he called together all the shipbuilders in the land, and gave them orders to begin the ship without delay. And trees were cut down, and great preparations made, and in a few days everybody knew what it was all for; and there was a crowd of old people pressing round the gates of the yard, where the young man spent the most of his day.

'Ah, master, give us work,' they said, 'so that we may earn our bread.'

But he only gave them hard words, and spoke roughly to them. 'You are old, and have lost your strength; of what use are you?' And he drove them away. Then came some boys and prayed him, "master, give us work,' but he answered them, 'Of what use can you be, weaklings as you are! Get you gone!' And if any presented themselves that were not skilled workmen he would have none of them.

At last there knocked at the gate a little old man with a long white beard, and said, 'Will you give me work, so that I may earn my bread?' But he was only driven away like the rest.

The ship took a long while to build, and cost a great deal of money, and when it was launched a sudden squall rose, and it fell to pieces, and with it all the young man's hopes of winning the princess. By this time he had not a penny left, so he went back to his two brothers and told his tale. And the second brother said to himself as he listened, 'Certainly he has managed very badly, but I should like to see if I can't do better, and win the princess for my own self.' So he called together all the shipbuilders throughout the country, and gave them orders to build a ship which should float on the land as well as on the sea. But his heart was no softer than his brother's, and every man that was not a skilled workman was chased away with hard words. Last came the white-bearded man, but he fared no better than the rest.

When the ship was finished the launch took place, and everything seemed going smoothly when a gale sprang up, and the vessel was dashed to pieces on the rocks. The young man had spent his whole fortune on it, and now it was all swallowed up, was forced to beg shelter from his youngest brother. When he told his story the youngest said to himself, 'I am not rich enough to support us all three. I had better take my turn, and if I manage to win the princess there will be her fortune as well as my own for us to live on.' So he called together all the shipbuilders in the kingdom, and gave orders that a new ship should be built. Then all the old people came and asked for work, and he answered cheerfully, 'Oh, yes, there is plenty for everybody;' and when the boys begged to be allowed to help he found something that they could do. And when the old man with the long white beard stood before him, praying that he might earn his bread, he replied, 'Oh, father, I could not suffer you to work, but you shall be overseer, and look after the rest.'

Now the old man was a holy hermit, and when he saw how kind-hearted the youth was he determined to do all he could for him to gain the wish of his heart.

By-and-bye, when the ship was finished, the hermit said to his young friend, 'Now you can go and claim the king's daughter, for hte ship will float both by land and sea.'

'Oh, good father,' cried the young man, 'you will not forsake me? Stay with me, I pray you, and lead me to the king!'

'If you wish it, I will,' said the hermit, 'on condition that you will give me half of anything you get.'

'Oh, if that is all,' answered he, 'it is easily promised!' And they set out together on the ship.

After they had gone some distance they saw a man standing in a thick fog, which he was trying to put into a sack.

'Oh, good father,' exclaimed the youth, 'what can he be doing?'

'Ask him,' said the old man.

'What are you doing, my fine fellow?'

'I am putting the fog into my sack. That is my business.'

'Ask him if he will come with us,' whispered the hermit.

And the man answered: 'If you will give me enough to eat and drink I will gladly stay with you.'

So they took him on their ship, and the youth said, as they started off again, 'Good father, before we were two, and now we are three!'

After they had travelled a little further they met a man who had torn up half the forest, and was carrying all the trees on his shoulders.

'Good father,' exclaimed the youth, 'only look! What can he have done that for?'

'Ask him why he has torn up all those trees.'

And the man replied, 'Why, I've merely been gathering a handful of brushwood.'

'Beg him to come with us,' whispered the hermit.

And the strong man answered: 'Willingly, as long as you give me enough to eat and drink.' And he came on the ship.

And the youth said to the hermit, 'Good father, before we were three, and now we are four.'

The ship travelled on again, and some miles further on they saw a man drinking out of a stream till he had nearly drunk it dry.

'Good father,' said the youth, 'just look at that man! Did you ever see anybody drink like that?'

'Ask him why he does it,' answered the hermit.

'Why, there is nothing very odd in taking a mouthful of water!' replied the man, standing up.

'Beg him to come with us.' And the youth did so.

'With pleasure, as long as you give me enough to eat and drink.'

And the youth whispered to the hermit, 'Good father, before we were four, and now we are five.'

A little way along they noticed another man in the middle of a stream, who was shooting into the water.

'Good father,' said the youth, 'what can he be shooting at?'

'Ask him,' answered the hermit.

'Hush, hush!' cried the man; 'now you have frightened it away. In the Underworld sits a quail on a tree, and I wanted to shoot it. That is my business. I hit everything I aim at.'

'Ask him if he will come with us.'

And the man replied, 'With all my heart, as long as I get enough to eat and drink.'

So they took him into the ship, and the young man whispered, 'Good father, before we were five, and now we are six.'

Off they went again, and before they had gone far they met a man striding towards them whose steps were so long that while one foot was on the north of the island the other was right down in the south.

'Good father, look at him! What long steps he takes!'

'Ask him why he does it,' replied the hermit.

'Oh, I am only going out for a little walk,' answered he.

'Ask him if he will come with us.'

'Gladly, if you will give me as much as I want to eat and drink,' said he, climbing up into the ship.

And the young man whispered, 'Good father, before we were six, and now we are seven.' But the hermit knew what he was about, and why he gathered these strange people into the ship.

After many days, at last they reached the town where lived the king and his daughter. They stopped the vessel right in front of the palace, and the young man went in and bowed low before the king.

'O Majesty, I have done your bidding, and now is the ship built that can travel over land and sea. Give me my reward, and let me have your daughter to wife.'

But the king said to himself, 'What! am I to wed my daughter to a man of whom I know nothing. Not even whether he be rich or poor -- a knight or a beggar.'

And aloud he spake: It is not enough that you have managed to build the ship. You must find a runner who shall take this letter to the ruler of the Underworld, and bring me the answer back in an hour.'

'That is not in the bond,' answered the young man.

'Well, do as you like,' replied the king, 'only you will not get my daughter.'

The young man went out, sorely troubled, to tell his old friend what had happened.

'Silly boy!' cried the hermit, 'Accept his terms at once. And send off the long-legged man with the letter. He will take it in no time at all.'

So the youth's heard leapt for joy, and he returned to the king. 'Majesty, I accept your terms. HEre is the messenger who will do what you wish.'

The king had no choice but to give the man the letter, and he strode off, making short work of the distance that lay between the palace and the Underworld. He soon found the ruler, who looked at the letter, and said to him, 'Wait a little while i write the answer;' but the man was soo tired with his quick walk that he went sound asleep and forgot all about his errand.

All this time the youth was anxiously counting the minutes till he could get back, and stood with his eyes fixed on the road down which his messenger must come.

'What can be keeping him,' he said to the hermit when the hour was nearly up. Then the hermit sent for the man who could hit everything he aimed at, and said to him, 'Just see why the messenger stays so long.'

'Oh, he is sound asleep in the palace of the Underworld. However, I can wake him.'

Then he drew his bow, and shot an arrow straight into the man's knee. The messenger awoke with such a start, and when he saw that the hour had almost run out he snatched up the answer and rushed back with such speed that the clock had not yet struck when he entered the palace.

Now the young man thought he was sure of his bride, but the king said, "Still you have not done enough. Before I give you my daughter you must find a man who can drink half the contents of my cellar in one day.'

'That is not in the bond,' complained the poor youth.

'Well, do as you like, only you will not get my daughter.'

The young man went sadly out, and asked the hermit what he was to do.

'Silly boy!' said he. 'Why, tell the man to do it who drinks up everything.'

So they sent for the man and said, 'Do you think you are able to drink half the royal cellar in one day?'

'Dear me, yes, and as much more as you want,' answered he. 'I am never satisfied.'

The king was not pleased at the young man agreeing so readily, but he had no choice, and ordered the servant to be taken downstairs. Oh, how he enjoyed himself! All day long he drank, and drank, and drank, till instead of half the cellar, he had drunk the whole, and there was not a cask but what stood empty. And when the king saw this he said to the youth, 'You have conquered, and I can no longer withhold my daughter. But, as her dowry, I shall only give so much as one man can carry away.'

'But,' answered he, 'let a man be ever so strong, he cannot carry more than a hundredweight, and what is that for a king's daughter?'

'Well, do as you like; I have said my say. It is your affair -- not mine.'

The young man was puzzled, and did not know what to reply, for, though he would gladly have married the princess without a sixpence, he had spent all his money in building the ship, and knew he could not give her all she wanted. So he went to the hermit and said to him, 'The king will only give for her dowry as much as a man can carry. I have no money of my own left, and my brothers have none either.'

'Silly boy! Why, you have only got to fetch the man who carried half the forest on his shoulders.'

And the youth was glad, and called the strong man, and told him what he must do. 'Take everything you can, till you are bent double. Never mind if you leave the palace bare.'

The strong man promised, and nobly kept his word. He piled all he could see on his back -- chairs, tables, wardrobes, chests of gold and silver -- till there was nothing left to pile. At last he took the king's crown, and put it on the top. He carried his burden to the ship and stowed his treasures away, and the youth followed, leading the king's daughter. But the king was left raging in his empty palace, and he called together his army, and got ready his ships of war, in order that he might go after the vessel and bring back what had been taken away.

And the king's ships sailed very fast, and soon caught up the little vessel, and the sailors all shouted for joy. Then the hermit looked out and saw how near they were, and he said to the youth, 'Do you see that?'

The youth shrieked and cried, 'Ah, good father, it is a fleet of ships, and they are chasing us, and in a few moments they will be upon us.'

But the hermit bade him call the man who had the fog in his sack, and the sack was opened and the fog flew out, and hung right round the king's ships, so that they could see nothing. So they sailed back to the palace, and told the king what strange things had happened. Meanwhile the young man's vessel reached home in safety.

'Well, here you are once more' said the hermit; 'and now you can fulfil the promise you made me to give me the half of all you had.'

'That will I do with all my heart,' answered the youth, and began to divide all his treasures, putting part on one side for himself and setting aside the other for his friend. 'Good father, it is finished,' said he at length; 'there is nothing more left to divide.'

'Nothing more left!' cried the hermit. 'Why, you have forgotten the best thing of all!'

'What can that be?' asked he. 'We have divided everything.'

'And the king's daughter?' said the hermit.

Then the young man's heart stood still, for he loved her dearly. But he answered, 'It is well; I have sworn, and I will keep my word,' and drew his sword to cut her in pieces. When the hermit saw that he held his honour dearer than his wife he lifted his hand and cried, 'Hold! she is yours, and all the treasures too. I gave you my help because you had pity on those that were in need. And when you are in need yourself, call upon me, and I will come to you.'

As he spoke he softly touched their heads and vanished.

The next day the wedding took place, and the two brothers came to the house, and they all lived happily together, but they never forgot the holy man who had been such a good friend.



The Water of Life

Cuentos Populars Catalans, per lo Dr. D. Francisco de S. Maspous y Labros. Barcelona, 1885.


Three brothers and one sister lived together in a small cottage, and they loved one another dearly. One day the eldest brother, who had never done anything but amuse himself from sunrise to sunset, said to the rest, 'Let us all work hard, and perhaps we shall grow rich, and be able to build ourselves a palace.'

And his brothers and sister answered joyfully, 'Yes, we will all work!'

So they fell to working with all their might, till at last they became rich, and were able to build themselves a beautiful palace; and everyone came from miles round to see its wonders, and to say how splendid it was. No one thought of finding any faults, till at length an old woman, who had been walking through the rooms with a crowd of people, suddenly exclaimed, 'Yes, it is a splendid palace, but there is still something it needs!'

'And what may that be?'

'A church.'

When they heard this the brothers set to work again to earn some more money, and when they had got enough they set about building a church, which should be as large and beautiful as the palace itself.

And after the church was finished greater numbers of people than ever flocked to see the palace and the church and vast gardens and magnificent halls.

But one day, as the brothers were as usual doing the honours to their guests, an old man turned to them and said, 'Yes, it is all most beautiful, but there is still something it needs!'

'And what may that be?'

'A pitcher of the water of life, a branch of the tree the smell of whose flowers gives eternal beauty, and the talking bird.'

'And where am I to find all those?'

'Go to the mountain that is far off yonder, and you will find what you seek.'

After the old man had bowed politely and taken farewell of them the eldest brother said to the rest, 'I will go in search of the water of life, and the talking bird, and the tree of beauty.'

'But suppose some evil thing befalls you?' asked his sister. 'How shall we know?'


'You are right,' he replied; ' I had not thought of that!'

Then they followed the old man, and said to him, 'My eldest brother wishes to seek for the water of life, and the tree of beauty, and the talking bird, that you tell him are needful to make our palace perfect. But how shall we know if any evil thing befall him?'

So the old man took them a knife, and gave it to them, saying, 'Keep this carefully, and as long as the blade is bright all is well; but if the blade is bloody, then know that evil has befallen him.'

The brothers thanked him, and departed, and went straight to the palace, where they found the young man making ready to set out for the mountain where the treasures he longed for lay hid.

And he walked, and he walked, and he walked, till he had gone a great way, and there he met a giant.

'Can you tell me how much further I have still to go before I reach that mountain yonder?'

'And why do you wish to go there?'

'I am seeking the water of life, the talking bird, and a branch of the tree of beauty.'

'Many have passed by seeking those treasures, but none have ever come back; and you will never come back either, unless you mark my words. Follow this path, and when you reach the mountain you will find it covered with stones. Do not stop to look at them, but keep on your way. As you go you will hear scoffs and laughs behind you; it will be the stones that mock. Do not heed them; above all, do not turn round. If you do you will become as one of them. Walk straight on till you get to the top, and then take all you wish for.'

The young man thanked him for his counsel, and walked, and walked, and walked, till he reached the mountain. And as he climbed he heard behind him scoffs and jeers, but he kept his ears steadily closed to them. At last the noise grew so loud that he lost patience, and he stooped to pick up a stone to hurl into the midst of the clamour, when suddenly his arm seemed to stiffen, and the next moment he was a stone himself!

That day his sister, who thought her brother's steps were long in returning, took out the knife and found the blade was red as blood. Then she cried out to her brothers that something terrible had come to pass.

'I will go and find him,' said the second. And he went.

And he walked, and he walked, and he walked, till he met the giant, and asked him if he had seen a young man travelling towards the mountain.

And the giant answered, 'Yes, I have seen him pass, but I have not seen him come back. The spell must have worked upon him.'

'Then what can I do to disenchant him, and find the water of life, the talking bird, and a branch of the tree of beauty?'

'Follow this path, and when you reach the mountain you will find it covered with stones. Do not stop to look at them, but climb steadily on. Above all, heed not the laughs and scoffs that will arise on all sides, and never turn round. And when you reach the top you can then take all you desire.'

The young man thanked him for his counsel, and set out for the mountain. But no sooner did he reach it than loud jests and gibes broke out on every side, and almost deafened him. For some time he let them rail, and pushed boldly on, till he had passed the place which his brother had gained; then suddenly he thought that among the scoffing sounds he heard his brother's voice. He stopped and looked back; and another stone was added to the number.

Meanwhile the sister left at home was counting the days when her two brothers should return to her. The time seemed long, and it would be hard to say how often she took out the knife and looked at its polished blade to make sure that this one at least was still safe. The blade was always bright and clear; each time she looked she had the happiness of knowing that all was well, till one evening, tired and anxious, as she frequently was at the end of the day, she took it from its drawer, and behold! the blade was red with blood. Her cry of horror brought her youngest brother to her, and, unable to speak, she held out the knife!

'I will go,' he said.

So he walked, and he walked, and he walked, until he met the giant, and he asked, 'Have two young men, making for yonder mountain, passed this way?'

And the giant answered, 'Yes, they have passed by, but they never came back, and by this I know that the spell has fallen upon them.'

'Then what must I do to free them, and to get the water of life, and the talking bird, and the branch of the tree of beauty?'

'Go to the mountain, which you will find so thickly covered with stones that you will hardly be able to place your feet, and walk straight forward, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left, and paying no heed to the laughs and scoffs which will follow you, till you reach the top, and then you may take all that you desire.'

The young man thanked the giant for his counsel, and set forth to the mountain. And when he began to climb there burst forth all around him a storm of scoffs and jeers; but he thought of the giant's words, and looked neither to the right hand nor to the left, till the mountain top lay straight before him. A moment now and he would have gained it, when, through the groans and yells, he heard his brothers' voices. He turned, and there was one stone the more.


And all this while his sister was pacing up and down the palace, hardly letting the knife out of her hand, and dreading what she knew she would see, and what she did see. The blade grew red before her eyes, and she said, 'Now it is my turn.'

So she walked, and she walked, and she walked till she came to the giant, and prayed him to tell her if he had seen three young men pass that way seeking the distant mountain.

'I have seen them pass, but they have never returned, and by this I know that the spell has fallen upon them.'

'And what must I do to set them free, and to find the water of life, and the talking bird, and a branch of the tree of beauty?'

'You must go to that mountain, which is so full of stones that your feet will hardly find a place to tread, and as you climb you will hear a noise as if all the stones in the world were mocking you; but pay no heed to anything you may hear, and, once you gain the top, you have gained everything.'

The girl thanked him for his counsel, and set out for the mountain; and scarcely had she gone a few steps upwards when cries and screams broke forth around her, and she felt as if each stone she trod on was a living thing. But she remembered the words of the giant, and knew not what had befallen her brothers, and kept her face steadily towards the mountain top, which grew nearer and nearer every moment. But as she mounted the clamour increased sevenfold: high above them all rang the voices of her three brothers. But the girl took no heed, and at last her feet stood upon the top.

Then she looked round, and saw, lying in a hollow, the pool of the water of life. And she took the brazen pitcher that she had brought with her, and filled it to the brim. By the side of the pool stood the tree of beauty, with the talking bird on one of its boughs; and she caught the bird, and placed it in a cage, and broke off one of the branches.

After that she turned, and went joyfully down the hill again, carrying her treasures, but her long climb had tired her out, and the brazen pitcher was very heavy, and as she walked a few drops of the water spilt on the stones, and as it touched them they changed into young men and maidens, crowding about her to give thanks for their deliverance.

So she learnt by this how the evil spell might be broken, and she carefully sprinkled every stone till there was not one left -- only a great company of youths and girls who followed her down the mountain.

When they arrived at the palace she did not lose a moment in planting the branch of the tree of beauty and watering it with the water of life. And the branch shot up into a tree, and was heavy with flowers, and the talking bird nestled in its branches.

Now the fame of these wonders was noised abroad, and the people flocked in great numbers to see the three marvels, and the maiden who had won them; and among the sightseers came the king's son, who would not go till everything was shown him, and till he had heard how it had all happened. And the prince admired the strangeness and beauty of the treasures in the palace, but more than all he admired the beauty and courage of the maiden who had brought them there. So he went home and told his parents, and gained their consent to wed her for his wife.

Then the marriage was celebrated in the church adjoining the palace. Then the bridegroom took her to his own home, where they lived happy for ever after.



The Wounded Lion

Cuentos Populars Catalans.


There was once a girl so poor that she had nothing to live on, and wandered about the world asking for charity. One day she arrived at a thatched cottage, and inquired if they could give her any work. The farmer said he wanted a cowherd, as his own had left him, and if the girl liked the place she might take it. So she became a cowherd.

One morning she was driving her cows through the meadows when she heard near by a loud groan that almost sounded human. She hastened to the spot from which the noise came, and found it proceeded from a lion who lay stretched upon the ground.

You can guess how frightened she was! But the lion seemed in such pain that she was sorry for him, and drew nearer and nearer till she saw he had a large thorn in one foot. She pulled out the thorn and bound up the place, and the lion was grateful, and licked her hand by way of thanks with his big rough tongue.

When the girl had finished she went back to find the cows, but they had gone, and though she hunted everywhere she never found them; and she had to return home and confess to her master, who scolded her bitterly, and afterwards beat her. Then he said, 'Now you will have to look after the asses.'

So every day she had to take the asses to the woods to feed, until one morning, exactly a year after she had found the lion, she heard a groan which sounded quite human. She went straight to the place from which the noise came, and, to her great surprise, beheld the same lion stretched on the ground with a deep wound across his face.

This time she was not afraid at all, and ran towards him, washing the wound and laying soothing herbs upon it; and when she had bound it up the lion thanked her in the same manner as before.

After that she returned to her flock, but they were nowhere to be seen. She searched here and she searched there, but they had vanished completely!

Then she had to go home and confess to her master, who first scolded her and afterwards beat her. 'Now go,' he ended, 'and look after the pigs!'

So the next day she took out the pigs, and found them such good feeding grounds that they grew fatter every day.

Another year passed by, and one morning when the maiden was out with her pigs she heard a groan which sounded quite human. She ran to see what it was, and found her old friend the lion, wounded through and through, fast dying under a tree.

She fell on her knees before him and washed his wounds one by one, and laid healing herbs upon them. And the lion licked her hands and thanked her, and asked if she would not stay and sit by him. But the girl said she had her pigs to watch, and she must go and see after them.

So she ran to the place where she had left them, but they had vanished as if the earth had swallowed them up. She whistled and called, but only the birds answered her.

Then she sank down on the ground and wept bitterly, not daring to return home until some hours had passed away.

And when she had had her cry out she got up and searched all up and down the wood. But it was no use; there was not a sign of the pigs.

At last she thought that perhaps if she climbed a tree she might see further. But no sooner was she seated on the highest branch than something happened which put the pigs quite out of her head. This was a handsome young man who was coming down the path; and when he had almost reached the tree he pulled aside a rock and disappeared behind it.

The maiden rubbed her eyes and wondered if she had been dreaming. Next she thought, 'I will not stir from here till I see him come out, and discover who he is.' Accordingly she waited, and at dawn the next morning the rock moved to one side and a lion came out.

When he had gone quite out of sight the girl climbed down from the tree and went to the rock, which she pushed aside, and entered the opening before her. The path led to a beautiful house. She went in, swept and dusted the furniture, and put everything tidy. Then she ate a very good dinner, which was on a shelf in the corner, and once more clambered up to the top of her tree.

As the sun set she saw the same young man walking gaily down the path, and, as before, he pushed aside the rock and disappeared behind it.

Next morning out came the lion. He looked sharply about him on all sides, but saw no one, and then vanished into the forest.

The maiden then came down from the tree and did exactly as she had done the day before. Thus three days went by, and every day she went and tidied up the palace. At length, when the girl found she was no nearer to discovering the secret, she resolved to ask him, and in the evening when she caught sight of him coming through the wood she came down from the tree and begged him to tell her his name.

The young man looked very pleased to see her, and said he thought it must be she who had secretly kept his house for so many days. And he added that he was a prince enchanted by a powerful giant, but was only allowed to take his own shape at night, for all day he was forced to appear as the lion whom she had so often helped; and, more than this, it was the giant who had stolen the oxen and the asses and the pigs in revenge for her kindness.

And the girl asked him, 'What can I do to disenchant you?'

But he said he was afraid it was very difficult, because the only way was to get a lock of hair from the head of a king's daughter, to spin it, and to make from it a cloak for the giant, who lived up on the top of a high mountain.

'Very well,' answered the girl, 'I will go to the city, and knock at the door of the king's palace, and ask the princess to take me as a servant.'

So they parted, and when she arrived at the city she walked about the streets crying, 'Who will hire me for a servant? Who will hire me for a servant?' But, though many people liked her looks, for she was clean and neat, the maiden would listen to none, and still continued crying, 'Who will hire me for a servant? Who will hire me for a servant?'

At last there came the waiting-maid of the princess.

'What can you do?' she said; and the girl was forced to confess that she could do very little.

'Then you will have to do scullion's work, and wash up dishes,' said she; and they went straight back to the palace.

Then the maiden dressed her hair afresh, and made herself look very neat and smart, and everyone admired and praised her, till by-and-bye it came to the ears of the princess. And she sent for the girl, and when she saw her, and how beautifully she had dressed her hair, the princess told her she was to come and comb out hers.

Now the hair of the princess was very thick and long, and shone like the sun. And the girl combed it and combed it till it was brighter than ever. And the princess was pleased, and bade her come every day and comb her hair, till at length the girl took courage, and begged leave to cut off one of the long, thick locks.

The princess, who was very proud of her hair, did not like the idea of parting with any of it, so she said no. But the girl could not give up hope, and each day she entreated to be allowed to cut off just one tress. At length the princess lost patience, and exclaimed, 'You may have it, then, on condition that you shall find the handsomest prince in the world to be my bridegroom!'

And the girl answered that she would, and cut off the lock, and wove it into a coat that glittered like silk, and brought it to the young man, who told her to carry it straight to the giant. But that she must be careful to cry out a long way off what she had with her, or else he would spring upon her and run her through with his sword.

So the maiden departed and climbed up the mountain, but before she reached the top the giant heard her footsteps, and rushed out breathing fire and flame, having a sword in one hand and a club in the other. But she cried loudly that she had brought him the coat, and then he grew quiet, and invited her to come into his house.

He tried on the coat, but it was too short, and he threw it off, and declared it was no use. And the girl picked it up sadly, and returned quite in despair to the king's palace.

The next morning, when she was combing the princess's hair, she begged leave to cut off another lock. At first the princess said no, but the girl begged so hard that at length she gave in on condition that she should find her a prince as bridegroom.

The maiden told her that she had already found him, and spun the lock into shining stuff, and fastened it on to the end of the coat. And when it was finished she carried it to the giant.

This time it fitted him, and he was quite pleased, and asked her what he could give her in return. And she said that the only reward he could give her was to take the spell off the lion and bring him back to his own shape.

For a long time the giant would not hear of it, but in the end he gave in, and told her exactly how it must all be done. She was to kill the lion herself and cut him up very small; then she must burn him, and cast his ashes into the water, and out of the water the prince would come free from enchantment for ever.

But the maiden went away weeping, lest the giant should have deceived her, and that after she had killed the lion she would find she had also slain the prince.

Weeping she came down the mountain, and weeping she joined the prince, who was awaiting her at the bottom; and when he had heard her story he comforted her, and bade her be of good courage, and to do the bidding of the giant.

And the maiden believed what the prince told her; and in the morning when he put on his lion's form she took a knife and slew him, and cut him up very small, and burnt him, and cast his ashes into the water, and out of the water came the prince, beautiful as the day, and as glad to look upon as the sun himself.


Then the young man thanked the maiden for all she had done for him, and said she should be his wife and none other. But the maiden only wept sore, and answered that that she could never be, for she had given her promise to the princess when she cut off her hair that the prince should wed her and her only.

But the prince replied, 'If it is the princess, we must go quickly. Come with me.'

So they went together to the king's palace. And when the king and queen and princess saw the young man a great joy filled their hearts, for they knew him for the eldest son, who had long ago been enchanted by a giant and lost to them.

And he asked his parents' consent that he might marry the girl who had saved him, and a great feast was made, and the maiden became a princess, and in due time a queen, and she richly deserved all the honours showered upon her.



The Man Without a Heart


Once upon a time there were seven brothers, who were orphans, and had no sister. Therefore they were obliged to do all their own housework. This they did not like at all; so after much deliberation they decided to get married. There were, unfortunately, no young girls to be found in the place where they lived; but the elder brothers agreed to go out into the world and seek for brides, promising to bring back a very pretty wife for the youngest also if he would meanwhile stay at home and take care of the house. He consented willingly, and the six young men set off in good spirits.

On their way they came to a small cottage standing quite by itself in a wood; and before the door stood an old, old man, who accosted the brothers saying, 'Hullo, you young fellows! Whither away so fast and cheerily?'

'We are going to find bonny brides for ourselves, and one for our youngest brother at home,' they replied.

'Oh! dear youths,' said the old man, 'I am terribly lonely here; pray bring a bride for me also; only remember, she must be young and pretty.'

'What does a shrivelled old grey thing like that want with a pretty young bride?' thought the brothers, and went on their way.

Presently they came to a town where were seven sisters, as young and as lovely as anyone could wish. Each brother chose one, and the youngest they kept for their brother at home. Then the whole party set out on the return journey, and again their path led through the wood and past the old man's cottage.

There he stood before the door, and cried: 'Oh! you fine fellows, what a charming bride you have brought me!'

'She is not for you, said the young men. 'She is for our youngest brother, as we promised.'

'What!' said the old man, 'promised! I'll make you eat your promises!' And with that he took his magic wand, and, murmuring a charm, he touched both brothers and brides, and immediately they were turned into grey stones.

Only the youngest sister he had not bewitched. He took her into the cottage, and from that time she was obliged to keep house for him. She was not very unhappy, but one thought troubled her. What if the old man should die and leave her here alone in the solitary cottage deep in the heart of the wood! She would be as 'terribly lonely' as he had formerly been.

One day she told him of her fear.


'Don't be anxious,' he said. 'You need neither fear my death nor desire it, for I have no heart in my breast! However, if I should die, you will find my wand above the door, and with it you can set free your sisters and their lovers. Then you will surely have company enough.'

'Where in all the world do you keep your heart, if not in your breast?' asked the girl.

'Do you want to know everything?' her husband said. 'Well, if you must know, my heart is in the bed-cover.'

When the old man had gone out about his business his bride passed her time in embroidering beautiful flowers on the bed quilt to make his heart happy. The old man was much amused. He laughed, and said to her: 'You are a good child, but I was only joking. My heart is really in -- in -- '

'Now where is it, dear husband?'

'It is in the doorway,' he replied.

Next day, while he was out, the girl decorated the door with gay feathers and fresh flowers, and hung garlands upon it. And on his return the old fellow asked what it all meant.

'I did it to show my love for your heart,' said the girl.

And again the old man smiled, saying, 'You are a dear child, but my heart is not in the doorway.'

Then the poor young bride was very vexed, and said, 'Ah, my dear! you really have a heart somewhere, so you may die and leave me all alone.'

The old man did his best to comfort her by repeating all he had said before, but she begged him afresh to tell her truly where his heart was and at last he told her.

'Far, far from here,' said he, 'in a lonely spot, stands a great church, as old as old can be. Its doors are of iron, and round it runs a deep moat, spanned by no bridge. Within that church is a bird which flies up and down; it never eats, and never drinks, and never dies. No one can catch it, and while that bird lives so shall I, for in it is my heart.'

It made the little bride quite sad to think she could do nothing to show her love for the old man's heart. She used to think about it as she sat all alone during the long days, for her husband was almost always out.

One day a young traveller came past the house, and seeing such a pretty girl he wished her 'Good day.'

She returned his greeting, and as he drew near she asked him whence he came and where he was going.


'Alas!' sighed the youth, 'I am very sorrowful. I had six brothers, who went away to find brides for themselves and one for me; but they have never come home, so now I am going to look for them.'

'Oh, good friend,' said the girl, 'you need go no farther. Come, sit down, eat and drink, and afterwards I'll tell you all about it.'

She gave him food, and when he had finished his meal she told him how his brothers had come to the town where she lived with her sisters, how they had each chosen a bride, and, taking herself with them, had started for home. She wept as she told how the others were turned to stone, and how she was kept as the old man's bride. She left out nothing, even telling him the story of her husband's heart.

When the young man heard this he said: 'I shall go in search of the bird. It may be that God will help me to find and catch it.'

'Yes, do go,' she said; 'it will be a good deed, for then you can set your brothers and my sisters free.' Then she hid the young man, for it was now late, and her husband would soon be home.

Next morning, when the old man had gone out, she prepared a supply of provisions for her guest, and sent him off on his travels, wishing him good luck and success.

He walked on and on till he thought it must be time for breakfast; so he opened his knapsack, and was delighted to find such a store of good things. 'What a feast!' he exclaimed; 'will anyone come and share it?'

'Moo-oo,' sounded close behind him, and looking round he saw a great red ox, which said, 'I have much pleasure in accepting your kind invitation.'

'I'm delighted to see you. Pray help yourself. All I have is at your service,' said the hospitable youth. And the ox lay down comfortably, licking his lips, and made a hearty meal.

'Many thanks to you,' said the animal as it rose up. 'When you are in danger or necessity call me, even if only by a thought,' and it disappeared among the bushes.

The young man packed up all the food that was left, and wandered on till the shortening shadows and his own hunger warned him that it was midday. he laid the cloth on the ground and spread out his provisions, saying at the same time: 'Dinner is ready, and anyone who wishes to share it is welcome.'

Then there was a great rustling in the undergrowth, and out ran a wild boar, grunting, 'Umph, umph, umph; someone said dinner was ready. Was it you? and did you mean me to come?'

'By all means. Help yourself to what I have,' said the young traveller. And the two enjoyed their meal together.

Afterwards the boar got up, saying, 'Thank you; when in need you be you must quickly call for me,' and he rolled off.

For a long time the youth walked on. By evening he was miles away. He felt hungry again, and, having still some provisions left, thought he had better make ready his supper. When it was all spread out he cried as before, 'Anyone who cares to share my meal is welcome.'

He heard a sound overhead like the flapping of wings, and a shadow was cast upon the ground. Then a huge griffin appeared, saying: 'I heard someone giving an invitation to eat; is there anything for me?'

'Why not?' said the youth. 'Come down and take all you want. There won't be much left after this.'

So the griffin alighted and ate his fill, saying, as he flew away, 'Call me if you need me.'

'What a hurry he was in!' the youth said to himself. 'He might have been able to direct me to the church, for I shall never find it alone.'

He gathered up his things, and started to walk a little farther before resting. He had not gone far when all of a sudden he saw the church!

He soon came to it, or rather to the wide and deep moat which surrounded it without a single bridge by which to cross.

It was too late to attempt anything now; and, besides, the poor youth was very tired, so he lay down on the ground and fell fast asleep.

Next morning, when he awoke, he began to wish himself over the moat; and the thought occurred to him that if only the red ox were there, and thirsty enough to drink up all the water in the moat, he might walk across it dry shod.

Scarcely had the thought crossed his brain before the ox appeared and began to drink up the water.

The grateful youth hastened across as soon as the moat was dry, but found it impossible to penetrate the thick walls and strong iron doors of the church.

'I believe that big boar would be of more use here than I am,' he thought, and lo! at the wish the wild boar came and began to push hard against the wall. He managed to loosen one stone with his tusks, and, having made a beginning, stone after stone was poked out till he had made quite a large hole, big enough to let a man go through.

The young man quickly entered the church, and saw a bird flying about, but he could not catch it.

'Oh!' he exclaimed, 'if only the griffin were here, he would soon catch it.'

At these words the griffin appeared, and, seizing the bird, gave it to the youth, who carried it off carefully, while the griffin flew away.

The young man hurried home as fast as possible, and reached the cottage before evening. He told his story to the little bride, who, after giving him some food and drink, hid him with his bird beneath the bed.

Presently the old man came home, and complained of feeling ill. Nothing, he said, would go well with him any more: his 'heart bird' was caught.

The youth under the bed heard this, and thought, 'This old fellow has done me no particular harm, but then he has bewitched my brothers and their brides, and has kept my bride for himself, and that is certainly bad enough.'

So he pinched the bird, and the old man cried, 'Ah! I feel death gripping me! Child, I am dying!'

With these words he fell fainting from his chair, and as the youth, before he knew what he was doing, had squeezed the bird to death, the old man died also.

Out crept the young man from under the bed, and the girl took the magic wand (which she found where the old man had told her), and, touching the twelve grey stones, transformed them at once into the six brothers and their brides.

Then there was great joy, and kissing and embracing. And there lay the old man, quite dead, and no magic wand could restore him to life, even had they wished it.

After that they all went away and were married, and lived many years happily together.



The Two Brothers

Sicilianische Malirchen. L. Gonzenbach.


Long ago there lived two brothers, both of them very handsome, and both so very poor that they seldom had anything to eat but the fish which they caught. One day they had been out in their boat since sunrise without a single bite, and were just thinking of putting up their lines and going home to bed when they felt a little feeble tug, and, drawing in hastily, they found a tiny fish at the end of the hook.

'What a wretched little creature!' cried one brother. 'However, it is better than nothing, and I will bake him with bread crumbs and have him for supper.'

'Oh, do not kill me yet!' begged the fish; 'I will bring you good luck -- indeed I will!'

'You silly thing!' said the young man; 'I've caught you, and I shall eat you.'

But his brother was sorry for the fish, and put in a word for him.

'Let the poor little fellow live. He would hardly make one bite, and, after all, how do we know we are not throwing away our luck! Put him back into the sea. It will be much better.'

'If you will let me live,' said the fish, 'you will find on the sands to-morrow morning two beautiful horses splendidly saddled and bridled, and on them you can go through the world as knights seeking adventures.'

'Oh dear, what nonsense!' exclaimed the elder; 'and, besides, what proof have we that you are speaking the truth?'

But again the younger brother interposed: 'Oh, do let him live! You know if he is lying to us we can always catch him again. It is quite worth while trying.'

At last the young man gave in, and threw the fish back into the sea; and both brothers went supperless to bed, and wondered what fortune the next day would bring.

At the first streaks of dawn they were both up, and in a very few minutes were running down to the shore. And there, just as the fish had said, stood two magnificent horses, saddled and bridled, and on their backs lay suits of armour and under-dresses, two swords, and two purses of gold.

'There!' said the younger brother. 'Are you not thankful you did not eat that fish? He has brought us good luck, and there is no knowing how great we may become! Now, we will each seek our own adventures. If you will take one road I will go the other.'

'Very well,' replied the elder; 'but how shall we let each other know if we are both living?'

'Do you see this fig-tree?' said the younger. 'Well, whenever we want news of each other we have only to come here and make a slit with our swords in the back. If milk flows, it is a sign that we are well and prosperous; but if, instead of milk, there is blood, then we are either dead or in great danger.'

Then the two brothers put on their armour, buckled their swords, and pocketed their purees; and, after taking a tender farewell of each other, they mounted their horses and went their various ways.


The elder brother rode straight on till he reached the borders of a strange kingdom. He crossed the frontier, and soon found himself on the banks of a river; and before him, in the middle of the stream, a beautiful girl sat chained to a rock and weeping bitterly. For in this river dwelt a serpent with seven heads, who threatened to lay waste the whole land by breathing fire and flame from his nostrils unless the king sent him every morning a man for his breakfast. This had gone on so long that now there were no men left, and he had been obliged to send his own daughter instead, and the poor girl was waiting till the monster got hungry and felt inclined to eat her.

When the young man saw the maiden weeping bitterly he said to her, 'What is the matter, my poor girl?'

'Oh!' she answered, 'I am chained here till a horrible serpent with seven heads comes to eat me. Oh, sir, do not linger here, or he will eat you too.'

'I shall stay,' replied the young man, 'for I mean to set you free.'

'That is impossible. You do not know what a fearful monster the serpent is; you can do nothing against him.'

'That is my affair, beautiful captive,' answered he; 'only tell me, which way will the serpent come?'

'Well, if you are resolved to free me, listen to my advice. Stand a little on one side, and then, when the serpent rises to the surface, I will say to him, "O serpent, to-day you can eat two people. But you had better begin first with the young man, for I am chained and cannot run away." When he hears this most likely he will attack you.'

So the young man stood carefully on one side, and by-and-bye he heard a great rushing in the water; and a horrible monster came up to the surface and looked out for the rock where the king's daughter was chained, for it was getting late and he was hungry.

But she cried out, 'O serpent, to-day you can eat two people. And you had better begin with the young man, for I am chained and cannot run away.'

Then the serpent made a rush at the youth with wide open jaws to swallow him at one gulp, but the young man leaped aside and drew his sword, and fought till he had cut off all the seven heads. And when the great serpent lay dead at his feet he loosed the bonds of the king's daughter, and she flung herself into his arms and said, 'You have saved me from that monster, and now you shall be my husband, for my father has made a proclamation that whoever could slay the serpent should have his daughter to wife.'

But he answered, 'I cannot become your husband yet, for I have still far to travel. But wait for me seven years and seven months. Then, if I do not return, you are free to marry whom you will. And in case you should have forgotten, I will take these seven tongues with me so that when I bring them forth you may know that I am really he who slew the serpent.'

So saying he cut out the seven tongues, and the princess gave him a thick cloth to wrap them in; and he mounted his horse and rode away.

Not long after he had gone there arrived at the river a slave who had been sent by the king to learn the fate of his beloved daughter. And when the slave saw the princess standing free and safe before him, with the body of the monster lying at her feet, a wicked plan came into his head, and he said, 'Unless you promise to tell your father it was I who slew the serpent, I will kill you and bury you in this place, and no one will ever know what befell.'

What could the poor girl do? This time there was no knight to come to her aid. So she promised to do as the slave wished, and he took up the seven heads and brought the princess to her father.

Oh, how enchanted the king was to see her again, and the whole town shared his joy!

And the slave was called upon to tell how he had slain the monster, and when he had ended the king declared that he should have the princess to wife.

But she flung herself at her father's feet, and prayed him to delay. 'You have passed your royal word, and cannot go back from it Yet grant me this grace, and let seven years and seven months go by before you wed me. When they are over, then I will marry the slave.' And the king listened to her, and seven years and seven months she looked for her bridegroom, and wept for him night and day.

All this time the young man was riding through the world, and when the seven years and seven months were over he came back to the town where the princess lived -- only a few days before the wedding. And he stood before the king, and said to him: 'Give me your daughter, O king, for I slew the seven-headed serpent. And as a sign that my words are true, look on these seven tongues, which I cut from his seven heads, and on this embroidered cloth, which was given me by your daughter.'

Then the princess lifted up her voice and said, 'Yes, dear father, he has spoken the truth, and it is he who is my real bridegroom. Yet pardon the slave, for he was sorely tempted.'

But the king answered, 'Such treachery can no man pardon. Quick, away with him, and off with his head!'

So the false slave was put to death, that none might follow in his footsteps, and the wedding feast was held, and the hearts of all rejoiced that the true bridegroom had come at last.

These two lived happy and contentedly for a long while, when one evening, as the young man was looking from the window, he saw on a mountain that lay out beyond the town a great bright light.

'What can it be?' he said to his wife.


'Ah! do not look at it,' she answered, 'for it comes from the house of a wicked witch whom no man can manage to kill.' But the princess had better have kept silence, for her words made her husband's heart burn within him, and he longed to try his strength against the witch's cunning. And all day long the feeling grew stronger, till the next morning he mounted his horse, and in spite of his wife's tears, he rode off to the mountain.

The distance was greater than he thought, and it was dark before he reached the foot of the mountain; indeed, he could not have found the road at all had it not been for the bright light, which shone like the moon on his path. At length he came to the door of a fine castle, which had a blaze streaming from every window. He mounted a flight of steps and entered a hall where a hideous old woman was sitting on a golden chair.

She scowled at the young man and said, 'With a single one of the hairs of my head I can turn you into stone.'

'Oh, what nonsense!' cried he. 'Be quiet, old woman. What could you do with one hair?' But the witch pulled out a hair and laid it on his shoulder, and his limbs grew cold and heavy, and he could not stir.

Now at this very moment the younger brother was thinking of him, and wondering how he had got on during all the years since they had parted. 'I will go to the fig-tree,' he said to himself, 'to see whether he is alive or dead.' So he rode through the forest till he came where the fig-tree stood, and cut a slit in the bark, and waited. In a moment a little gurgling noise was heard, and out came a stream of blood, running fast. 'Ah, woe is me!' he cried bitterly. 'My brother is dead or dying! Shall I ever reach him in time to save his life?' Then, leaping on his horse, he shouted, 'Now, my steed, fly like the wind!' and they rode right through the world, till one day they came to the town where the young man and his wife lived. Here the princess had been sitting every day since the morning that her husband had left her, weeping bitter tears, and listening for his footsteps. And when she saw his brother ride under the balcony she mistook him for her own husband, for they were so alike that no man might tell the difference, and her heart bounded, and, leaning down, she called to him, 'At last! at last! how long have I waited for thee!' When the younger brother heard these words he said to himself, 'So it was here that my brother lived, and this beautiful woman is my sister-in-law,' but he kept silence, and let her believe he was indeed her husband. Full of joy, the princess led him to the old king, who welcomed him as his own son, and ordered a feast to be made for him. And the princess was beside herself with gladness, but when she would have put her arms round him and kissed him he held up his hand to stop her, saying, 'Touch me not,' at which she marvelled greatly.

In this manner several days went by. And one evening, as the young man leaned from the balcony, he saw a bright light shining on the mountain.

'What can that be?' he said to the princess.

'Oh, come away,' she cried; 'has not that light already proved your bane? Do you wish to fight a second time with that old witch?'

He marked her words, though she knew it not, and they taught him where his brother was, and what had befallen him. So before sunrise he stole out early, saddled his horse, and rode off to the mountain. But the way was further than he thought, and on the road he met a little old man who asked him whither he was going.

Then the young man told him his story, and added. 'Somehow or other I must free my brother, who has fallen into the power of an old witch.'

'I will tell you what you must do,' said the old man. 'The witch's power lies in her hair; so when you see her spring on her and seize her by the hair, and then she cannot harm you. Be very careful never to let her hair go, bid her lead you to your brother, and force her to bring him back to life. For she has an ointment that will heal all wounds, and even wake the dead. And when your brother stands safe and well before you, then cut off her head, for she is a wicked woman.'

The young man was grateful for these words, and promised to obey them. Then he rode on, and soon reached the castle. He walked boldly up the steps and entered the hall, where the hideous old witch came to meet him. She grinned horribly at him, and cried out, 'With one hair of my head I can change you into stone.'

'Can you, indeed?' said the young man, seizing her by the hair. 'You old wretch! tell me what you have done with my brother, or I will cut your head off this very instant.' Now the witch's strength was all gone from her, and she had to obey.

'I will take you to your brother,' she said, hoping to get the better of him by cunning, 'but leave me alone. You hold me so tight that I cannot walk.'

'You must manage somehow,' he answered, and held her tighter than ever. She led him into a large hall filled with stone statues, which once had been men, and, pointing out one, she said, 'There is your brother.'

The young man looked at them all and shook his head. 'My brother is not here. Take me to him, or it will be the worse for you.' But she tried to put him off with other statues, though it was no good, and it was not until they had reached the last hall of all that he saw his brother lying on the ground.

'That is my brother,' said he. 'Now give me the ointment that will restore him to life.'

Very unwillingly the old witch opened a cupboard close by filled with bottles and jars, and took down one and held it out to the young man. But he was on the watch for trickery, and examined it carefully, and saw that it had no power to heal. This happened many times, till at length she found it was no use, and gave him the one he wanted. And when he had it safe he made her stoop down and smear it over his brother's face, taking care all the while never to loose her hair, and when the dead man opened his eyes the youth drew his sword and cut off her head with a single blow. Then the elder brother got up and stretched himself, and said, 'Oh, how long I have slept! And where am I?'

'The old witch had enchanted you, but now she is dead and you are free. We will wake up the other knights that she laid under her spells, and then we will go.'

This they did, and, after sharing amongst them the jewels and gold they found in the castle, each man went his way. The two brothers remained together, the elder tightly grasping the ointment which had brought him back to life.

They had much to tell each other as they rode along, and at last the younger man exclaimed, 'O fool, to leave such a beautiful wife to go and fight a witch! She took me for her husband, and I did not say her nay.'

When the elder brother heard this a great rage filled his heart, and, without saying one word, he drew his sword and slew his brother, and his body rolled in the dust. Then he rode on till he reached his home, where his wife was still sitting, weeping bitterly. When she saw him she sprang up with a cry, and threw herself into his arms. 'Oh, how long have I waited for thee! Never, never must you leave me any more!'

When the old king heard the news he welcomed him as a son, and made ready a feast, and all the court sat down. And in the evening, when the young man was alone with his wife, she said to him, 'Why would you not let me touch you when you came back, but always thrust me away when I tried to put my arms round you or kiss you?'

Then the young man understood how true his brother had been to him, and he sat down and wept and wrung his hands because of the wicked murder that he had done. Suddenly he sprang to his feet, for he remembered the ointment which lay hidden in his garments, and he rushed to the place where his brother still lay. He fell on his knees beside the body, and, taking out the salve, he rubbed it over the neck where the wound was gaping wide, and the skin healed and the sinews grew strong, and the dead man sat up and looked round him. And the two brothers embraced each other, and the elder asked forgiveness for his wicked blow; and they went back to the palace together, and were never parted any more.



Master and Pupil

From the Danish.


There was once a man who had a son who was very clever at reading, and took great delight in it. He went out into the world to seek service somewhere, and as he was walking between some mounds he met a man, who asked him where he was going.

'I am going about seeking for service,' said the boy.

'Will you serve me?' asked the man.

'Oh, yes; just as readily you as anyone else,' said the boy.

'But can you read?' asked the man.

'As well as the priest,' said the boy.

Then I can't have you,' said the man. 'In fact, I was just wanting a boy who couldn't read. His only work would be to dust my old books.'

The man then went on his way, and left the boy looking after him.

'It was a pity I didn't get that place,' thought he 'That was just the very thing for me.'

Making up his mind to get the situation if possible, he hid himself behind one of the mounds, and turned his jacket outside in, so that the man would not know him again so easily. Then he ran along behind the mounds, and met the man at the other end of them.

'Where are you going, my little boy?' said the man, who did not notice that it was the same one he had met before.

'I am going about seeking for service?' said the boy.

'Will you serve me?' asked the man.

'Oh, yes; just as readily you as anyone else,' said the boy.

'But can you read?' said the man.

'No, I don't know a single letter,' said the boy.

The man then took him into his service, and all the work he had to do was to dust his master's books. But as he did this he had plenty of time to read them as well, and he read away at them until at last he was just as wise as his master -- who was a great wizard -- and could perform all kinds of magic. Among other feats, he could change himself into the shape of any animal, or any other thing that he pleased.

When he had learned all this he did not think it worth while staying there any longer, so he ran away home to his parents again. Soon after this there was a market in the next village, and the boy told his mother that he had learned how to change himself into the shape of any animal he chose.

'Now,' said he, 'I shall change myself to a horse, and father can take me to market and sell me. I shall come home again all right.'

His mother was frightened at the idea, but the boy told her that she need not be alarmed; all would be well. So he changed himself to a horse, such a fine horse, too, that his father got a high price for it at the market; but after the bargain was made, and the money paid, the boy changed again to his own shape, when no one was looking, and went home.

The story spread all over the country about the fine horse that had been sold and then had disappeared, and at last the news came to the ears of the wizard.

'Aha!' said he, 'this is that boy of mine, who befooled me and ran away; but I shall have him yet.'

The next time that there was a market the boy again changed himself to a horse, and was taken thither by his father. The horse soon found a purchaser, and while the two were inside drinking the luck-penny the wizard came along and saw the horse. He knew at once that it was not an ordinary one, so he also went inside, and offered the purchaser far more than he had paid for it, so the latter sold it to him.

The first thing the wizard now did was to lead the horse away to a smith to get a red-hot nail driven into its mouth, because after that it could not change its shape again. When the horse saw this it changed itself to a dove, and flew up into the air. The wizard at once changed himself into a hawk, and flew up after it. The dove now turned into a gold ring, and fell into a girl's lap. The hawk now turned into a man, and offered the girl a great sum of money for the gold ring, but she would not part with it, seeing that it had fallen down to her, as it were, from Heaven. However, the wizard kept on offering her more and more for it, until at last the gold ring grew frightened, and changed itself into a grain of barley, which fell on the ground. The man then turned into a hen, and began to search for the grain of barley, but this again changed itself to a pole-cat, and took off the hen's head with a single snap.

The wizard was now dead, the pole-cat put on human shape, and the youth afterwards married the girl, and from that time forward let all his magic arts alone.



The Golden Lion

Sicilianische Mahrchen. L. Gonzenbach.


There was once a rich merchant who had three sons, and when they were grown up the eldest said to him, 'Father, I wish to travel and see the world. I pray you let me.'

So the father ordered a beautiful ship to be fitted up, and the young man sailed away in it. After some weeks the vessel cast anchor before a large town, and the merchant's son went on shore.

The first thing he saw was a large notice written on a board saying that if any man could find the king's daughter within eight days he should have her to wife, but that if he tried and failed his head must be the forfeit.

'Well,' thought the youth as he read this proclamation, 'that ought not to be a very difficult matter;' and he asked an audience of the king, and told him that he wished to seek for the princess.

'Certainly,' replied the king. 'You have the whole palace to search in; but remember, if you fail it will cost you your head.'

So saying, he commanded the doors to be thrown open, and food and drink to be set before the young man, who, after he had eaten, began to look for the princess. But though he visited every corner and chest and cupboard, she was not in any of them, and after eight days he gave it up and his head was cut off.

All this time his father and brothers had had no news of him, and were very anxious. At last the second son could bear it no longer, and said, 'Dear father, give me, I pray you, a large ship and some money, and let me go and seek for my brother.'

So another ship was fitted out, and the young man sailed away, and was blown by the wind into the same harbour where his brother had landed.

Now when he saw the first ship lying at anchor his heart beat high, and he said to himself, 'My brother cannot surely be far off,' and he ordered a boat and was put on shore.

As he jumped on to the pier his eye caught the notice about the princess, and he thought, 'He has undertaken to find her, and has certainly lost his head. I must try myself, and seek him as well as her. It cannot be such a very difficult matter.' But he fared no better than his brother, and in eight days his head was cut off.

So now there was only the youngest at home, and when the other two never came he also begged for a ship that he might go in search of his lost brothers. And when the vessel started a high wind arose, and blew him straight to the harbour where the notice was set.

'Oho!' said he, as he read, 'whoever can find the king's daughter shall have her to wife. It is quite clear now what has befallen my brothers. But in spite of that I think I must try my luck,' and he took the road to the castle.

On the way he met an old woman, who stopped and begged.

'Leave me in peace, old woman,' replied he.


'Oh, do not send me away empty,' she said. 'You are such a handsome young man you will surely not refuse an old woman a few pence.'

'I tell you, old woman, leave me alone.'

'You are in some trouble?' she asked. 'Tell me what it is, and perhaps I can help you.'

Then he told her how he had set his heart on finding the king's daughter.

'I can easily manage that for you as long as you have enough money.'

'Oh, as to that, I have plenty,' answered he.

'Well, you must take it to a goldsmith and get him to make it into a golden lion, with eyes of crystal; and inside it must have something that will enable it to play tunes. When it is ready bring it to me.'

The young man did as he was bid, and when the lion was made the old woman hid the youth in it, and brought it to the king, who was so delighted with it that he wanted to buy it. But she replied, 'It does not belong to me, and my master will not part from it at any price.'

'At any rate, leave it with me for a few days,' said he; 'I should like to show it to my daughter.'

'Yes, I can do that,' answered the old woman; 'but to-morrow I must have it back again. And she went away.

The king watched her till she was quite out of sight, so as to make sure that she was not spying upon him; then he took the golden lion into his room and lifted some loose boards from the floor. Below the floor there was a staircase, which he went down till he reached a door at the foot. This he unlocked, and found himself in a narrow passage closed by another door, which he also opened. The young man, hidden in the golden lion, kept count of everything, and marked that there were in all seven doors. After they had all been unlocked the king entered a lovely hall, where the princess was amusing herself with eleven friends. All twelve girls wore the same clothes, and were as like each other as two peas.

'What bad luck!' thought the youth. 'Even supposing that I managed to find my way here again, I don't see how I could ever tell which was the princess.'

And he stared hard at the princess as she clapped her hands with joy and ran up to them, crying, ' Oh, do let us keep that delicious beast for to-night; it will make such a nice plaything.'

The king did not stay long, and when he left he handed over the lion to the maidens, who amused themselves with it for some time, till they got sleepy, and thought it was time to go to bed. But the princess took the lion into her own room and laid it on the floor.


She was just beginning to doze when she heard a voice quite close to her, which made her jump. 'O lovely princess, if you only knew what I have gone through to find you!' The princess jumped out of bed screaming, 'The lion! the lion!' but her friends thought it was a nightmare, and did not trouble themselves to get up.

'O lovely úprincess!' continued the voice, 'fear nothing! I am the son of a rich merchant, and desire above all things to have you for my wife. And in order to get to you I have hidden myself in this golden lion.'

'What use is that?' she asked. 'For if you cannot pick me out from among my companions you will still lose your head.'

'I look to you to help me,' he said. 'I have done so much for you that you might do this one thing for me.'

'Then listen to me. On the eighth day I will tie a white sash round my waist, and by that you will know me.'

The next morning the king came very early to fetch the lion, as the old woman was already at the palace asking for it. When they were safe from view she let the young man out, and he returned to the king and told him that he wished to find the princess.

'Very good,' said the king, who by this time was almost tired of repeating the same words; 'but if you fail your head will be the forfeit.'

So the youth remained quietly in the castle, eating and looking at all the beautiful things around him, and every now and then pretending to be searching busily in all the closets and corners. On the eighth day he entered the room where the king was sitting. 'Take up the floor in this place,' he said. The king gave a cry, but stopped himself, and asked, 'What do you want the floor up for? There is nothing there.'

But as all his courtiers were watching him he did not like to make any more objections, and ordered the floor to be taken up, as the young man desired. The youth then want straight down the staircase till he reached the door; then he turned and demanded that the key should be brought. So the king was forced to unlock the door, and the next and the next and the next, till all seven were open, and they entered into the hall where the twelve maidens were standing all in a row, so like that none might tell them apart. But as he looked one of them silently drew a white sash from her pocket and slipped it round her waist, and the young man sprang to her and said, 'This is the princess, and I claim her for my wife.' And the king owned himself beaten, and commanded that the wedding feast should be held.

After eight days the bridal pair said farewell to the king, and set sail for the youth's own country, taking with them a whole shipload of treasures as the princess's dowry. But they did not forget the old woman who had brought about all their happiness, and they gave her enough money to make her comfortable to the end of her days.



The Sprig of Rosemary

Cuentos Populars Catalans, per lo Dr. D. Francisco de S. Maspons y Labros (Barcelona: Libreria de Don Alvar Verdaguer 1885).


Once upon a time there lived a man with one daughter and he made her work hard all the day. One morning when she had finished everything he had set her to do, he told her to go out into the woods and get some dry leaves and sticks to kindle a fire.

The girl went out, and soon collected a large bundle, and then she plucked at a sprig of sweet-smelling rosemary for herself. But the harder she pulled the firmer seemed the plant, and at last, determined not to be beaten, she gave one great tug, and the rosemary remained in her hands.

Then she heard a voice close to her saying, 'Well?' and turning she saw before her a handsome young man, who asked why she had come to steal his firewood.

The girl, who felt much confused, only managed to stammer out as an excuse that her father had sent her.

'Very well,' replied the young man; 'then come with me.'

So he took her through the opening made by the torn-up root, and they travelled till they reached a beautiful palace, splendidly furnished, but only lighted from the top. And when they had entered he told her that he was a great lord, and that never had he seen a maiden so beautiful as she, and that if she would give him her heart they would be married and live happy for ever after.

And the maiden said 'yes, she would,' and so they were married.

The next day the old dame who looked after the house handed her all the keys, but pointed her out one that she would do well never to use, for if she did the whole palace would fall to the ground, and the grass would grow over it, and the damsel herself would be remembered no more.

The bride promised to be careful, but in a little while, when there was nothing left for her to do, she began to wonder what could be in the chest, which was opened by the key. As everybody knows, if we once begin to think we soon begin to do, and it was not very long before the key was no longer in the maiden's hand but in the lock of the chest. But the lock was stiff and resisted all her efforts, and in the end she had to break it. And what was inside after all? Why, nothing but a serpent's skin, which her husband, who was, unknown to her, a magician, put on when he was at work; and at the sight of it the girl was turning away in disgust, when the earth shook violently under her feet, the palace vanished as if it had never been, and the bride found herself in the middle of a field, not knowing where she was or whither to go. She burst into a flood of bitter tears, partly at her own folly, but more for the loss of her husband, whom she dearly loved. Then, breaking a sprig of rosemary off a bush hard by, she resolved, cost what it might, to seek him through the world till she found him. So she walked and she walked and she walked, till she arrived at a house built of straw. And she knocked at the door, and asked if they wanted a servant. The mistress said she did, and if the girl was willing she might stay. But day by day the poor maiden grew more and more sad, till at last her mistress begged her to say what was the matter. Then she told her story -- how she was going through the world seeking after her husband.

And her mistress answered her, 'Where he is, none can tell better than the Sun, the Moon, and the Wind, for they go everywhere!'

On hearing these words the damsel set forth once more, and walked till she reached the Golden Castle, where lived the Sun. And she knocked boldly at the door, saying, 'All hail, O Sun! I have come to ask if, of your charity, you will help me in my need. By my own fault have I fallen into these straits, and I am weary, for I seek my husband through the wide world.'

'Indeed!' spoke the Sun. 'Do you, rich as you are, need help? But though you live in a palace without windows, the Sun enters everywhere, and he knows you.'

Then the bride told him the whole story. and did not hide her own ill-doing. And the Sun listened, and was sorry for her; and though he could not tell her where to go, he gave her a nut, and bid her open it in a time of great distress. The damsel thanked him with all her heart, and departed, and walked and walked and walked, till she came to another castle, and knocked at the door which was opened by an old woman.

'All hail!' said the girl. 'I have come, of your charity, to ask your help!'

'It is my mistress, the Moon, you seek. I will tell her of your prayer.'

So the Moon came out, and when she saw the maiden she knew her again, for she had watched her sleeping both in the cottage and in the palace. And she spake to her and said:

'Do you, rich as you are, need help?'

Then the girl told her the whole story, and the Moon listened, and was sorry for her; and though she could not tell her where to find her husband, she gave her an almond, and told her to crack it when she was in great need. So the damsel thanked her, and departed, and walked and walked and walked till she came to another castle. And she knocked at the door, and said:

'All hail! I have come to ask if, of your charity, you will help me in my need.'

'It is my lord, the Wind, that you want,' answered the old woman who opened it. 'I will tell him of your prayer.'

And the Wind looked on her and knew her again, for he had seen her in the cottage and in the palace, and he spake to her and said:

'Do you, rich as you are, want help?'

And she told him the whole story. And the Wind listened, and was sorry for her, and he gave her a walnut that she was to eat in time of need. But the girl did not go as the Wind expected. She was tired and sad, and knew not where to turn, so she began to weep bitterly. The Wind wept too for company, and said:

'Don't be frightened; I will go and see if I can find out something.'

And the Wind departed with a great noise and fuss, and in the twinkling of an eye he was back again, beaming with delight.

'From what one person and another have let fall,' he exclaimed, 'I have contrived to learn that he is in the palace of the king, who keeps him hidden lest anyone should see him; and that to-morrow he is to marry the princess, who, ugly creature that she is, has not been able to find any man to wed her.'

Who can tell the despair which seized the poor maiden when she heard this news! As soon as she could speak she implored the Wind to do all he could to get the wedding put off for two or three days, for it would take her all that time to reach the palace of the king.

The Wind gladly promised to do what he could, and as he travelled much faster than the maiden he soon arrived at the palace, where he found five tailors working night and day at the wedding clothes of the princess.

Down came the Wind right in the middle of their lace and satin and trimmings of pearl! Away they all went whiz! through the open windows, right up into the tops of the trees, across the river, among the dancing ears of corn! After them ran the tailors, catching, jumping, climbing, but all to no purpose! The lace was torn, the satin stained, the pearls knocked off! There was nothing for it but to go to the shops to buy fresh, and to begin all over again! It was plainly quite impossible that the wedding clothes could be ready next day.

However, the king was much too anxious to see his daughter married to listen to any excuses, and he declared that a dress must be put together somehow for the bride to wear. But when he went to look at the princess, she was such a figure that he agreed that it would be unfitting for her position to be seen in such a gown, and he ordered the ceremony and the banquet to be postponed for a few hours, so that the tailors might take the dress to pieces and make it fit.

But by this time the maiden had arrived footsore and weary at the castle, and as soon as she reached the door she cracked her nut and drew out of it the most beautiful mantle in the world. Then she rang the bell, and asked:

'Is not the princess to be married to-day?'

'Yes, she is.'

'Ask her if she would like to buy this mantle.'

And when the princess saw the mantle she was delighted, for her wedding mantle had been spoilt with all the other things, and it was too late to make another. So she told the maiden to ask what price she would, and it should be given her.

The maiden fixed a large sum, many pieces of gold, but the princess had set her heart on the mantle, and gave it readily.

Now the maiden hid her gold in the pocket of her dress, and turned away from the castle. The moment she was out of sight she broke her almond, and drew from it the most magnificent petticoats that ever were seen. Then she went back to the castle, and asked if the princess wished to buy any petticoats. No sooner did the princess cast her eyes on the petticoats than she declared they were even more beautiful than the mantle, and that she would give the maiden whatever price she wanted for them. And the maiden named many pieces of gold, which the princess paid her gladly, so pleased was she with her new possessions.

Then the girl went down the steps where none could watch her and cracked her walnut, and out came the most splendid court dress that any dressmaker had ever invented; and, carrying it carefully in her arms, she knocked at the door, and asked if the princess wished to buy a court dress.

When the message was delivered the princess sprang to her feet with delight, for she had been thinking that after all it was not much use to have a lovely mantle and elegant petticoats if she had no dress, and she knew the tailors would never be ready in time. So she sent at once to say she would buy the dress, and what sum did the maiden want for it.

This time the maiden answered that the price of the dress was the permission to see the bridegroom.

The princess was not at all pleased when she heard the maiden's reply, but, as she could not do without the dress, she was forced to give in, and contented herself with thinking that after all it did not matter much.

So the maiden was led to the rooms which had been given to her husband. And when she came near she touched him with the sprig of rosemary that she carried; and his memory came back, and he knew her, and kissed her, and declared that she was his true wife, and that he loved her and no other.

Then they went back to the maiden's home, and grew to be very old, and lived happy all the days of their life.



The White Dove

From the Danish.


A king had two sons. They were a pair of reckless fellows, who always had something foolish to do. One day they rowed out alone on the sea in a little boat. It was beautiful weather when they set out, but as soon as they had got some distance from the shore there arose a terrific storm. The oars went overboard at once, and the little boat was tossed about on the rolling billows like a nut-shell. The princes had to hold fast by the seats to keep from being thrown out of the boat.

In the midst of all this they met a wonderful vessel -- it was a dough-trough, in which there sat an old woman. She called to them, and said that they could still get to shore alive if they would promise her the son that was next to come to their mother the queen.

'We can't do that,' shouted the princes; 'he doesn't belong to us so we can't give him away.'

'Then you can rot at the bottom of the sea, both of you,' said the old woman; 'and perhaps it may be the case that your mother would rather keep the two sons she has than the one she hasn't got yet.'

Then she rowed away in her dough-trough, while the storm howled still louder than before, and the water dashed over their boat until it was almost sinking. Then the princes thought that there was something in what the old woman had said about their mother, and being, of course, eager to save their lives, they shouted to her, and promised that she should have their brother if she would deliver them from this danger. As soon as they had done so the storm ceased and the waves fell. The boat drove ashore below their father's castle, and both princes were received with open arms by their father and mother, who had suffered great anxiety for them.

The two brothers said nothing about what they had promised, neither at that time nor later on when the queen's third son came, a beautiful boy, whom she loved more than anything else in the world. He was brought up and educated in his father's house until he was full grown, and still his brothers had never seen or heard anything about the witch to whom they had promised him before he was born.

It happened one evening that there arose a raging storm, with mist and darkness. It howled and roared around the king's palace, and in the midst of it there came a loud knock on the door of the hall where the youngest prince was. He went to the door and found there an old woman with a dough - trough on her back, who said to him that he must go with her at once; his brothers had promised him to her if she would save their lives.

'Yes,' said he; 'if you saved my brothers' lives, and they promised me to you, then I will go with you.'

They therefore went down to the beach together, where he had to take his seat in the trough, along with the witch, who sailed away with him, over the sea, home to her dwelling.

The prince was now in the witch's power, and in her service. The first thing she set him to was to pick feathers. 'The heap of feathers that you see here,' said she, 'you must get finished before I come home in the evening, otherwise you shall be set to harder work.' He started to the feathers, and picked and picked until there was only a single feather left that had not passed through his hands. But then there came a whirlwind and sent all the feathers flying, and swept them along the floor into a heap, where they lay as if they were trampled together. He had now to begin all his work over again, but by this time it only wanted an hour of evening, when the witch was to be expected home, and he easily saw that it was impossible for him to be finished by that time.

Then he heard something tapping at the window pane, and a thin voice said, 'Let me in, and I will help you.' It was a white dove, which sat outside the window, and was pecking at it with its beak. He opened the window, and the dove came in and set to work at once, and picked all the feathers out of the heap with its beak. Before the hour was past the feathers were all nicely arranged: the dove flew out at the window, and at, the same moment the witch came in at the door.

'Well, well,' said she, 'it was more than I would have expected of you to get all the feathers put in order so nicely. However, such a prince might be expected to have neat fingers.'

Next morning the witch said to the prince, 'To-day you shall have some easy work to do. Outside the door I have some firewood lying; you must split that for me into little bits that I can kindle the fire with. That will soon be done, but you must be finished before I come home.'

The prince got a little axe and set to work at once. He split and clove away, and thought that he was getting on fast; but the day wore on until it was long past midday, and he was still very far from having finished. He thought, in fact, that the pile of wood rather grew bigger than smaller, in spite of what he took off it; so he let his hands fall by his side, and dried the sweat from his forehead, and was ill at ease, for he knew that it would be bad for him if he was not finished with the work before the witch came home.

Then the white dove came flying and settled down on the pile of wood, and cooed and said, 'Shall I help you?'

'Yes,' said the prince, 'many thanks for your help yesterday, and for what you offer to-day.' Thereupon the little dove seized one piece of wood after another and split it with its beak. The prince could not take away the wood as quickly as the dove could split it, and in a short time it was all cleft into little sticks.

The dove then flew up on his shoulder and sat there and the prince thanked it, and stroked and caressed its white feathers, and kissed its little red beak. With that it was a dove no longer, but a beautiful young maiden, who stood by his side. She told him then that she was a princess whom the witch had stolen, and had changed to this shape, but with his kiss she had got her human form again; and if he would be faithful to her, and take her to wife, she could free them both from the witch's power.

The prince was quite captivated by the beautiful princess, and was quite willing to do anything whatsoever to get her for himself.

She then said to him, 'When the witch comes home you must ask her to grant you a wish, when you have accomplished so well all that she has demanded of you. When she agrees to this you must ask her straight out for the princess that she has flying about as a white dove. But just now you must take a red silk thread and tie it round my little finger, so that you may be able to recognise me again, into whatever shape she turns me.'

The prince made haste to get the silk thread tied round her little white finger; at the same moment the princess became a dove again and flew away, and immediately after that the old witch came home with her dough-trough on he back.

'Well,' said she, 'I must say that you are clever at your work, and it is something, too, that such princely hands are not accustomed to.'

'Since you are so well pleased with my work, said the prince, 'you will, no doubt, be willing to give me a little pleasure too, and give me something that I have taken a fancy to.'

'Oh yes, indeed,' said the old woman; 'what is it that you want?'

'I want the princess here who is in the shape of a white dove,' said the prince.

'What nonsense!' said the witch. 'Why should you imagine that there are princesses here flying about in the shape of white doves? But if you will have a princess, you can get one such as we have them.' She then came to him, dragging a shaggy little grey ass with long ears. 'Will you have this?' said she; 'you can't get any other princess!'

The prince used his eyes and saw the red silk thread on one of the ass's hoofs, so he said, 'Yes, just let me have it.'

'What will you do with it?' asked the witch.

'I will ride on it,' said the prince; but with that the witch dragged it away again, and came back with an old, wrinkled, toothless hag, whose hands trembled with age. 'You can have no other princess,' said she. 'Will you have her?'

'Yes, I will,' said the prince, for he saw the red silk thread on the old woman's finger.

At this the witch became so furious that she danced about and knocked everything to pieces that she could lay her hands upon, so that the splinters flew about the ears of the prince and princess, who now stood there in her own beautiful shape.

Then their marriage had to be celebrated, for the witch had to stick to what she had promised, and he must get the princess whatever might happen afterwards.

The princess now said to him, 'At the marriage feast you may eat what you please, but you must not drink anything whatever, for if you do that you will forget me.'

This, however, the prince forgot on the wedding day, and stretched out his hand and took a cup of wine; but the princess was keeping watch over him, and gave him a push with her elbow, so that the wine flew over the table - cloth.

Then the witch got up and laid about her among the plates and dishes, so that the pieces flew about their ears, just as she had done when she was cheated the first time.

They were then taken to the bridal chamber, and the door was shut. Then the princess said, 'Now the witch has kept her promise, but she will do no more if she can help it, so we must fly immediately. I shall lay two pieces of wood in the bed to answer for us when the witch speaks to us. You can take the flower-pot and the glass of water that stands in the window, and we must slip out by that and get away.'

No sooner said than done. They hurried off out into the dark night, the princess leading, because she knew the way, having spied it out while she flew about as a dove.

At midnight the witch came to the door of the room and called in to them, and the two pieces of wood answered her, so that she believed they were there, and went away again. Before daybreak she was at the door again and called to them, and again the pieces of wood answered for them. She thus thought that she had them, and when the sun rose the bridal night was past: she had then kept her promise, and could vent her anger and revenge on both of them. With the first sunbeam she broke into the room, but there she found no prince and no princess -- nothing but the two pieces of firewood, which lay in the bed, and stared, and spoke not a word. These she threw on the floor, so that they were splintered into a thousand pieces, and off she hastened after the fugitives.

With the first sunbeam the princess said to the prince, 'Look round; do you see anything behind us?'

'Yes, I see a dark cloud, far away,' said he.

'Then throw the flower-pot over your head,' said she. When this was done there was a large thick forest behind them.

When the witch came to the forest she could not get through it until she went home and brought her axe to cut a path.

A little after this the princess said again to the prince, 'Look round; do you see anything behind us?'

'Yes,' said the prince, 'the big black cloud is there again.'

'Then throw the glass of water over your head,' said she.

When he had done this there was a great lake behind them, and this the witch could not cross until she ran home again and brought her dough-trough.

Meanwhile the fugitives had reached the castle which was the prince's home. They climbed over the garden wall, ran across the garden, and crept in at an open window. By this time the witch was just at their heels, but the princess stood in the window and blew upon the witch; hundreds of white doves flew out of her mouth, fluttered and flapped around the witch's head until she grew so angry that she turned into flint, and there she stands to this day, in the shape of a large flint stone, outside the window.

Within the castle there was great rejoicing over the prince and his bride. His two elder brothers came and knelt before him and confessed what they had done, and said that he alone should inherit the kingdom, and they would always be his faithful subjects.



The Troll's Daughter

From the Danish.


There was once a lad who went to look for a place. As he went along he met a man, who asked him where he was going. He told him his errand, and the stranger said, 'Then you can serve me; I am just in want of a lad like you, and I will give you good wages -- a bushel of money the first year, two the second year, and three the third year, for you must serve me three years, and obey me in everything, however strange it seems to you. You need not be afraid of taking service with me, for there is no danger in it if you only know how to obey.'

The bargain was made, and the lad went home with the man to whom he had engaged himself. It was a strange place indeed, for he lived in a bank in the middle of the wild forest, and the lad saw there no other person than his master. The latter was a great troll, and had marvellous power over both men and beasts.

Next day the lad had to begin his service. The first thing that the troll set him to was to feed all the wild animals from the forest. These the troll had tied up, and there were both wolves and bears, deer and hares, which the troll had gathered in the stalls and folds in his stable down beneath the ground, and that stable was a mile long. The boy, however, accomplished all this work on that day, and the troll praised him and said that it was very well done.

Next morning the troll said to him, 'To-day the animals are not to be fed; they don't get the like of that every day. You shall have leave to play about for a little, until they are to be fed again.'

Then the troll said some words to him which he did not understand, and with that the lad turned into a hare, and ran out into the wood. He got plenty to run for, too, for all the hunters aimed at him, and tried to shoot him, and the dogs barked and ran after him wherever they got wind of him. He was the only animal that was left in the wood now, for the troll had tied up all the others, and every hunter in the whole country was eager to knock him over. But in this they met with no success; there was no dog that could overtake him, and no marksman that could hit him. They shot and shot at him, and he ran and ran. It was an unquiet life, but in the long run he got used to it, when he saw that there was no danger in it, and it even amused him to befool all the hunters and dogs that were so eager after him.

Thus a whole year passed, and when it was over the troll called him home, for he was now in his power like all the other animals. The troll then said some words to him which he did not understand, and the hare immediately became a human being again. 'Well, how do you like to serve me?' said the troll, 'and how do you like being a hare?'

The lad replied that he liked it very well; he had never been able to go over the ground so quickly before. The troll then showed him the bushel of money that he had already earned, and the lad was well pleased to serve him for another year.

The first day of the second year the boy had the same work to do as on the previous one -- namely, to feed all the wild animals in the troll's stable. When he had done this the troll again said some words to him, and with that he became a raven, and flew high up into the air. This was delightful, the lad thought; he could go even faster now than when he was a hare, and the dogs could not come after him here. This was a great delight to him, but he soon found out that he was not to be left quite at peace, for all the marksmen and hunters who saw him aimed at him and fired away, for they had no other birds to shoot at than himself, as the troll had tied up all the others.

This, however, he also got used to, when he saw that they could never hit him, and in this way he flew about all that year, until the troll called him home again, said some strange words to him, and gave him his human shape again. 'Well, how did you like being a raven?' said the troll.

'I liked it very well,' said the lad, 'for never in all my days have I been able to rise so high.' The troll then showed him the two bushels of money which he had earned that year, and the lad was well content to remain in his service for another year.

Next day he got his old task of feeding all the wild beasts. When this was done the troll again said some words to him, and at these he turned into a fish, and sprang into the river. He swam up and he swam down, and thought it was pleasant to let himself drive with the stream. In this way he came right out into the sea, and swam further and further out. At last he came to a glass palace, which stood at the bottom of the sea. He could see into all the rooms and halls, where everything was very grand; all the furniture was of white ivory, inlaid with gold and pearl. There were soft rugs and cushions of all the colours of the rainbow, and beautiful carpets that looked like the finest moss, and flowers and trees with curiously crooked branches, both green and yellow, white and red, and there were also little fountains which sprang up from the most beautiful snail-shells, and fell into bright mussel-shells, and at the same time made a most delightful music, which filled the whole palace.

The most beautiful thing of all, however, was a young girl who went about there, all alone. She went about from one room to another, but did not seem to be happy with all the grandeur she had about her. She walked in solitude and melancholy, and never even thought of looking at her own image in the polished glass walls that were on every side of her, although she was the prettiest creature anyone could wish to see. The lad thought so too while he swam round the palace and peeped in from every side.

'Here, indeed, it would be better to be a man than such a poor dumb fish as I am now,' said he to himself; 'if I could only remember the words that the troll says when he changes my shape, then perhaps I could help myself to become a man again.' He swam and he pondered and he thought over this until he remembered the sound of what the troll said, and then he tried to say it himself. In a moment he stood in human form at the bottom of the sea.

He made haste then to enter the glass palace, and went up to the young girl and spoke to her.

At first he nearly frightened the life out of her, but he talked to her so kindly and explained how he had come down there that she soon recovered from her alarm, and was very pleased to have some company to relieve the terrible solitude that she lived in. Time passed so quickly for both of them that the youth (for now he was quite a young man, and no more a lad) forgot altogether how long he had been there.

One day the girl said to him that now it was close on the time when he must become a fish again -- the troll would soon call him home, and he would have to go, but before that he must put on the shape of the fish, otherwise he could not pass through the sea alive. Before this, while he was staying down there, she had told him that she was a daughter of the same troll whom the youth served, and he had shut her up there to keep her away from everyone. She had now devised a plan by which they could perhaps succeed in getting to see each other again, and spending the rest of their lives together. But there was much to attend to, and he must give careful heed to all that she told him.

She told him then that all the kings in the country round about were in debt to her father the troll, and the king of a certain kingdom, the name of which she told him, was the first who had to pay, and if he could not do so at the time appointed he would lose his head. 'And he cannot pay,' said she; 'I know that for certain. Now you must, first of all, give up your service with my father; the three years are past, and you are at liberty to go. You will go off with your six bushels of money, to the kingdom that I have told you of, and there enter the service of the king. When the time comes near for his debt becoming due you will be able to notice by his manner that he is ill at ease. You shall then say to him that you know well enough what it is that is weighing upon him -- that it is the debt which he owes to the troll and cannot pay, but that you can lend him the money. The amount is six bushels -- just what you have. You shall, however, only lend them to him on condition that you may accompany him when he goes to make the payment, and that you then have permission to run before him as a fool. When you arrive at the troll's abode, you must perform all kinds of foolish tricks, and see that you break a whole lot of his windows, and do all other damage that you can. My father will then get very angry, and as the king must answer for what his fool does he will sentence him, even although he has paid his debt, either to answer three questions or to lose his life. The first question my father will ask will be, "Where is my daughter?" Then you shall step forward and answer "She is at the bottom of the sea." He will then ask you whether you can recognise her, and to this you will answer "Yes." Then he will bring forward a whole troop of women, and cause them to pass before you, in order that you may pick out the one that you take for his daughter. You will not be able to recognise me at all, and therefore I will catch hold of you as I go past, so that you can notice it, and you must then make haste to catch me and hold me fast. You have then answered his first question. His next question will be, "Where is my heart?" You shall then step forward again and answer, "It is in a fish." "Do you know that fish?" he will say, and you will again answer "Yes." He will then cause all kinds of fish to come before you, and you shall choose between them. I shall take good care to keep by your side, and when the right fish comes I will give you a little push, and with that you will seize the fish and cut it up. Then all will be over with the troll; he will ask no more questions, and we shall be free to wed.'

When the youth had got all these directions as to what he had to do when he got ashore again the next thing was to remember the words which the troll said when he changed him from a human being to an animal; but these he had forgotten, and the girl did not know them either. He went about all day in despair, and thought and thought, but he could not remember what they sounded like. During the night he could not sleep, until towards morning he fell into a slumber, and all at once it flashed upon him what the troll used to say. He made haste to repeat the words, and at the same moment he became a fish again and slipped out into the sea. Immediately after this he was called upon, and swam through the sea up the river to where the troll stood on the bank and restored him to human shape with the same words as before.

'Well, how do you like to be a fish?' asked the troll.

It was what he had liked best of all, said the youth, and that was no lie, as everybody can guess.

The troll then showed him the three bushels of money which he had earned during the past year; they stood beside the other three, and all the six now belonged to him.

'Perhaps you will serve me for another year yet,' said the troll, 'and you will get six bushels of money for it; that makes twelve in all, and that is a pretty penny.'

'No,' said the youth; he thought he had done enough, and was anxious to go to some other place to serve, and learn other people's ways; but he would, perhaps, come back to the troll some other time.

The troll said that he would always be welcome; he had served him faithfully for the three years they had agreed upon, and he could make no objections to his leaving now.

The youth then got his six bushels of money, and with these he betook himself straight to the kingdom which his sweetheart had told him of. He got his money buried in a lonely spot close to the king's palace, and then went in there and asked to be taken into service. He obtained his request, and was taken on as stableman, to tend the king's horses.

Some time passed, and he noticed how the king always went about sorrowing and grieving, and was never glad or happy. One day the king came into the stable, where there was no one present except the youth, who said straight out to him that, with his majesty's permission, he wished to ask him why he was so sorrowful.

'It's of no use speaking about that,' said the king; 'you cannot help me, at any rate.'

'You don't know about that,' said the youth; ' I know well enough what it is that lies so heavy on your mind, and I know also of a plan to get the money paid.'

This was quite another case, and the king had more talk with the stableman, who said that he could easily lend the king the six bushels of money, but would only do it on condition that he should be allowed to accompany the king when he went to pay the debt, and that he should then be dressed like the king's court fool, and run before him. He would cause some trouble, for which the king would be severely spoken to, but he would answer for it that no harm would befall him.

The king gladly agreed to all that the youth proposed, and it was now high time for them to set out.

When they came to the troll's dwelling it was no longer in the bank, but on the top of this there stood a large castle which the youth had never seen before. The troll could, in fact, make it visible or invisible, just as he pleased, and, knowing as much as he did of the troll's magic arts, the youth was not at all surprised at this.

When they came near to this castle, which looked as if it was of pure glass, the youth ran on in front as the king's fool. Heran sometimes facing forwards, sometimes backwards, stood sometimes on his head, and sometimes on his feet, and he dashed in pieces so many of the troll's big glass windows and doors that it was something awful to see, and overturned everything he could, and made a fearful disturbance.

The troll came rushing out, and was so angry and furious, and abused the king with all his might for bringing such a wretched fool with him, as he was sure that he could not pay the least bit of all the damage that had been done when he could not even pay off his old debt.

The fool, however, spoke up, and said that he could do so quite easily, and the king then came forward with the six bushels of money which the youth had lent him. They were measured and found to be correct. This the troll had not reckoned on, but he could make no objection against it. The old debt was honestly paid, and the king got his bond back again.

But there still remained all the damage that had been done that day, and the king had nothing with which to pay for this. The troll, therefore, sentenced the king, either to answer three questions that he would put to him, or have his head taken off, as was agreed on in the old bond.

There was nothing else to be done than to try to answer the troll's riddles. The fool then stationed himself just by the king's side while the troll came forward with his questions. He first asked, 'Where is my daughter?'

The fool spoke up and said, 'She is at the bottom of the sea.'

'How do you know that?' said the troll.

'The little fish saw it,' said the fool.

'Would you know her?' said the troll.

'Yes, bring her forward,' said the fool.

The troll made a whole crowd of women go past them, one after the other, but all these were nothing but shadows and deceptions. Amongst the very last was the troll's real daughter, who pinched the fool as she went past him to make him aware of her presence. He thereupon caught her round the waist and held her fast, and the troll had to admit that his first riddle was solved.

Then the troll asked again: 'Where is my heart?'

'It is in a fish,' said the fool.

'Would you know that fish?' said the troll.

'Yes, bring it forward,' said the fool.

Then all the fishes came swimming past them, and meanwhile the troll's daughter stood just by the youth's side. When at last the right fish came swimming along she gave him a nudge, and he seized it at once, drove his knife into it, and split it up, took the heart out of it, and cut it through the middle.

At the same moment the troll fell dead and turned into pieces of flint. With that a,ll the bonds that the troll had bound were broken; all the wild beasts and birds which he had caught and hid under the ground were free now, and dispersed themselves in the woods and in the air.

The youth and his sweetheart entered the castle, which was now theirs, and held their wedding; and all the kings roundabout, who had been in the troll's debt, and were now out of it, came to the wedding, and saluted the youth as their emperor, and he ruled over them all, and kept peace between them, and lived in his castle with his beautiful empress in great joy and magnificence. And if they have not died since they are living there to this day.



Esben and the Witch

From the Danish.


There was once a man who had twelve sons: the eleven eldest were both big and strong, but the twelfth, whose name was Esben, was only a little fellow. The eleven eldest went out with their father to field and forest, but Esben preferred to stay at home with his mother, and so he was never reckoned at all by the rest, but was a sort of outcast among them.

When the eleven had grown up to be men they decided to go out into the world to try their fortune, and they plagued their father to give them what they required for the journey. The father was not much in favour of this, for he was now old and weak, and could not well spare them from helping him with his work, but in the long run he had to give in. Each one of the eleven got a fine white horse and money for the journey, and so they said farewell to their father and their home, and rode away.

As for Esben, no one had ever thought about him; his brothers had not even said farewell to him.

After the eleven were gone Esben went to his father and said, 'Father, give me also a horse and money; I should also like to see round about me in the world.'

'You are a little fool,' said his father. 'If I could have let you go, and kept your eleven brothers at home, it would have been better for me in my old age.'

'Well, you will soon be rid of me at any rate,' said Esben.

As he could get no other horse, he went into the forest, broke off a branch, stripped the bark off it, so that it became still whiter than his brothers' horses, and, mounted on this. rode off after his eleven brothers.

The brothers rode on the whole day, and towards evening they came to a great forest, which they entered. Far within the wood they came to a little house, and knocked at the door. There came an old, ugly, bearded hag, and opened it, and they asked her whether all of them could get quarters for the night.

'Yes,' said the old, bearded hag, 'you shall all have quarters for the night, and, in addition, each of you shall have one of my daughters.'

The eleven brothers thought that they had come to very hospitable people. They were well attended to, and when they went to bed, each of them got one of the hag's daughters.

Esben had been coming along behind them, and had followed the same way, and had also found the same house in the forest. He slipped into this, without either the witch or her daughters noticing him, and hid himself under one of the beds. A little before midnight he crept quietly out and wakened his brothers. He told these to change night-caps with the witch's daughters. The brothers saw no reason for this, but, to get rid of Esben's persistence, they made the exchange, and slept soundly again.

When midnight came Esben heard the old witch come creeping along. She had a broad-bladed axe in her hand, and went over all the eleven beds. It was so dark that she could not see a hand's breadth before her, but she felt her way, and hacked the heads off all the sleepers who had the men's night-caps on -- and these were her own daughters. As soon as she had gone her way Esben wakened his brothers, and they hastily took their horses and rode off from the witch's house, glad that they had escaped so well. They quite forgot to thank Esben for what he had done for them.

When they had ridden onwards for some time they reached a king's palace, and inquired there whether they could be taken into service. Quite easily, they were told, if they would be stablemen, otherwise the king had no use for them. They were quite ready for this, and got the task of looking after all the king's horses.

Long after them came Esben riding on his stick, and he also wanted to get a place in the palace, but no one had any use for him, and he was told that he could just go back the way he had come. However, he stayed there and occupied himself as best he could. He got his food, but nothing more, and by night he lay just where he could.

At this time there was in the palace a knight who was called Sir Red. He was very well liked by the king, but hated by everyone else, for he was wicked both in will and deed. This Sir Red became angry with the eleven brothers, because they would not always stand at attention for him, so he determined to avenge himself on them.

One day, therefore, he went to the king, and said that the eleven brothers who had come to the palace a little while ago, and served as stablemen, could do a great deal more than they pretended. One day he had heard them say that if they liked they could get for the king a wonderful dove which had a feather of gold and a feather of silver time about. But they would not procure it unless they were threatened with death.

The king then had the eleven brothers called before him, and said to them, 'You have said that you can get me a dove which has feathers of gold and silver time about.'

All the eleven assured him that they had never said anything of the kind, and they did not believe that such a dove existed in the whole world.

'Take your own mind of it,' said the king; 'but if you don't get that dove within three days you shall lose your heads, the whole lot of you.'

With that the king let them go, and there was great grief among them; some wept and others lamented.

At that moment Esben came along, and, seeing their sorrowful looks, said to them, 'Hello, what's the matter with you?'

'What good would it do to tell you, you little fool? You can't help us.'

'Oh, you don't know that,' answered Esben. 'I have helped you before.'

In the end they told him how unreasonable the king was, and how he had ordered them to get for him a dove with feathers of gold and silver time about.

'Give me a bag of peas' said Esben, 'and I shall see what I can do for you.'

Esben got his bag of peas; then he took his white stick, and said,

Fly quick, my little stick, Carry me across the stream.

Straightway the stick carried him across the river and straight into the old witch's courtyard. Esben had noticed that she had such a dove; so when he arrived in the courtyard he shook the peas out of the bag, and the dove came fluttering down to pick them up. Esben caught it at once, put it into the bag, and hurried off before the witch caught sight of him; but the next moment she came running, and shouted after him, ' I Hey is that you, Esben.?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'Is it you that has taken my dove?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'Was it you that made me kill my eleven daughters?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'Are you coming back again?'

'That may be,' said Esben.

'Then you'll catch it,' shouted the witch.

The stick carried Esben with the dove back to the king's palace, and his brothers were greatly delighted. The king thanked them many times for the dove, and gave them in return both silver and gold. At this Sir Red became still more embittered, and again thought of how to avenge himself on the brothers.

One day he went to the king and told him that the dove was by no means the best thing that the brothers could get for him; for one day he had heard them talking quietly among themselves, and they had said that they could procure a boar whose bristles were of gold and silver time about.

The king again summoned the brothers before him, and asked whether it was true that they had said that they could get for him a boar whose bristles were of gold and silver time about.

'No,' said the brothers; they had never said nor thought such a thing, and they did not believe that there was such a boar in the whole world.

'You must get me that boar within three days,' said the king, 'or it will cost you your heads.'

With that they had to go. This was still worse than before, they thought. Where could they get such a marvellous boar? They all went about hanging their heads; but when only one day remained of the three Esben came along. When he saw his brothers' sorrowful looks he cried, 'Hallo, what's the matter now?'

'Oh, what's the use of telling you?' said his brothers. 'You can't help us, at any rate.'

'Ah, you don't know that,' said Esben; 'I've helped you before.'

In the end they told him how Sir Red had stirred up the king against them, so that he had ordered them to get for him a boar with bristles of gold and silver time about.

'That's all right,' said Esben; 'give me a sack of malt, and it is not quite impossible that I may be able to help you.'

Esben got his sack of malt; then he took his little white stick, set himself upon it, and said,

Fly quick, my little stick, Carry me across the stream.

Off went the stick with him, and very soon he was again in the witch's courtyard. There he emptied out the malt, and next moment came the boar, which had every second bristle of gold and of silver. Esben at once put it into his sack and hurried off before the witch should catch sight of him; but the next moment she came running, and shouted after him, 'Hey! is that you, Esben?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'Is it you that has taken my pretty boar?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'It was also you that took my dove?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'And it was you that made me kill my eleven daughters?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'Are you coming back again?'

'That may be,' said Esben.

'Then you'll catch it,' said the witch.

Esben was soon back at the palace with the boar, and his brothers scarcely knew which leg to stand on, so rejoiced were they that they were safe again. Not one of them, however, ever thought of thanking Esben for what he had done for them.

The king was still more rejoiced over the boar than he had been over the dove, and did not know what to give the brothers for it. At this Sir Red was again possessed with anger and envy, and again he went about and planned how to get the brothers into trouble.

One day he went again to the king and said, 'These eleven brothers have now procured the dove and the boar, but they can do much more than that; I know they have said that if they liked they could get for the king a lamp that can shine over seven kingdoms.'

'If they have said that,' said the king, 'they shall also be made to bring it to me. That would be a glorious lamp for me.'

Again the king sent a message to the brothers to come up to the palace. They went accordingly, although very unwillingly, for they suspected that Sir Red had fallen on some new plan to bring them into trouble.

As soon as they came before the king he said to them,

'You brothers have said that you could, if you liked, get for me a lamp that can shine over seven kingdoms. That lamp must be mine within three days, or it will cost you your lives.'

The brothers assured him that they had never said so, and they were sure that no such lamp existed, but their words were of no avail.

'The lamp!' said the king, 'or it will cost you your heads.'

The brothers were now in greater despair than ever. They did not know what to do, for such a lamp no one had ever heard of. But just as things looked their worst along came Esben.

'Something wrong again?' said he. 'What's the matter with you now?'

'Oh, it's no use telling you,' said they. 'You can't help us, at any rate.'

'Oh, you might at least tell me,' said Esben; 'I have helped you before.'

In the end they told him that the king had ordered them to bring him a lamp which could shine over seven kingdoms, but such a lamp no one had ever heard tell of.

'Give me a bushel of salt,' said Esben, 'and we shall see how matters go.'

He got his bushel of salt, and then mounted his little white stick, and said,

Fly quick, my little stick, Carry me across the stream.

With that both he and his bushel of salt were over beside the witch's courtyard. But now matters were less easy, for he could not get inside the yard, as it was evening and the gate was locked. Finally he hit upon a plan; he got up on the roof and crept down the chimney.

He searched all round for the lamp, but could find it nowhere, for the witch always had it safely guarded, as it was one of her most precious treasures. When he became tired of searching for it he crept into the baking - oven, intending to lie down there and sleep till morning; but just at that moment he heard the witch calling from her bed to one of her daughters, and telling her to make some porridge for her. She had grown hungry, and had taken such a fancy to some porridge. The daughter got out of bed, kindled the fire, and put on a pot with water in it.

'You mustn't put any salt in the porridge, though,' cried the witch.

'No, neither will I,' said the daughter; but while she was away getting the meal Esben slipped out of the oven and emptied the whole bushel of salt into the pot. The daughter came back then and put in the meal, and after it had boiled a little she took it in to her mother. The witch took a spoonful and tasted it.

'Uh!' said she; 'didn't I tell you not to put any salt in it, and it's just as salt as the sea.'

So the daughter had to go and make new porridge, and her mother warned her strictly not to put any salt in it. But now there was no water in the house, so she asked her mother to give her the lamp, so that she could go to the well for more.

'There you have it, then,' said the witch; 'but take good care of it.'

The daughter took the lamp which shone over seven kingdoms, and went out to the well for water, while Esben slipped out after her. When she was going to draw the water from the well she set the lamp down on a stone beside her. Esben watched his chance, seized the lamp, and gave her a push from behind, so that she plumped head first into the well. Then he made off with the lamp. But the witch got out of her bed and ran after him, crying:

'Hey! is that you again, Esben?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'Was it you that took my dove?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'Was it also you that took my boar?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'And it was you that made me kill my eleven daughters?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'And now you have taken my lamp, and drowned my twelfth daughter in the well?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'Are you coming back again?'

'That may be,' said Esben.

'Then you'll catch it,' said the witch.

It was only a minute before the stick had again landed Esben at the king's palace, and the brothers were then freed from their distress. The king gave them many fine presents, but Esben did not get even so much as thanks from them.

Never had Sir Red been so eaten up with envy as he was now, and he racked his brain day and night to find something quite impossible to demand from the brothers.

One day he went to the king and told him that the lamp the brothers had procured was good enough, but they could still get for him something that was far better. The king asked what that was.

'It is,' said Sir Red, 'the most beautiful coverlet that any mortal ever heard tell of. It also has the property that, when anyone touches it, it sounds so that it can be heard over eight kingdoms.'

'That must be a splendid coverlet,' said the king, and he at once sent for the brothers.

'You have said that you know of a coverlet, the most beautiful in the whole world, and which sounds over eight kingdoms when anyone touches it. You shall procure it for me, or else lose your lives,' said he.

The brothers answered him that they had never said a word about such a coverlet, did not believe it existed, and that it was quite impossible for them to procure it. But the king would not hear a word; he drove them away, telling them that if they did not get it very soon it would cost them their heads.

Things looked very black again for the brothers, for they were sure there was no escape for them. The youngest of them, indeed, asked where Esben was, but the others said that that little fool could scarcely keep himself in clothes, and it was not to be expected that he could help them. Not one of them thought it worth while to look for Esben, but he soon came along of himself.

'Well, what's the matter now?' said he.

'Oh, what's the use of telling you?' said the brothers. 'You can't help us, at any rate.'

'Ah! who knows that?' said Esben. 'I have helped you before.'

In the end the brothers told him about the coverlet which, when one touched it, sounded so that it could be heard over eight kingdoms. Esben thought that this was the worst errand that he had had yet, but he could not do worse than fail, and so he would make the attempt.

He again took his little white stick, set himself on it, and said,

Fly quick, my little stick, Carry me across the stream.

Next moment he was across the river and beside the witch's house. It was evening, and the door was locked, but he knew the way down the chimney. When he had got into the house, however, the worst yet remained to do, for the coverlet was on the bed in which the witch lay and slept. He slipped into the room without either she or her daughter wakening; but as soon as he touched the coverlet to take it it sounded so that it could be heard over eight kingdoms. The witch awoke, sprang out of bed, and caught hold of Esben. He struggled with her, but could not free himself, and the witch called to her daughter, 'Come and help me; we shall put him into the little dark room to be fattened. Ho, ho! now I have him!'

Esben was now put into a little dark hole, where he neither saw sun nor moon, and there he was fed on sweet milk and nut-kernels. The daughter had enough to do cracking nuts for him, and at the end of fourteen days she had only one tooth left in her mouth; she had broken all the rest with the nuts. In this time however, she had taken a liking to Esben, and would willingly have set him free, but could not.

When some time had passed the witch told her daughter to go and cut a finger off Esben, so that she could see whether he was nearly fat enough yet. The daughter went and told Esben, and asked him what she should do. Esben told her to take an iron nail and wrap a piece of skin round it: she could then give her mother this to bite at.

The daughter did so, but when the witch bit it she cried, 'Uh! no, no! This is nothing but skin and bone; he must be fattened much longer yet.'

So Esben was fed for a while longer on sweet milk and nut-kernels, until one day the witch thought that now he must surely be fat enough, and told her daughter again to go and cut a finger off him. By this time Esben was tired of staying in the dark hole, so he told her to go and cut a teat off a cow, and give it to the witch to bite at. This the daughter did, and the witch cried, 'Ah! now he is fat -- so fat that one can scarcely feel the bone in him. Now he shall be killed.'

Now this was just the very time that the witch had to go to Troms Church, where all the witches gather once every year, so she had no time to deal with Esben herself. She therefore told her daughter to heat up the big oven while she was away, take Esben out of his prison, and roast him in there before she came back. The daughter promised all this, and the witch went off on her journey.

The daughter then made the oven as hot as could be, and took Esben out of his prison in order to roast him. She brought the oven spade, and told Esben to seat himself on it, so that she could shoot him into the oven. Esben accordingly took his seat on it, but when she had got him to the mouth of the oven he spread his legs out wide, so that she could not get him pushed in.

'You mustn't sit like that,' said she.

'How then?' said Esben.

'You must cross your legs,' said the daughter; but Esben could not understand what she meant by this.

'Get out of the way,' said she, 'and I will show you how to place yourself.'

She seated herself on the oven spade, but no sooner had she done so than Esben laid hold of it, shot her into the oven, and fastened the door of it. Then he ran and seized the coverlet, but as soon as he did so it sounded so that it could be heard over eight kingdoms, and the witch, who was at Troms Church, came flying home, and shouted, 'Hey! is that you again, Esben?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'It was you that made me kill my eleven daughters?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'And took my dove?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'And my beautiful boar?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'And drowned my twelfth daughter in the well, and took my lamp?'

'Ye -- e -- s!'

'And now you have roasted my thirteenth and last daughter in the oven, and taken my coverlet?'

'YeÄeÄs!'

'Are you coming back again?'

'No, never again,' said Esben.

At this the witch became so furious that she sprang into numberless pieces of flint, and from this come all the flint stones that one finds about the country.

Esben had found again his little stick, which the witch had taken from him, so he said,

Fly quick, my little stick, Carry me across the stream.

Next moment he was back at the king's palace. Here things were in a bad way, for the king had thrown all the eleven brothers into prison, and they were to be executed very shortly because they had not brought him the coverlet. Esben now went up to the king and gave him the coverlet, with which the king was greatly delighted. When he touched it it could be heard over eight kingdoms, and all the other kings sat and were angry because they had not one like it.

Esben also told how everything had happened, and how Sir Red had done the brothers all the ill he could devise because he was envious of them. The brothers were at once set at liberty, while Sir Red, for his wickedness, was hanged on the highest tree that could be found, and so he got the reward he deserved.

Much was made of Esben and his brothers, and these now thanked him for all that he had done for them. The twelve of them received as much gold and silver as they could carry, and betook themselves home to their old father. When he saw again his twelve sons, whom he had never expected to see more, he was so glad that he wept for joy. The brothers told him how much Esben had done, and how he had saved their lives, and from that time forward he was no longer the butt of the rest at home.



Princess Minon-minette

Bibliotheque des Fees et aes Genies


Once upon a time there lived a young king whose name was Souci, and he had been brought up, ever since he was a baby, by the fairy Inconstancy. Now the fairy Girouette had a kind heart, but she was a very trying person to live with, for she never knew her own mind for two minutes together, and as she was the sole ruler at Court till the prince grew up everything was always at sixes and sevens. At first she determined to follow the old custom of keeping the young king ignorant of the duties he would have to perform some day; then, quite suddenly, she resigned the reins of government into his hands; but, unluckily, it was too late to train him properly for the post. However, the fairy did not think of that, but, carried away by her new ideas, she hastily formed a Council, and named as Prime Minister the excellent 'Ditto,' so called because he had never been known to contradict anybody.

Young Prince Souci had a handsome face, and at the bottom a good deal of common sense; but he had never been taught good manners, and was shy and awkward; and had, besides, never learned how to use his brains.

Under these circumstances it is not surprising that the Council did not get through much work. Indeed, the affairs of the country fell into such disorder that at last the people broke out into open rebellion, and it was only the courage of the king, who continued to play the flute while swords and spears were flashing before the palace gate, that prevented civil war from being declared.

No sooner was the revolt put down than the Council turned their attention to the question of the young king's marriage. Various princesses were proposed to him, and the fairy, who was anxious to get the affair over before she left the Court for ever, gave it as her opinion that the Princess Diaphana would make the most suitable wife. Accordingly envoys were sent to bring back an exact report of the princess's looks and ways, and they returned saying that she was tall and well made, but so very light that the equerries who accompanied her in her walks had to be always watching her, lest she should suddenly be blown away. This had happened so often that her subjects lived in terror of losing her altogether, and tried everything they could think of to keep her to the ground. They even suggested that she should carry weights in her pockets, or have them tied to her ankles; but this idea was given up, as the princess found it so uncomfortable. At length it was decided that she was never to go out in a wind, and in order to make matters surer still the equerries each held the end of a string which was fastened to her waist.

The Council talked over this report for some days, and then the king made up his mind that he would judge for himself, and pretend to be his own ambassador. This plan was by no means new, but it had often succeeded, and, anyhow, they could think of nothing better.

Such a splendid embassy had never before been seen in any country. The kingdom was left in the charge of the Prime Minister, who answered 'Ditto' to everything; but the choice was better than it seemed, for the worthy man was much beloved by the people, as he agreed with all they said, and they left him feeling very pleased with themselves and their own wisdom.

When the king arrived at Diaphana's Court he found a magnificent reception awaiting him, for, though they pretended not to know who he was, secrets like this are never hidden. Now the young king had a great dislike to long ceremonies, so he proposed that his second interview with the princess should take place in the garden. The princess made some difficulties, but, as the weather was lovely and very still, she at last consented to the king's wishes. But no sooner had they finished their first bows and curtseys than a slight breeze sprung up, and began to sway the princess, whose equerries had retired out of respect. The king went forward to steady her, but the wind that he caused only drove her further away from him. He rushed after her exclaiming, 'O princess! are you really running away from me?'

'Good gracious, no!' she replied. 'Run a little quicker and you will be able to stop me, and I shall be for ever grateful. That is what comes of talking in a garden,' she added in disgust; 'as if one wasn't much better in a room that was tightly closed all round.'

The king ran as fast as he could, but the wind ran faster still, and in a moment the princess was whirled to the bottom of the garden, which was bounded by a ditch. She cleared it like a bird, and the king, who was obliged to stop short at the edge, saw the lovely Diaphana flying over the plain, sometimes driven to the right, sometimes to the left, till at last she vanished out of sight.

By this time the whole court were running over the plain, some on foot and some on horseback, all hurrying to the help of their princess, who really was in some danger, for the wind was rising to the force of a gale. The king looked on for a little, and then returned with his attendants to the palace, reflecting all the while on the extreme lightness of his proposed bride and the absurdity of having a wife that rose in the air better than any kite. He thought on the whole that it would be wiser not to wait longer, but to depart at once, and he started on horseback at the very moment when the princess had been found by her followers, wet to the skin, and blown against a rick. Souci met the carriage which was bringing her home, and stopped to congratulate her on her escape, and to advise her to put on dry clothes. Then he continued his journey.

It took a good while for the king to get home again, and he was rather cross at having had so much trouble for nothing. Besides which, his courtiers made fun at his adventure, and he did not like being laughed at, though of course they did not dare to do it before his face. And the end of it was that very soon he started on his travels again, only allowing one equerry to accompany him, and even this attendant he managed to lose the moment he had left his own kingdom behind him.

Now it was the custom in those days for princes and princesses to be brought up by fairies, who loved them as their own children, and did not mind what inconvenience they put other people to for their sakes, for all the world as if they had been real mothers. The fairy Aveline, who lived in a country that touched at one point the kingdom of King Souci, had under her care the lovely Princess Minon-Minette, and had made up her mind to marry her to the young king, who, in spite of his awkward manners, which could be improved, was really very much nicer than most of the young men she was likely to meet.

So Aveline made her preparations accordingly, and began by arranging that the equerry should lose himself in the forest, after which she took away the king's sword and his horse while he lay asleep under a tree. Her reason for this was that she felt persuaded that, finding himself suddenly alone and robbed of everything, the king would hide his real birth, and would have to fall back on his powers of pleasing, like other men, which would be much better for him.

When the king awoke and found that the tree to which he had tied his horse had its lowest branch broken, and that nothing living was in sight, he was much dismayed, and sought high and low for his lost treasure, but all in vain. After a time he began to get hungry, so he decided that he had better try to find his way out of the forest, and perhaps he might have a chance of getting something to eat. He had only gone a few steps when he met Aveline, who had taken the shape of an old woman with a heavy bundle of faggots on her back. She staggered along the path and almost fell at his feet, and Souci, afraid that she might have hurt herself, picked her up and set her on her feet again before passing on his way. But he was not to be let off so easy.

'What about my bundle?' cried the old woman. 'Where is your politeness? Really, you seem to have been very nicely brought up! What have they taught you?'

'Taught me? Nothing,' replied he.

'I can well believe it!' she said. 'You don't know even how to pick up a bundle. Oh, you can come near; I am cleverer than you, and know how to pick up a bundle very well.'

The king blushed at her words, which he felt had a great deal of truth in them, and took up the bundle meekly.

Aveline, delighted at the success of her first experiment, hobbled along after him, chattering all the while, as old women do.

'I wish,' she said, 'that all kings had done as much once in their lives. Then they would know what a lot of trouble it takes to get wood for their fires.'

Souci felt this to be true, and was sorry for the old woman.

'Where are we going to?' asked he.

'To the castle of the White Demon; and if you are in want of work I will find you something to do.'

'But I can't do anything,' he said, 'except carry a bundle, and I shan't earn much by that.'

'Oh, you are learning,' replied the old woman, 'and it isn't bad for a first lesson.' But the king was paying very little attention to her, for he was rather cross and very tired. Indeed, he felt that he really could not carry the bundle any further, and was about to lay it down when up came a young maiden more beautiful than the day, and covered with precious stones. She ran to them, exclaiming to the old woman,

'Oh, you poor thing! I was just coming after you to see if I could help you.'

'Here is a young man,' replied the old woman, 'who will be quite ready to give you up the bundle. You see he does not look as if he enjoyed carrying it.'

'Will you let me take it, sir?' she asked.

But the king felt ashamed of himself, and held on to it tightly, while the presence of the princess put him in a better temper.

So they all travelled together till they arrived at a very ordinary-looking house, which Aveline pointed out as the castle of the White Demon, and told the king that he might put down his bundle in the courtyard. The young man was terribly afraid of being recognised by someone in this strange position, and would have turned on his heel and gone away had it not been for the thought of Minon-Minette. Still, he felt very awkward and lonely, for both the princess and the old woman had entered the castle without taking the slightest notice of the young man, who remained where he was for some time, not quite knowing what he had better do. At length a servant arrived and led him up into a beautiful room filled with people, who were either playing on musical instruments or talking in a lively manner, which astonished the king, who stood silently listening, and not at all pleased at the want of attention paid him.

Matters went on this way for some time. Every day the king fell more and more in love with Minon-Minette, and every day the princess seemed more and more taken up with other people. At last, in despair, the prince sought out the old woman, to try to get some advice from her as to his conduct, or, anyway, to have the pleasure of talking about Minon-Minette.

He found her spinning in an underground chamber, but quite ready to tell him all he wanted to know. In answer to his questions he learned that in order to win the hand of the princess it was not enough to be born a prince, for she would marry nobody who had not proved himself faithful, and had, besides, all those talents and accomplishments which help to make people happy.

For a moment Souci was very much cast down on hearing this, but then he plucked up. 'Tell me what I must do in order to win the heart of the princess, and no matter how hard it is I will do it. And show me how I can repay you for your kindness, and you shall have anything I can give you. Shall I bring in your bundle of faggots every day?'

'It is enough that you should have made the offer,' replied the old woman; and she added, holding out a skein of thread, 'Take this; one day you will be thankful for it, and when it becomes useless your difficulties will be past.'

'Is it the skein of my life?' he asked.

'It is the skein of your love's ill-luck,' she said.

And he took it and went away.

Now the fairy Girouette, who had brought up Souci, had an old friend called Grimace, the protectress of Prince Fluet. Grimace often talked over the young prince's affairs with Girouette, and, when she decided that he was old enough to govern his own kingdom, consulted Girouette as to a suitable wife. Girouette, who never stopped to think or to make inquiries, drew such a delightful picture of Minon-Minette that Grimace determined to spare no pains to bring about the marriage, and accordingly Fluet was presented at court. But though the young man was pleasant and handsome, the princess thought him rather womanish in some ways, and displayed her opinion so openly as to draw upon herself and Aveline the anger of the fairy, who declared that Minon-Minette should never know happiness till she had found a bridge without an arch and a bird without feathers. So saying, she also went away.

Before the king set out afresh on his travels Aveline had restored to him his horse and his sword, and though these were but small consolation for the absence of the princess, they were better than nothing, for he felt that somehow they might be the means of leading him back to her.

After crossing several deserts the king arrived at length in a country that seemed inhabited, but the instant he stepped over the border he was seized and flung into chains, and dragged at once to the capital. He asked his guards why he was treated like this, but the only answer he got was that he was in the territory of the Iron King, for in those days countries had no names of their own, but were called after their rulers.

The young man was led into the presence of the Iron King, who was seated on a black throne in a hall also hung with black, as a token of mourning for all the relations whom he had put to death.

'What are you doing in my country?' he cried fiercely.

'I came here by accident,' replied Souci, 'and if I ever escape from your clutches I will take warning by you and treat my subjects differently.'

'Do you dare to insult me in my own court?' cried the king. 'Away with him to Little Ease!'

Now Little Ease was an iron cage hung by four thick chains in the middle of a great vaulted hall, and the prisoner inside could neither sit, nor stand, nor lie; and, besides that, he was made to suffer by turns unbearable heat and cold, while a hundred heavy bolts kept everything safe. Girouette, whose business it was to see after Souci, had forgotten his existence in the excitement of some new idea, and he would not have been alive long to trouble anybody if Aveline had not come to the rescue and whispered in his ear, 'And the skein of thread?' He took it up obediently, though he did not see how it would help him but he tied it round one of the iron bars of his cage, which seemed the only thing he could do, and gave a pull. To his surprise the bar gave way at once, and he found he could break it into a thousand pieces. After this it did not take him long to get out of his cage, or to treat the closely barred windows of the hall in the same manner. But even after he had done all this freedom appeared as far from him as ever, for between him and the open country was a high wall, and so smooth that not even a monkey could climb it. Then Souci's heart died within him. He saw nothing for it but to submit to some horrible death, but he determined that the Iron King should not profit more than he could help, and flung his precious thread into the air, saying, as he did so, 'O fairy, my misfortunes are greater than your power. I am grateful for your goodwill, but take back your gift!' The fairy had pity on his youth and want of faith, and took care that one end of the thread remained in his hand. He suddenly felt a jerk, and saw that the thread must have caught on something, and this thought filled him with the daring that is born of despair. 'Better,' he said to himself, 'trust to a thread than to the mercies of a king;' and, gliding down, he found himself safe on the other side of the wall. Then he rolled up the thread and put it carefully into his pocket, breathing silent thanks to the fairy.

Now Minon-Minette had been kept informed by Aveline of the prince's adventures, and when she heard of the way in which he had been treated by the Iron King she became furious, and began to prepare for war. She made her plans with all the secrecy she could, but when great armies are collected people are apt to suspect a storm is brewing, and of course it is very difficult to keep anything hidden from fairy godmothers. Anyway, Grimace soon heard of it, and as she had never forgiven Minon-Minette for refusing Prince Fluet, she felt that here was her chance of revenge.

Up to this time Aveline had been able to put a stop to many of Grimace's spiteful tricks, and to keep guard over Minon-Minette, but she had no power over anything that happened at a distance; and when the princess declared her intention of putting herself at the head of her army, and began to train herself to bear fatigue by hunting daily, the fairy entreated her to be careful never to cross the borders of her dominions without Aveline to protect her. The princess at once gave her promise, and all went well for some days. Unluckily one morning, as Minon-Minette was cantering slowly on her beautiful white horse, thinking a great deal about Souci and not at all of the boundaries of her kingdom (of which, indeed, she was very ignorant), she suddenly found herself in front of a house made entirely of dead leaves, which somehow brought all sorts of unpleasant things into her head. She remembered Aveline's warning, and tried to turn her horse, but it stood as still as if it had been marble. Then the princess felt that she was slowly, and against her will, being dragged to the ground. She shrieked, and clung tightly to the saddle, but it was all in vain; she longed to fly, but something outside herself proved too strong for her, and she was forced to take the path that led to the House of Dead Leaves.

Scarcely had her feet touched the threshold than Grimace appeared. 'So here you are at last, Minon-Minette! I have been watching for you a long time, and my trap was ready for you from the beginning. Come here, my darling! I will teach you to make war on my friends! Things won't turn out exactly as you fancied. What you have got to do now is to go on your knees to the king and crave his pardon, and before he consents to a peace you will have to implore him to grant you the favour of becoming his wife. Meanwhile you will have to be my servant.'

From that day the poor princess was put to the hardest and dirtiest work, and each morning something more disagreeable seemed to await her. Besides which, she had no food but a little black bread, and no bed but a little straw. Out of pure spite she was sent in the heat of the day to look after the geese, and would most likely have got a sunstroke if she had not happened to pick up in the fields a large fan, with which she sheltered her face. To be sure, a fan seems rather an odd possession for a goose girl, but the princess did not think of that, and she forgot all her troubles when, on opening the fan to use it as a parasol, out tumbled a letter from her lover. Then she felt sure that the fairy had not forgotten her, and took heart.

When Grimace saw that Minon-Minette still managed to look as white as snow, instead of being burnt as brown as a berry, she wondered what could have happened, and began to watch her closely. The following day, when the sun was at its highest and hottest, she noticed her draw a fan from the folds of her dress and hold it before her eyes. The fairy, in a rage, tried to snatch it from her, but the princess would not let it go. 'Give me that fan at once!' cried Grimace.

'Never while I live!' answered the princess, and, not knowing where it would be safest, placed it under her feet. In an instant she felt herself rising from the ground, with the fan always beneath her, and while Grimace was too much blinded by her fury to notice what was going on the princess was quickly soaring out of her reach.

All this time Souci had been wandering through the world with his precious thread carefully fastened round him, seeking every possible and impossible place where his beloved princess might chance to be. But though he sometimes found traces of her, or even messages scratched on a rock, or cut in the bark of a tree, she herself was nowhere to be found. 'If she is not on the earth,' said Souci to himself, 'perhaps she is hiding somewhere in the air. It is there that I shall find her.' So, by the help of his thread, he tried to mount upwards, but he could go such a little way, and hurt himself dreadfully when he tumbled back to earth again. Still he did not give up, and after many days of efforts and tumbles he found to his great joy that he could go a little higher and stay up a little longer than he had done at first, and by-and-bye he was able to live in the air altogether. But alas! the world of the air seemed as empty of her as the world below, and Souci was beginning to despair, and to think that he must go and search the world that lay in the sea. He was floating sadly along, not paying any heed to where he was going, when he saw in the distance a beautiful, bright sort of bird coming towards him. His heart beat fast -- he did not know why -- and as they both drew near the voice of the princess exclaimed, 'Behold the bird without feathers and the bridge without an arch!'

So their first meeting took place in the air, but it was none the less happy for that; and the fan grew big enough to hold the king as well as Aveline, who had hastened to give them some good advice. She guided the fan above the spot where the two armies lay encamped before each other ready to give battle. The fight was long and bloody, but in the end the Iron King was obliged to give way and surrender to the princess, who set him to keep King Souci's sheep, first making him swear a solemn oath that he would treat them kindly.

Then the marriage took place, in the presence of Girouette, whom they had the greatest trouble to find, and who was much astonished to discover how much business had been got through in her absence.



Maiden Bright-eye

From the Danish


Once, upon a time there was a man and his wife who had two children, a boy and a girl. The wife died, and the man married again. His new wife had an only daughter, who was both ugly and untidy, whereas her stepdaughter was a beautiful girl, and was known as Maiden Bright-eye. Her stepmother was very cruel to her on this account; she had always to do the hardest work, and got very little to eat, and no attention paid to her; but to her own daughter she was all that was good. She was spared from all the hardest of the housework, and had always the prettiest clothes to wear.

Maiden Bright-eye had also to watch the sheep, but of course it would never do to let her go idle and enjoy herself too much at this work, so she had to pull heather while she was out on the moors with them. Her stepmother gave her pancakes to take with her for her dinner, but she had mixed the flour with ashes, and made them just as bad as she could.

The little girl came out on the moor and began to pull heather on the side of a little mound, but next minute a little fellow with a red cap on his head popped up out of the mound and said:

'Who's that pulling the roof off my house?'

'Oh, it's me, a poor little girl,' said she; 'my mother sent me out here, and told me to pull heather. If you will be good to me I will give you a bit of my dinner.'

The little fellow was quite willing, and she gave him the biggest share of her pancakes. They were not particularly good, but when one is hungry anything tastes well. After he had got them all eaten he said to her:

'Now, I shall give you three wishes, for you are a very nice little girl; but I will choose the wishes for you. You are beautiful, and much more beautiful shall you be; yes, so lovely that there will not be your like in the world. The next wish shall be that every time you open your mouth a gold coin shall fall out of it, and your voice shall be like the most beautiful music. The third wish shall be that you may be married to the young king, and become the queen of the country. At the same time I shall give you a cap, which you must carefully keep, for it can save you, if you ever are in danger of your life, if you just put it on your head.

Maiden Bright-eye thanked the little bergman ever so often, and drove home her sheep in the evening. By that time she had grown so beautiful that her people could scarcely recognise her. Her stepmother asked her how it had come about that she had grown so beautiful. She told the whole story -- for she always told the truth -- that a little man had come to her out on the moor and had given her all this beauty. She did not tell, however, that she had given him a share of her dinner.

The stepmother thought to herself, 'If one can become so beautiful by going out there, my own daughter shall also be sent, for she can well stand being made a little prettier.'

Next morning she baked for her the finest cakes, and dressed her prettily to go out with the sheep. But she was afraid to go away there without having a stick to defend herself with if anything should come near her.

She was not very much inclined for pulling the heather, as she never was in the habit of doing any work, but she was only a minute or so at it when up came the same little fellow with the red cap, and said:

'Who's that pulling the roof off my house?'

'What's that to you?' said she.

'Well, if you will give me a bit of your dinner I won't do you any mischief,' said he.

'I will give you something else in place of my dinner,' said she. 'I can easily eat it myself; but if you will have something you can have a whack of my stick,' and with that she raised it in the air and struck the bergman over the head with it.

'What a wicked little girl you are!' said he; 'but you shall be none the better of this. I shall give you three wishes, and choose them for you. First, I shall say, "Ugly are you, but you shall become so ugly that there will not be an uglier one on earth." Next I shall wish that every time you open your mouth a big toad may fall out of it, and your voice shall be like the roaring of a bull. In the third place I shall wish for you a violent death.'

The girl went home in the evening, and when her mother saw her she was as vexed as she could be, and with good reason, too; but it was still worse when she saw the toads fall out of her mouth and heard her voice.

Now we must hear something about the stepson. He had gone out into the world to look about him, and took service in the king's palace. About this time he got permission to go home and see his sister, and when he saw how lovely and beautiful she was, he was so pleased and delighted that when he came back to the king's palace everyone there wanted to know what he was always so happy about. He told them that it was because he had such a lovely sister at home.

At last it came to the ears of the king what the brother said about his sister, and, besides that, the report of her beauty spread far and wide, so that the youth was summoned before the king, who asked him if everything was true that was told about the girl. He said it was quite true, for he had seen her beauty with his own eyes, and had heard with his own ears how sweetly she could sing and what a lovely voice she had.

The king then took a great desire for her, and ordered her brother to go home and bring her back with him, for he trusted no one better to accomplish that errand. He got a ship, and everything else that he required, and sailed home for his sister. As soon as the stepmother heard what his errand was she at once said to herself, 'This will never come about if I can do anything to hinder it. She must not be allowed to come to such honour.'

She then got a dress made for her own daughter, like the finest robe for a queen, and she had a mask prepared and put upon her face, so that she looked quite pretty, and gave her strict orders not to take it off until the king had promised to wed her.

The brother now set sail with his two sisters, for the stepmother pretended that the ugly one wanted to see the other a bit on her way. But when they got out to sea, and Maiden Bright-eye came up on deck, the sister did as her mother had instructed her -- she gave her a push and made her fall into the water. When the brother learned what had happened he was greatly distressed, and did not know what to do. He could not bring himself to tell the truth about what had happened, nor did he expect that the king would believe it. In the long run he decided to hold on his way, and let things go as they liked. What he had expected happened -- the king received his sister and wedded her at once, but repented it after the first night, as he could scarcely put down his foot in the morning for all the toads that were about the room, and when he saw her real face he was so enraged against the brother that he had him thrown into a pit full of serpents. He was so angry, not merely because he had been deceived, but because he could not get rid of the ugly wretch that was now tied to him for life.

Now we shall hear a little about Maiden Bright-eye When she fell into the water she was fortunate enough to get the bergman's cap put on her head, for now she was in danger of her life, and she was at once transformed into a duck. The duck swam away after the ship, and came to the king's palace on the next evening. There it waddled up the drain, and so into the kitchen, where her little dog lay on the hearth-stone; it could not bear to stay in the fine chambers along with the ugly sister, and had taken refuge down here. The duck hopped up till it could talk to the dog.

'Good evening,' it said.

'Thanks, Maiden Bright-eye,' said the dog.

'Where is my brother?'

'He is in the serpent-pit.'

'Where is my wicked sister?'

'She is with the noble king.'

'Alas! alas! I am here this evening, and shall be for two evenings yet, and then I shall never come again.'

When it had said this the duck waddled off again. Several of the servant girls heard the conversation, and were greatly surprised at it, and thought that it would be worth while to catch the bird next evening and see into the matter a little more closely. They had heard it say that it would come again.

Next evening it appeared as it had said, and a great many were present to see it. It came waddling in by the drain, and went up to the dog, which was lying on the hearth-stone.

'Good evening,' it said.

'Thanks, Maiden Bright-eye,' said the dog.

'Where is my brother?'

'He is in the serpent-pit.'

'Where is my wicked sister?'

'She is with the noble king.'

'Alas! alas! I am here this evening, and shall be for one evening yet, and then I shall never come again.'

After this it slipped out, and no one could get hold of it. But the king's cook thought to himself, 'I shall see if I can't get hold of you to-morrow evening.'

On the third evening the duck again came waddling in by the drain, and up to the dog on the hearth-stone.

'Good evening,' it said.

'Thanks, Maiden Bright-eye,' said the dog.

'Where is my brother?'

'He is in the serpent-pit.'

'Where is my wicked sister?'

'She is with the noble king.'

'Alas! alas! now I shall never come again.'

With this it slipped out again, but in the meantime the cook had posted himself at the outer end of the drain with a net, which he threw over it as it came out. In this way he caught it, and came in to the others with the most beautiful duck they had ever seen -- with so many golden feathers on it that everyone marvelled. No one, however, knew what was to be done with it; but after what they had heard they knew that there was something uncommon about it, so they took good care of it.

At this time the brother in the serpent-pit dreamed that his right sister had come swimming to the king's palace in the shape of a duck, and that she could not regain her own form until her beak was cut off. He got this dream told to some one, so that the king at last came to hear of it, and had him taken up out of the pit and brought before him. The king then asked him if he could produce to him his sister as beautiful as he had formerly described her. The brother said he could if they would bring him the duck and a knife.

Both of them were brought to him, and he said, 'I wonder how you would look if I were to cut the point off your beak.'

With this he cut a piece off the beak, and there came a voice which said, 'Oh, oh, you cut my little finger!'

Next moment Maiden Bright-eye stood there, as lovely and beautiful as he had seen her when he was home. This was his sister now, he said; and the whole story now came out of how the other had behaved to her. The wicked sister was put into a barrel with spikes round it which was dragged off by six wild horses, and so she came to her end.:But the king was delighted with Maiden Bright-eye, and immediately made her his queen, while her brother became his prime minister.



The Merry Wives

From the Danish


There lay three houses in a row, in one of which there lived a tailor, in another a carpenter, and in the third a smith. All three were married, and their wives were very good friends. They often talked about how stupid their husbands were, but they could never agree as to which of them had the most stupid one; each one stuck up for her own husband, and maintained that it was he.

The three wives went to church together every Sunday, and had a regular good gossip on the way, and when they were coming home from church they always turned into the tavern which lay by the wayside and drank half a pint together. This was at the time when half a pint of brandy cost threepence, so that was just a penny from each of them.

But the brandy went up in price, and the taverner said that he must have fourpence for the half-pint.

They were greatly annoyed at this, for there were only the three of them to share it, and none of them was willing to pay the extra penny.

As they went home from the church that day they decided to wager with each other as to whose husband was the most stupid, and the one who, on the following Sunday, should be judged to have played her husband the greatest trick should thereafter go free from paying, and each of the two others would give twopence for their Sunday's half-pint.

Next day the tailor's wife said to her husband, 'I have some girls coming to-day to help to card my wool there is a great deal to do, and we must be very busy. I am so annoyed that our watchdog is dead, for in the evening the young fellows will come about to get fun with the girls, and they will get nothing done. If we had only had a fierce watchdog he would have kept them away.'

'Yes,' said the man, 'that would have been a good thing.'

'Listen, good man,' said the wife, 'you must just be the watchdog yourself, and scare the fellows away from the house.'

The husband was not very sure about this, although otherwise he was always ready to give in to her.

'Oh yes, you will see it will work all right,' said the wife.

And so towards evening she got the tailor dressed up in a shaggy fur coat, tied a black woollen cloth round his head, and chained him up beside the dog's kennel.'

There he stood and barked and growled at everyone that moved in his neighbourhood. The neighbour wives knew all about this, and were greatly amused at it.

On the day after this the carpenter had been out at work, and came home quite merry; but as soon as he entered the house his wife clapped her hands together and cried, 'My dear, what makes you look like that? You are ill.'

The carpenter knew nothing about being ill; he only thought that he wanted something to eat, so he sat down at the table and began his dinner.

His wife sat straight in front of him, with her hands folded, and shook her head, and looked at him with an anxious air.

'You are getting worse, my dear,' she said; 'you are quite pale now; you have a serious illness about you; I can see it by your looks.'

The husband now began to grow anxious, and thought that perhaps he was not quite well.

'No, indeed,' said she; 'it's high time that you were in bed.'

She then got him to lie down, and piled above him all the bedclothes she could find, and gave him various medicines, while he grew worse and worse.

'You will never get over it,' said she; 'I am afraid you are going to die.'

'Do you think so?' said the carpenter; 'I can well believe it, for I am indeed very poorly.'

In a little while she said again, 'Ah, now I must part with you. Here comes Death. Now I must close your eyes.' And she did so.

The carpenter believed everything that his wife said, and so he believed now that he was dead, and lay still and let her do as she pleased.

She got her neighbours summoned, and they helped to lay him in the coffin -- it was one of those he himself had made; but his wife had bored holes in it to let him get some air. She made a soft bed under him, and put a coverlet over him, and she folded his hands over his breast; but instead of a flower or a psalm-book, she gave him a pint-bottle of brandy in his hands. After he had lain for a little he took a little pull at this, and then another and another, and he thought this did him good, and soon he was sleeping sweetly, and dreaming that he was in heaven.

Meanwhile word had gone round the village that the carpenter was dead, and was to be buried next day.

It was now the turn of the smith's wife. Her husband was lying sleeping off the effects of a drinking bout, so she pulled off all his clothes and made him black as coal from head to foot, and then let him sleep till far on in the day.

The funeral party had already met at the carpenter's, and marched oft towards the church with the coffin, when the smith's wife came rushing in to her husband.

'Gracious, man,' said she, 'you are lying there yet? You are sleeping too long. You know you are going to the funeral.'

The smith was quite confused; he knew nothing about any funeral.

'It's our neighbour the carpenter,' said his wife, 'who is to be buried to-day. They are already half-way to church with him.'

'All right,' said the smith, 'make haste to help me on with my black clothes.'

'What nonsense!' said his wife, 'you have them on already. Be off with you now.'

The smith looked down at his person and saw that he was a good deal blacker than he usually was, so he caught up his hat and ran out after the funeral. This was already close to the church, and the smith wanted to take part in carrying the coffin, like a good neighbour. So he ran with all his might, and shouted after them, 'Hey! wait a little; let me get a hold of him!'

The people turned round and saw the black figure coming, and thought it was the devil himself, who wanted to get hold of the carpenter, so they threw down the coffin and took to their heels.

The lid sprang off the coffin with the shock, and the carpenter woke up and looked out. He remembered the whole affair; he knew that he was dead and was going to be buried, and recognising the smith, he said to him, in a low voice, 'My good neighbour, if I hadn't been dead already, I should have laughed myself to death now to see you coming like this to my funeral.'

From that time forth the carpenter's wife drank free of expense every Sunday, for the others had to admit that she had fooled her husband the best.



King Lindorm

From the Swedish.


There once lived a king and a queen who ruled over a very great kingdom. They had large revenues, and lived happily with each other; but, as the years went past, the king's heart became heavy, because the queen had no children. She also sorrowed greatly over it, because, although the king said nothing to her about this trouble, yet she could see that it vexed him that they had no heir to the kingdom; and she wished every day that she might have one.

One day a poor old woman came to the castle and asked to speak with the queen. The royal servants answered that they could not let such a poor beggar-woman go in to their royal mistress. They offered her a penny, and told her to go away. Then the woman desired them to tell the queen that there stood at the palace gate one who would help her secret sorrow. This message was taken to the queen, who gave orders to bring the old woman to her. This was done, and the old woman said to her:

'I know your secret sorrow, O queen, and am come to help you in it. You wish to have a son; you shall have two if you follow my instructions.'

The queen was greatly surprised that the old woman knew her secret wish so well, and promised to follow her advice.

'You must have a bath set in your room, O queen,' said she, 'and filled with running water. When you have bathed in this you will find. under the bath two red onions. These you must carefully peel and eat, and in time your wish will be fulfilled.'

The queen did as the poor woman told her; and after she had bathed she found the two onions under the bath. They were both alike in size and appearance. When she saw these she knew that the woman had been something more than she seemed to be, and in her delight she ate up one of the onions, skin and all. When she had done so she remembered that the woman had told her to peel them carefully before she ate them. It was now too late for the one of them, but she peeled the other and then ate it too.

In due time it happened as the woman had said; but the first that the queen gave birth to was a hideous lindorm, or serpent. No one saw this but her waiting-woman, who threw it out of the window into the forest beside the castle. The next that came into the world was the most beautiful little prince, and he was shown to the king and queen, who knew nothing about his brother the lindorm.

There was now joy in all the palace and over the whole country on account of the beautiful prince; but no one knew that the queen's first-born was a lindorm, and lay in the wild forest. Time passed with the king, the queen, and the young prince in all happiness and prosperity, until he was twenty years of his age. Then his parents said to him that he should journey to another kingdom and seek for himself a bride, for they were beginning to grow old, and would fain see their son married. before they were laid in their grave. The prince obeyed, had his horses harnessed to his gilded chariot, and set out to woo his bride. But when he came to the first cross-ways there lay a huge and terrible lindorm right across the road, so that his horses had to come to a standstill.

'Where are you driving to? ' asked the lindorm with a hideous voice.

'That does not concern you,' said the prince. 'I am the prince, and can drive where I please.'

'Turn back,' said the lindorm. 'I know your errand, but you shall get no bride until I have got a mate and slept by her side.'

The prince turned home again, and told the king and the queen what he had met at the cross-roads; but they thought that he should try again on the following day, and see whether he could not get past it, so that he might seek a bride in another kingdom.

The prince did so, but got no further than the first cross-roads; there lay the lindorm again, who stopped him in the same way as before.

The same thing happened on the third day when the prince tried to get past: the lindorm said, with a threatening voice, that before the prince could get a bride he himself must find a mate.

When the king and queen heard this for the third time they could think of no better plan than to invite the lindorm to the palace, and they should find him a mate. They thought that a lindorm would be quite well satisfied with anyone that they might give him, and so they would get some slave-woman to marry the monster. The lindorm came to the palace and received a bride of this kind, but in the morning she lay torn in pieces. So it happened every time that the king and queen compelled any woman to be his bride.

The report of this soon spread over all the country. Now it happened that there was a man who had married a second time, and his wife heard of the lindorm with great delight. Her husband had a daughter by his first wife who was more beautiful than all other maidens, and so gentle and good that she won the heart of all who knew her. His second wife, however, had also a grown-up daughter, who by herself would have been ugly and disagreeable enough, but beside her good and beautiful stepsister seemed still more ugly and wicked, so that all turned from her with loathing.

The stepmother had long been annoyed that her husband's daughter was so much more beautiful than her own, and in her heart she conceived a bitter hatred for her stepdaughter. When she now heard that there was in the king's palace a lindorm which tore in pieces all the women that were married to him, and demanded a beautiful maiden for his bride, she went to the king, and said that her stepdaughter wished to wed the lindorm, so that the country's only prince might travel and seek a bride. At this the king was greatly delighted, and gave orders that the young girl should be brought to the palace.

When the messengers came to fetch her she was terribly frightened, for she knew that it was her wicked stepmother who in this way was aiming at her life. She begged that she might be allowed to spend another night in her father's house. This was granted her, and she went to her mother's grave. There she lamented her hard fate in being given over to the lindorm, and earnestly prayed her mother for counsel. How long she lay there by the grave and wept one cannot tell, but sure it is that she fell asleep and slept until the sun rose. Then she rose up from the grave, quite happy at heart, and began to search about in the fields. There she found three nuts, which she carefully put away in her pocket.

'When I come into very great danger I must break one of these,' she said to herself. Then she went home, and set out quite willingly with the king's messengers.

When these arrived at the palace with the beautiful young maiden everyone pitied her fate; but she herself was of good courage, and asked the queen for another bridal chamber than the one the lindorm had had before. She got this, and then she requested them to put a pot full of strong lye on the fire and lay down three new scrubbing brushes. The queen gave orders that everything should be done as she desired; and then the maiden dressed herself in seven clean snow-white shirts, and held her wedding with the lindorm.

When they were left alone in the bridal chamber the lindorm, in a threatening voice, ordered her to undress herself.

'Undress yourself first!' said she.

'None of the others bade me do that,' said he in surprise.

'But I bid you,' said she.

Then the lindorm began to writhe, and groan, and breathe heavily; and after a little he had cast his outer skin, which lay on the floor, hideous to behold. Then his bride took off one of her snow-white shirts, and cast it on the lindorm's skin. Again he ordered her to undress, and again she commanded him to do so first. He had to obey, and with groaning and pain cast off one skin after another, and for each skin the maiden threw off one of her shirts, until there lay on the floor seven lindorm skins and six snow-white shirts; the seventh she still had on. The lindorm now lay before her as a formless, slimy mass, which she with all her might began to scrub with the lye and new scrubbing brushes.

When she had nearly worn out the last of these there stood before her the loveliest youth in the world. He thanked her for having saved him from his enchantment, and told her that he was the king and queen's eldest son, and heir to the kingdom. Then he asked her whether she would keep the promise she had made to the lindorm, to share everything with him. To this she was well content to answer 'Yes.'

Each time that the lindorm had held his wedding one of the king's retainers was sent next morning to open the door of the bridal chamber and see whether the bride was alive. This next morning also he peeped in at the door, but what he saw there surprised him so much that he shut the door in a hurry, and hastened to the king and queen, who were waiting for his report. He told them of the wonderful sight he had seen. On the floor lay seven lindorm skins and six snow-white shirts, and beside these three worn-out scrubbing brushes, while in the bed a beautiful youth was lying asleep beside the fair young maiden.

The king and queen marvelled greatly what this could mean; but just then the old woman who was spoken of in the beginning of the story was again brought in to the queen. She reminded her how she had not followed her instructions, but had eaten the first onion with all its skins, on which account her first-born had been a lindorm. The waiting-woman was then summoned, and admitted that she had thrown it out through the window into the forest. The king and queen now sent for their eldest son and his young bride. They took them both in their arms, and asked him to tell about his sorrowful lot during the twenty years he had lived in the forest as a hideous lindorm. This he did, and then his parents had it proclaimed over the whole country that he was their eldest son, and along with his spouse should inherit the country and kingdom after them.

Prince Lindorm and his beautiful wife now lived in joy and prosperity for a time in the palace; and when his father was laid in the grave, not long after this, he obtained the whole kingdom. Soon afterwards his mother also departed from this world.

Now it happened that an enemy declared war against the young king; and, as he foresaw that it would be three years at the least before he could return to his country and his queen, he ordered all his servants who remained at home to guard her most carefully. That they might be able to write to each other in confidence, he had two seal rings made, one for himself and one for his young queen, and issued an order that no one, under pain of death, was to open any letter that was sealed with one of these. Then he took farewell of his queen, and marched out to war.

The queen's wicked stepmother had heard with great grief that her beautiful stepdaughter had prospered so well that she had not only preserved her life, but had even become queen of the country. She now plotted continually how she might destroy her good fortune. While King Lindorm was away at the war the wicked woman came to the queen, and spoke fair to her, saying that she had always foreseen that her stepdaughter was destined to be something great in the world, and that she had on this account secured that she should be the enchanted prince's bride. The queen, who did not imagine that any person could be so deceitful, bade her stepmother welcome, and kept her beside her.

Soon after this the queen had two children, the prettiest boys that anyone could see. When she had written a letter to the king to tell him of this her stepmother asked leave to comb her hair for her, as her own mother used to do. The queen gave her permission, and the stepmother combed her hair until she fell asleep. Then she took the seal ring off her neck, and exchanged the letter for another, in which she had written that the queen had given birth to two whelps.

When the king received. this letter he was greatly distressed, but he remembered how he himself had lived for twenty years as a lindorm, and had been freed from the spell by his young queen. He therefore wrote back to his most trusted retainer that the queen and her two whelps should be taken care of while he was away.

The stepmother, however, took this letter as well, and wrote a new one, in which the king ordered that the queen and the two little princes should be burnt at the stake. This she also sealed with the queen's seal, which was in all respects like the king's.

The retainer was greatly shocked and grieved at the king's orders, for which he could discover no reason; but, as he had not the heart to destroy three innocent beings, he had a great fire kindled, and in this he burned a sheep and two lambs, so as to make people believe that he had carried out the king's commands. The stepmother had made these known to the people, adding that the queen was a wicked sorceress.

The faithful servant, however, told the queen that it was the king's command that during the years he was absent in the war she should keep herself concealed in the castle, so that no one but himself should see her and the little princes.

The queen obeyed, and no one knew but that both she and her children had been burned. But when the time came near for King Lindorm to return home from the war the old retainer grew frightened because he had not obeyed his orders. He therefore went to the queen, and told her everything, at the same time showing her the king's letter containing the command to burn her and the princes. He then begged her to leave the palace before the king returned.

The queen now took her two little sons, and wandered out into the wild forest. They walked all day without ending a human habitation, and became very tired. The queen then caught sight of a man who carried some venison. He seemed very poor and wretched, but the queen was glad to see a human being, and asked him whether he knew where she and her little children could get a house over their heads for the night.

The man answered that he had a little hut in the forest, and that she could rest there; but he also said that he was one who lived entirely apart from men, and owned no more than the hut, a horse, and a dog, and supported himself by hunting.

The queen followed him to the hut and rested there overnight with her children, and when she awoke in the morning the man had already gone out hunting. The queen then began to put the room in order and prepare food, so that when the man came home he found everything neat and tidy, and this seemed to give him some pleasure. He spoke but little, however, and all that he said about himself was that his name was Peter.

Later in the day he rode out into the forest, and the queen thought that he looked very unhappy. While he was away she looked about her in the hut a little more closely, and found a tub full of shirts stained with blood, lying among water. She was surprised at this, but thought that the man would get the blood on his shirt when he was carrying home venison. She washed the shirts, and hung them up to dry, and said nothing to Peter about the matter.

After some time had passed she noticed that every day he came riding home from the forest he took off a blood-stained shirt and put on a clean one. She then saw that it was something else than the blood of the deer that stained his shirts, so one day she took courage and asked him about it.

At first he refused to tell her, but she then related to him her own story, and how she had succeeded in delivering the lindorm. He then told her that he had formerly lived a wild life, and had finally entered into a written contract with the Evil Spirit. Before this contract had expired he had repented and turned from his evil ways, and withdrawn himself to this solitude. The Evil One had then lost all power to take him, but so long as he had the contract he could compel him to meet him in the forest each day at a certain time, where the evil spirits then scourged him till he bled.

Next day, when the time came for the man to ride into the forest, the queen asked him to stay at home and look after the princes, and she would go to meet the evil spirits in his place. The man was amazed, and said that this would not only cost her her life, but would also bring upon him a greater misfortune than the one he was already under. She bade him be of good courage, looked to see that she had the three nuts which she had found beside her mother's grave, mounted her horse, and rode out into the forest. When she had ridden for some time the evil spirits came forth and said, 'Here comes Peter's horse and Peter's hound; but Peter himself is not with them.'

Then at a distance she heard a terrible voice demanding to know what she wanted.

'I have come to get Peter's contract,' said she.

At this there arose a terrible uproar among the evil spirits, and the worst voice among them all said, 'Ride home and tell Peter that when he comes to-morrow he shall get twice as many strokes as usual.'

The queen then took one of her nuts and cracked it, and turned her horse about. At this sparks of fire flew out of all the trees, and the evil spirits howled as if they were being scourged back to their abode.

Next day at the same time the queen again rode out into the forest; but on this occasion the spirits did not dare to come so near her. They would not, however, give up the contract, but threatened both her and the man. Then she cracked her second nut, and all the forest behind her seemed to be in fire and flames, and the evil spirits howled even worse than on the previous day; but the contract they would not give up.

The queen had only one nut left now, but even that she was ready to give up in order to deliver the man. This time she cracked the nut as soon as she came near the place where the spirits appeared, and what then happened to them she could not see, but amid wild screams and howls the contract was handed to her at the end of a long branch. The queen rode happy home to the hut, and happier still was the man, who had been sitting there in great anxiety, for now he was freed from all the power of the evil spirits.

Meanwhile King Lindorm had come home from the war, and the first question he asked when he entered the palace was about the queen and the whelps. The attendants were surprised: they knew of no whelps. The queen had had two beautiful princes; but the king had sent orders that all these were to be burned.

The king grew pale with sorrow and anger, and ordered them to summon his trusted retainer, to whom he had sent the instructions that the queen and the whelps were to be carefully looked after. The retainer, however, showed him the letter in which there was written that the queen and her children were to be burned, and everyone then understood that some great treachery had been enacted.

When the king's trusted retainer saw his master's deep sorrow he confessed to him that he had spared the lives of the queen and the princes, and had only burned a sheep and two lambs, and had kept the queen and her children hidden in the palace for three years, but had sent her out into the wild forest just when the king was expected home. When the king heard this his sorrow was lessened, and he said that he would wander out into the forest and search for his wife and children. If he found them he would return to his palace; but if he did not find them he would never see it again, and in that case the faithful retainer who had saved the lives of the queen and the princes should be king in his stead.

The king then went forth alone into the wild forest, and wandered there the whole day without seeing a single human being. So it went with him the second day also, but on the third day he came by roundabout ways to the little hut. He went in there, and asked for leave to rest himself for a little on the bench. The queen and the princes were there, but she was poorly clad and so sorrowful that the king did not recognise her, neither did he think for a moment that the two children, who were dressed only in rough skins, were his own sons.

He lay down on the bench, and, tired as he was, he soon fell asleep. The bench was a narrow one, and as he slept his arm fell down and hung by the side of it.

'My son, go and lift your father's arm up on the bench,' said the queen to one of the princes, for she easily knew the king again, although she was afraid to make herself known to him. The boy went and took the king's arm, but, being only a child, he did not lift it up very gently on to the bench.

The king woke at this, thinking at first that he had fallen into a den of robbers, but he decided to keep quiet and pretend that he was asleep until he should find out what kind of folk were in the house. He lay still for a little, and, as no one moved in the room, he again let his arm glide down off the bench. Then he heard a woman's voice say, 'My son, go you and lift your father's arm up on the bench, but don't do it so rough!y as your brother did.' Then he felt a pair of little hands softly clasping his arm; he opened his eyes, and saw his queen and her children.

He sprang up and caught all three in his arms, and afterwards took them, along with the man and his horse and his hound, back to the palace with great joy. The most unbounded rejoicing reigned there then, as well as over the whole kingdom, but the wicked stepmother was burned.

King Lindorm lived long and happily with his queen, and there are some who say that if they are not dead now they are still living to this day.



The Jackal, the Dove, and the Panther

Contes populaires des Bassoutos. Recueillis et traduits par E. Jacottet. Paris: Leroux, Editeur.


There was once a dove who built a nice soft nest as a home for her three little ones. She was very proud of their beauty, and perhaps talked about them to her neighbours more than she need have done, till at last everybody for miles round knew where the three prettiest baby doves in the whole country-side were to be found.

One day a jackal who was prowling about in search of a dinner came by chance to the foot of the rock where the dove's nest was hidden away, and he suddenly bethought himself that if he could get nothing better he might manage to make a mouthful of one of the young doves. So he shouted as loud as he could, 'Ohe, ohe, mother dove.'

And the dove replied, trembling with fear, 'What do you want, sir?'

'One of your children,' said he; 'and if you don't throw it to me I will eat up you and the others as well.'

Now, the dove was nearly driven distracted at the jackal's words; but, in order to save the lives of the other two, she did at last throw the little one out of the nest. The jackal ate it up, and went home to sleep.

Meanwhile the mother dove sat on the edge of her nest, crying bitterly, when a heron, who was flying slowly past the rock, was filled with pity for her, and stopped to ask, 'What is the matter, you poor dove?'

And the dove answered, 'A jackal came by, and asked me to give him one of my little ones, and said that if I refused he would jump on my nest and eat us all up.'

But the heron replied, 'You should not have believed him. He could never have jumped so high. He only deceived you because he wanted something for supper.' And with these words the heron flew off.

He had hardly got out of sight when again the jackal came creeping slowly round the foot of the rock. And when he saw the dove he cried out a second time, 'Ohe, ohe, mother dove! give me one of your little ones, or I will jump on your nest and eat you all up.'

This time the dove knew better, and she answered boldly, 'Indeed, I shall do nothing of the sort,' though her heart beat wildly with fear when she saw the jackal preparing for a spring.

However, he only cut himself against the rock, and thought he had better stick to threats, so he started again with his old cry, 'Mother dove, mother dove! be quick and give me one of your little ones, or I will eat you all up.'

But the mother dove only answered as before, 'Indeed, I shall do nothing of the sort, for I know we are safely out of your reach.'

The jackal felt it was quite hopeless to get what he wanted, and asked, 'Tell me, mother dove, how have you suddenly become so wise?'

'It was the heron who told me,' replied she.

'And which way did he go?' said the jackal.

'Down there among the reeds. You can see him if you look,' said the dove.

Then the jackal nodded good-bye, and went quickly after the heron. He soon came up to the great bird, who was standing on a stone on the edge of the river watching for a nice fat fish. 'Tell me, heron,' said he, 'when the wind blows from that quarter, to which side do you turn?'

'And which side do you turn to?' asked the heron.

The jackal answered, 'I always turn to this side.'

'Then that is the side I turn to,' remarked the heron.

'And when the rain comes from that quarter, which side do you turn to?'

And the heron replied, 'And which side do you turn to?'

'Oh, I always turn to this side,' said the jackal.

'Then that is the side I turn to,' said the heron.

'And when the rain comes straight down, what do you do?'

'What do you do yourself?' asked the heron.

'I do this,' answered the jackal. 'I cover my head with my paws.'

'Then that is what I do,' said the heron. 'I cover my head with my wings,' and as he spoke he lifted his large wings and spread them completely over his head.

With one bound the jackal had seized him by the neck, and began to shake him.

'Oh, have pity, have pity!' cried the heron. 'I never did you any harm.'

'You told the dove how to get the better of me, and I am going to eat you for it.'

'But if you will let me go,' entreated the heron, 'I will show you the place where the panther has her lair.'

'Then you had better be quick about it,' said the jackal, holding tight on to the heron until he had pointed out the panther's den. 'Now you may go, my friend, for there is plenty of food here for me.'

So the jackal came up to the panther, and asked politely, 'Panther, would you like me to look after your children while you are out hunting?'

'I should be very much obliged,' said the panther; 'but be sure you take care of them. They always cry all the time that I am away.'

So saying she trotted off, and the jackal marched into the cave, where he found ten little panthers, and instantly ate one up. By-and-bye the panther returned from hunting, and said to him, 'Jackal, bring out my little ones for their supper.'

The jackal fetched them out one by one till he had brought out nine, and he took the last one and brought it out again, so the whole ten seemed to be there, and the panther was quite satisfied.

Next day she went again to the chase, and the jackal ate up another little panther, so now there were only eight. In the evening, when she came back, the panther said, 'Jackal, bring out my little ones!'

And the jackal brought out first one and then another, and the last one he brought out three times, so that the whole ten seemed to be there.

The following day the same thing happened, and the next and the next and the next, till at length there was not even one left, and the rest of the day the jackal busied himself with digging a large hole at the back of the den.

That night, when the panther returned from hunting, she said to him as usual, 'Jackal, bring out my little ones.'

But the jackal replied: 'Bring out your little ones, indeed! Why, you know as well as I do that you have eaten them all up.'

Of course the panther had not the least idea what the jackal meant by this, and only repeated, 'Jackal, bring out my children.' As she got no answer she entered the cave, but found no jackal, for he had crawled through the hole he had made and escaped. And, what was worse, she did not find the little ones either.

Now the panther was not going to let the jackal get off like that, and set off at a trot to catch him. The jackal, however, had got a good start, and he reached a place where a swarm of bees deposited their honey in the cleft of a rock. Then he stood still and waited till the panther came up to him: 'Jackal, where are my little ones?' she asked.

And the jackal answered: 'They are up there. It is where I keep school.'

The panther looked about, and then inquired, 'But where? I see nothing of them.'

'Come a little this way,' said the jackal, 'and you will hear how beautifully they sing.'

So the panther drew near the cleft of the rock.

'Don't you hear them?' said the jackal; 'they are in there,' and slipped away while the panther was listening to the song of the children.

She was still standing in the same place when a baboon went by. 'What are you doing there, panther?'

'I am listening to my children singing. It is here that the jackal keeps his school.'

Then the baboon seized a stick, and poked it in the cleft of the rock, exclaiming, 'Well, then, I should like to see your children!'

The bees flew out in a huge swarm, and made furiously for the panther, whom they attacked on all sides, while the baboon soon climbed up out of the way, crying, as he perched himself on the branch of a tree, 'I wish you joy of your children!' while from afar the jackal's voice was heard exclaiming: 'Sting, her well! don't let her go!'

The panther galloped away as if she was mad, and flung herself into the nearest lake, but every time she raised her head, the bees stung her afresh so at last the poor beast was drowned altogether.



The Little Hare

Contes populaires des Bassoutos. Recueillis et traduits par E. Jacottet. Paris: Leroux, Editeur.


A long, long way off, in a land where water is very scarce, there lived a man and his wife and several children. One day the wife said to her husband, 'I am pining to have the liver of a nyamatsane for my dinner. If you love me as much as you say you do, you will go out and hunt for a nyamatsane, and will kill it and get its liver. If not, I shall know that your love is not worth having.'

'Bake some bread,' was all her husband answered, 'then take the crust and put it in this little bag.'

The wife did as she was told, and when she had finished she said to her husband, 'The bag is all ready and quite full.'

'Very well,' said he, 'and now good-bye; I am going after the nyamatsane.'

But the nyamatsane was not so easy to find as the woman had hoped. The husband walked on and on and on without ever seeing one, and every now and then he felt so hungry that he was obliged to eat one of the crusts of bread out of his bag. At last, when he was ready to drop from fatigue, he found himself on the edge of a great marsh, which bordered on one side the country of the nyamatsanes. But there were no more nyamatsanes here than anywhere else. They had all gone on a hunting expedition, as their larder was empty, and the only person left at home was their grandmother, who was so feeble she never went out of the house. Our friend looked on this as a great piece of luck, and made haste to kill her before the others returned, and to take out her liver, after which he dressed himself in her skin as well as he could. He had scarcely done this when he heard the noise of the nyamatsanes coming back to their grandmother, for they were very fond of her, and never stayed away from her longer than they could help. They rushed clattering into the hut, exclaiming, 'We smell human flesh! Some man is here,' and began to look about for him; but they only saw their old grandmother, who answered, in a trembling voice, 'No, my children, no! What should any man be doing here?' The nyamatsanes paid no attention to her, and began to open all the cupboards, and peep under all the beds, crying out all the while, 'A man is here! a man is here!' but they could find nobody, and at length, tired out with their long day's hunting, they curled themselves up and fell asleep.

Next morning they woke up quite refreshed, and made ready to start on another expedition; but as they did not feel happy about their grandmother they said to her, 'Grandmother, won't you come to-day and feed with us?' And they led their grandmother outside, and all of them began hungrily to eat pebbles. Our friend pretended to do the same, but in reality he slipped the stones into his pouch, and swallowed the crusts of bread instead. However, as the nyamatsanes did not see this they had no idea that he was not really their grandmother. When they had eaten a great many pebbles they thought they had done enough for that day, and all went home together and curled themselves up to sleep. Next morning when they woke they said, 'Let us go and amuse ourselves by jumping over the ditch,' and every time they cleared it with a bound. Then they begged their grandmother to jump over it too, end with a tremendous effort she managed to spring right over to the other side. After this they had no doubt at all of its being their true grandmother, and went off to their hunting, leaving our friend at home in the hut.

As soon as they had gone out of sight our hero made haste to take the liver from the place where he had hid it, threw off the skin of the old nyamatsane, and ran away as hard as he could, only stopping to pick up a very brilliant and polished little stone, which he put in his bag by the side of the liver.

Towards evening the nyamatsanes came back to the hut full of anxiety to know how their grandmother had got on during their absence. The first thing they saw on entering the door was her skin lying on the floor, and then they knew that they had been deceived, and they said to each other, 'So we were right, after all, and it was human flesh we smelt.' Then they stooped down to find traces of the man's footsteps, and when they had got them instantly set out in hot pursuit.

Meanwhile our friend had journeyed many miles, and was beginning to feel quite safe and comfortable, when, happening to look round, he saw in the distance a thick cloud of dust moving rapidly. His heart stood still within him, and he said to himself, 'I am lost. It is the nyamatsanes, and they will tear me in pieces,' and indeed the cloud of dust was drawing near with amazing quickness, and the nyamatsanes almost felt as if they were already devouring him. Then as a last hope the man took the little stone that he had picked up out of his bag and flung it on the ground. The moment it touched the soil it became a huge rock, whose steep sides were smooth as glass, and on the top of it our hero hastily seated himself. It was in vain that the nyamatsanes tried to climb up and reach him; they slid down again much faster than they had gone up; and by sunset they were quite worn out, and fell asleep at the foot of the rock.

No sooner had the nyamatsanes tumbled off to sleep than the man stole softly down and fled away as fast as his legs would carry him, and by the time his enemies were awake he was a very long way off. They sprang quickly to their feet and began to sniff the soil round the rock, in order to discover traces of his footsteps, and they galloped after him with terrific speed. The chase continued for several days and nights; several times the nyamatsanes almost reached him, and each time he was saved by his little pebble.

Between his fright and his hurry he was almost dead of exhaustion when he reached his own village, where the nyamatsanes could not follow him, because of their enemies the dogs, which swarmed over all the roads. So they returned home.

Then our friend staggered into his own hut and called to his wife: 'Ichou! how tired I am! Quick, give me something to drink. Then go and get fuel and light a fire.'

So she did what she was bid, and then her husband took the nyamatsane's liver from his pouch and said to her, 'There, I have brought you what you wanted, and now you know that I love you truly.'

And the wife answered, 'It is well. Now go and take out the children, so that I may remain alone in the hut,' and as she spoke she lifted down an old stone pot and put on the liver to cook. Her husband watched her for a moment, and then said, 'Be sure you eat it all yourself. Do not give a scrap to any of the children, but eat every morsel up.' So the woman took the liver and ate it all herself.

Directly the last mouthful had disappeared she was seized with such violent thirst that she caught up a great pot full of water and drank it at a single draught. Then, having no more in the house, she ran in next door and said, 'Neighbour, give me, I pray you, something to drink.' The neighbour gave her a large vessel quite full, and the woman drank it off at a single draught, and held it out for more.

But the neighbour pushed her away, saying, 'No, I shall have none left for my children.'

So the woman went into another house, and drank all the water she could find; but the more she drank the more thirsty she became. She wandered in this manner through the whole village till she had drunk every water-pot dry. Then she rushed off to the nearest spring, and swallowed that, and when she had finished all the springs and wells about she drank up first the river and then a lake. But by this time she had drunk so much that she could not rise from the ground.

In the evening, when it was time for the animals to have their drink before going to bed, they found the lake quite dry, and they had to make up their minds to be thirsty till the water flowed again and the streams were full. Even then, for some time, the lake was very dirty, and the lion, as king of the beasts, commanded that no one should drink till it was quite clear again.

But the little hare, who was fond of having his own way, and was very thirsty besides, stole quietly off when all the rest were asleep in their dens, and crept down to the margin of the lake and drank his fill. Then he smeared the dirty water all over the rabbit's face and paws, so that it might look as if it were he who had been disobeying Big Lion's orders.

The next day, as soon as it was light, Big Lion marched straight for the lake, and all the other beasts followed him. He saw at once that the water had been troubled again, and was very angry.

'Who has been drinking my water?' said he; and the little hare gave a jump, and, pointing to the rabbit, he answered, 'Look there! it must be he! Why, there is mud all over his face and paws!'

The rabbit, frightened out of his wits, tried to deny the fact, exclaiming, 'Oh, no, indeed I never did;' but Big Lion would not listen, and commanded them to cane him with a birch rod.

Now the little hare was very much pleased with his cleverness in causing the rabbit to be beaten instead of himself, and went about boasting of it. At last one of the other animals overheard him, and called out, 'Little hare, little hare! what is that you are saying?'

But the little hare hastily replied, 'I only asked you to pass me my stick.'

An hour or two later, thinking that no one was near him, he said to himself again, 'It was really I who drank up the water, but I made them think it was the rabbit.'

But one of the beasts whose ears were longer than the rest caught the words, and went to tell Big Lion about it. Do you hear what the little hare is saying?'

So Big Lion sent for the little hare, and asked him what he meant by talking like that.

The little hare saw that there was no use trying to hide it, so he answered pertly, 'It was I who drank the water, but I made them think it was the rabbit.' Then he turned and ran as fast as he could, with all the other beasts pursuing him.

They were almost up to him when he dashed into a very narrow cleft in the rock, much too small for them to follow; but in his hurry he had left one of his long ears sticking out, which they just managed to seize. But pull as hard as they might they could not drag him out of the hole, and at last they gave it up and left him, with his ear very much torn and scratched.

When the last tail was out of sight the little hare crept cautiously out, and the first person he met was the rabbit. He had plenty of impudence, so he put a bold face on the matter, and said, 'Well, my good rabbit, you see I have had a beating as well as you.'

But the rabbit was still sore and sulky, and he did not care to talk, so he answered, coldly, 'You have treated me very badly. It was really you who drank that water, and you accused me of having done it.'

'Oh, my good rabbit, never mind that! I've got such a wonderful secret to tell you! Do you know what to do so as to escape death?'

'No, I don't.'

'Well, we must begin by digging a hole.'

So they dug a hole, and then the little hare said, 'The next thing is to make a fire in the hole,' and they set to work to collect wood, and lit quite a large fire.

When it was burning brightly the little hare said to the rabbit, 'Rabbit, my friend, throw me into the fire, and when you hear my fur crackling, and I call "Itchi, Itchi," then be quick and pull me out.'

The rabbit did as he was told, and threw the little hare into the fire; but no sooner did the little hare begin to feel the heat of the flames than he took some green bay leaves he had plucked for the purpose and held them in the middle of the fire, where they crackled and made a great noise. Then he called loudly 'Itchi, Itchi! Rabbit, my friend, be quick, be quick! Don't you hear how my skin is crackling?'

And the rabbit came in a great hurry and pulled him out.

Then the little hare said, 'Now it is your turn!' and he threw the rabbit in the fire. The moment the rabbit felt the flames he cried out 'Itchi, Itchi, I am burning; pull me out quick, my friend!'

But the little hare only laughed, and said, 'No, you may stay there! It is your own fault. Why were you such a fool as to let yourself be thrown in? Didn't you know that fire burns?' And in a very few minutes nothing was left of the rabbit but a few bones.

When the fire was quite out the little hare went and picked up one of these bones, and made a flute out of it, and sang this song:

Pii, pii, O flute that I love, Pii, pii, rabbits are but little boys. Pii, pii, he would have burned me if he could; Pii, pii, but I burned him, and he crackled finely.

When he got tired of going through the world singing this the little hare went back to his friends and entered the service of Big Lion. One day he said to his master, 'Grandfather, shall I show you a splendid way to kill game?'

'What is it?' asked Big Lion.

'We must dig a ditch, and then you must lie in it and pretend to be dead.'

Big Lion did as he was told, and when he had lain down the little hare got up on a wall blew a trumpet and shouted -- 

Pii, pii, all you animals come and see, Big Lion is dead, and now peace will be.

Directly they heard this they all came running. The little hare received them and said, 'Pass on, this way to the lion.' So they all entered into the Animal Kingdom. Last of all came the monkey with her baby on her back. She approached the ditch, and took a blade of grass and tickled Big Lion's nose, and his nostrils moved in spite of his efforts to keep them still. Then the monkey cried, 'Come, my baby, climb on my back and let us go. What sort of a dead body is it that can still feel when it is tickled?' And she and her baby went away in a fright. Then the little hare said to the other beasts, 'Now, shut the gate of the Animal Kingdom.' And it was shut, and great stones were rolled against it. When everything was tight closed the little hare turned to Big Lion and said 'Now!' and Big Lion bounded out of the ditch and tore the other animals in pieces.

But Big Lion kept all the choice bits for himself, and only gave away the little scraps that he did not care about eating; and the little hare grew very angry, and determined to have his revenge. He had long ago found out that Big Lion was very easily taken in; so he laid his plans accordingly. He said to him, as if the idea had just come into his head, 'Grandfather, let us build a hut,' and Big Lion consented. And when they had driven the stakes into the ground, and had made the walls of the hut, the little hare told Big Lion to climb upon the top while he stayed inside. When he was ready he called out, 'Now, grandfather, begin,' and Big Lion passed his rod through the reeds with which the roofs are always covered in that country. The little hare took it and cried, 'Now it is my turn to pierce them,' and as he spoke he passed the rod back through the reeds and gave Big Lion's tail a sharp poke.

'What is pricking me so?' asked Big Lion.

'Oh, just a little branch sticking out. I am going to break it,' answered the little hare; but of course he had done it on purpose, as he wanted to fix Big Lion's tail so firmly to the hut that he would not be able to move. In a little while he gave another prick, and Big Lion called again, 'What is pricking me so?'

This time the little hare said to himself, 'He will find out what I am at. I must try some other plan. 'So he called out, 'Grandfather, you had better put your tongue here, so that the branches shall not touch you.' Big Lion did as he was bid, and the little hare tied it tightly to the stakes of the wall. Then he went outside and shouted, 'Grandfather, you can come down now,' and Big Lion tried, but he could not move an inch.

Then the little hare began quietly to eat Big Lion's dinner right before his eyes, and paying no attention at all to his growls of rage. When he had quite done he climbed up on the hut, and, blowing his flute, he chanted 'Pii, pii, fall rain and hail,' and directly the sky was full of clouds, the thunder roared, and huge hailstones whitened the roof of the hut. The little hare, who had taken refuge within, called out again, 'Big Lion, be quick and come down and dine with me.' But there was no answer, not even a growl, for the hailstones had killed Big Lion.

The little hare enjoyed himself vastly for some time, living comfortably in the hut, with plenty of food to eat and no trouble at all in getting it. But one day a great wind arose, and flung down the Big Lion's half-dried skin from the roof of the hut. The little hare bounded with terror at the noise, for he thought Big Lion must have come to life again; but on discovering what had happened he set about cleaning the skin, and propped the mouth open with sticks so that he could get through. So, dressed in Big Lion's skin, the little hare started on his travels.

The first visit he paid was to the hyaenas, who trembled at the sight of him, and whispered to each other, 'How shall we escape from this terrible beast?' Meanwhile the little hare did not trouble himself about them, but just asked where the king of the hyaenas lived, and made himself quite at home there. Every morning each hyaena thought to himself, 'To-day he is certain to eat me;' but several days went by, and they were all still alive. At length, one evening, the little hare, looking round for something to amuse him, noticed a great pot full of boiling water, so he strolled up to one of the hyaenas and said, 'Go and get in.' The hyaena dared not disobey, and in a few minutes was scalded to death. Then the little hare went the round of the village, saying to every hyaena he met, 'Go and get into the boiling water,' so that in a little while there was hardly a male left in the village.

One day all the hyaenas that remained alive went out very early into the fields, leaving only one little daughter at home. The little hare, thinking he was all alone, came into the enclosure, and, wishing to feel what it was like to be a hare again, threw off Big Lion's skin, and began to jump and dance, singing -- 

I am just the little hare, the little hare, the little hare; I am just the little hare who killed the great hyaenas.

The little hyaena gazed at him in surprise, saying to herself, 'What! was it really this tiny beast who put to death all our best people?' when suddenly a gust of wind rustled the reeds that surrounded the enclosure, and the little hare, in a fright, hastily sprang back into Big Lion's skin.

When the hyaenas returned to their homes the little hyaena said to her father: 'Father, our tribe has very nearly been swept away, and all this has been the work of a tiny creature dressed in the lion's skin.'

But her father answered, 'Oh, my dear child, you don't know what you are talking about.'

She replied, 'Yes, father, it is quite true. I saw it with my own eyes.'

The father did not know what to think, and told one of his friends, who said, 'To-morrow we had better keep watch ourselves.'

And the next day they hid themselves and waited till the little hare came out of the royal hut. He walked gaily towards the enclosure, threw off, Big Lion's skin, and sang and danced as before -- 

I am just the little hare, the little hare, the little hare, I am just the little hare, who killed the great hyaenas.

That night the two hyaenas told all the rest, saying, 'Do you know that we have allowed ourselves to be trampled on by a wretched creature with nothing of the lion about him but his skin?'

When supper was being cooked that evening, before they all went to bed, the little hare, looking fierce and terrible in Big Lion's skin, said as usual to one of the hyaenas 'Go and get into the boiling water.' But the hyaena never stirred. There was silence for a moment; then a hyaena took a stone, and flung it with all his force against the lion's skin. The little hare jumped out through the mouth with a single spring, and fled away like lightning, all the hyaenas in full pursuit uttering great cries. As he turned a corner the little hare cut off both his ears, so that they should not know him, and pretended to be working at a grindstone which lay there.

The hyaenas soon came up to him and said, 'Tell me, friend, have you seen the little hare go by?'

'No, I have seen no one.'

'Where can he be?' said the hyaenas one to another. 'Of course, this creature is quite different, and not at all like the little hare.' Then they went on their way, but, finding no traces of the little hare, they returned sadly to their village, saying, 'To think we should have allowed ourselves to be swept away by a wretched creature like that!'



The Sparrow with the Slit Tongue

From the Japanische Marchen und Sagen.


A long long time ago, an old couple dwelt in the very heart of a high mountain. They lived together in peace and harmony, although they were very different in character, the man being good-natured and honest, and the wife being greedy and quarrelsome when anyone came her way that she could possibly quarrel with.

One day the old man was sitting in front of his cottage, as he was very fond of doing, when he saw flying towards him a little sparrow, followed by a big black raven. The poor little thing was very much frightened and cried out as it flew, and the great bird came behind it terribly fast, flapping its wings and craning its beak, for it was hungry and wanted some dinner. But as they drew near the old man, he jumped up, and beat back the raven, which mounted, with hoarse screams of disappointment, into the sky, and the little bird, freed from its enemy, nestled into the old man's hand, and he carried it into the house. He stroked its feathers, and told it not to be afraid, for it was quite safe; but as he still felt its heart beating, he put it into a cage, where it soon plucked up courage to twitter and hop about. The old man was fond of all creatures, and every morning he used to open the cage door, and the sparrow flew happily about until it caught sight of a cat or a rat or some other fierce beast, when it would instantly return to the cage, knowing that there no harm could come to it.

The woman, who was always on the look-out for something to grumble at, grew very jealous of her husband's affection for the bird, and would gladly have done it some harm had she dared. At last, one morning her opportunity came. Her husband had gone to the town some miles away down the mountain, and would not be back for several hours, but before he left he did not forget to open the door of the cage. The sparrow hopped about as usual, twittering happily, and thinking no evil, and all the while the woman's brow became blacker and blacker, and at length her fury broke out. She threw her broom at the bird, who was perched on a bracket high up on the wall. The broom missed the bird, but knocked down and broke the vase on the bracket, which did not soothe the angry woman. Then she chased it from place to place, and at last had it safe between her fingers, almost as frightened as on the day that it had made its first entrance into the hut.

By this time the woman was more furious than ever. If she had dared, she would have killed the sparrow then and there, but as it was she only ventured to slit its tongue. The bird struggled and piped, but there was no one to hear it, and then, crying out loud with the pain, it flew from the house and was lost in the depths of the forest.

By-and-bye the old man came back, and at once began to ask for his pet. His wife, who was still in a very bad temper, told him the whole story, and scolded him roundly for being so silly as to make such a fuss over a bird. But the old man, who was much troubled, declared she was a bad, hard-hearted woman, to have behaved so to a poor harmless bird; then he left the house, and went into the forest to seek for his pet. He walked many hours, whistling and calling for it, but it never came, and he went sadly home, resolved to be out with the dawn and never to rest till he had brought the wanderer back. Day after day he searched and called; and evening after evening he returned in despair. At length he gave up hope, and made up his mind that he should see his little friend no more.

One hot summer morning, the old man was walking slowly under the cool shadows of the big trees, and without thinking where he was going, he entered a bamboo thicket. As the bamboos became thinner, he found himself opposite to a beautiful garden, in the centre of which stood a tiny spick-and-span little house, and out of the house came a lovely maiden, who unlatched the gate and invited him in the most hospitable way to enter and rest. 'Oh, my dear old friend,' she exclaimed, 'how glad I am you have found me at last! I am your little sparrow, whose life you saved, and whom you took such care of.'

The old man seized her hands eagerly, but no time was given him to ask any questions, for the maiden drew him into the house, and set food before him, and waited on him herself.

While he was eating, the damsel and her maids took their lutes, and sang and danced to him, and altogether the hours passed so swiftly that the old man never saw that darkness had come, or remembered the scolding he would get from his wife for returning home so late.

Thus, in dancing and singing, and talking over the days when the maiden was a sparrow hopping in and out of her cage, the night passed away, and when the first rays of sun broke through the hedge of bamboo, the old man started up, thanked his hostess for her friendly welcome, and prepared to say farewell. 'I am not going to let you depart like that,' said she; 'I have a present for you, which you must take as a sign of my gratitude.' And as she spoke, her servants brought in two chests, one of them very small, the other large and heavy. 'Now choose which of them you will carry with you.' So the old man chose the small chest, and hid it under his cloak, and set out on his homeward way.

But as he drew near the house his heart sank a little, for he knew what a fury his wife would be in, and how she would abuse him for his absence. And it was even worse than he expected. However, long experience had taught him to let her storm and say nothing, so he lit his pipe and waited till she was tired out. The woman was still raging, and did not seem likely to stop, when her husband, who by this time had forgotten all about her, drew out the chest from under his cloak, and opened it. Oh, what a blaze met his eyes! gold and precious stones were heaped up to the very lid, and lay dancing in he sunlight. At the sight of these wonders even the scolding tongue ceased, and the woman approached, and took the stones in her hand, setting greedily aside those that were the largest and most costly. Then her voice softened, and she begged him quite politely to tell her where he had spent his evening, and how he had come by these wonderful riches. So he told her the whole story, and she listened with amazement, till he came to the choice which had been given him between the two chests. At this her tongue broke loose again, as she abused him for his folly in taking the little one, and she never rested till her husband had described the exact way which led to the sparrow-princess's house. When she had got it into her head, she put on her best clothes and set out at once. But in her blind haste she often missed the path, and she wandered for several hours before she at length reached the little house. She walked boldly up to the door and entered the room as if the whole place belonged to her, and quite frightened the poor girl, who was startled at the sight of her old enemy. However, she concealed her feelings as well as she could, and bade the intruder welcome, placing before her food and wine, hoping that when she had eaten and drunk she might take her leave. But nothing of the sort.

'You will not let me go without a little present?' said the greedy wife, as she saw no signs of one being offered her. 'Of course not,' replied the girl, and at her orders two chests were brought in, as they had been before. The old woman instantly seized the bigger, and staggering under the weight of it, disappeared into the forest, hardly waiting even to say good-bye.

It was a long way to her own house, and the chest seemed to grow heavier at every step. Sometimes she felt as if it would be impossible for her to get on at all, but her greed gave her strength, and at last she arrived at her own door. She sank down on the threshold, overcome with weariness, but in a moment was on her feet again, fumbling with the lock of the chest. But by this time night had come, and there was no light in the house, and the woman was in too much hurry to get to her treasures, to go and look for one. At length, however, the lock gave way, and the lid flew open, when, O horror! instead of gold and jewels, she saw before her serpents with glittering eyes and forky tongues. And they twined themselves about her and darted poison into her veins, and she died, and no man regretted her.



The Story of Ciccu

From Sicilianische Mahrchen.


Once upon a time there lived a man who had three sons. The eldest was called Peppe, the second Alfin, and the youngest Ciccu. They were all very poor, and at last things got so bad that they really had not enough to eat. So the father called his sons, and said to them, ' My dear boys, I am too old to work any more, and there is nothing left for me but to beg in the streets.'

'No, no!' exclaimed his sons; 'that you shall never do. Rather, if it must be, would we do it ourselves. But we have thought of a better plan than that.'

'What is it?' asked the father.

'Well, we will take you in the forest, where you shall cut wood, and then we will bind it up in bundles and sell it in the town.' So their father let them do as they said, and they all made their way into the forest; and as the old man was weak from lack of food his sons took it in turns to carry him on their backs. Then they built a little hut where they might take shelter, and set to work. Every morning early the father cut his sticks, and the sons bound them in bundles, and carried them to the town, bringing back the food the old man so much needed.

Some months passed in this way, and then the father suddenly fell ill, and knew that the time had come when he must die. He bade his sons fetch a lawyer, so that he might make his will, and when the man arrived he explained his wishes.

'I have,' said he, 'a little house in the village, and over it grows a fig-tree. The house I leave to my sons, who are to live in it together; the fig-tree I divide as follows. To my son Peppe I leave the branches. To my son Alfin I leave the trunk. To my son Ciccu I leave the fruit. Besides the house and tree, I have an old coverlet, which I leave to my eldest son. And an old purse, which I leave to my second son. And a horn, which I leave to my youngest son. And now farewell.'

Thus speaking, he laid himself down, and died quietly. The brothers wept bitterly for their father, whom they loved, and when they had buried him they began to talk over their future lives. 'What shall we do now?' said they. 'Shall we live in the wood, or go back to the village?' And they made up their minds to stay where they were and continue to earn their living by selling firewood.

One very hot evening, after they had been working hard all day, they fell asleep under a tree in front of the hut. And as they slept there came by three fairies, who stopped to look at them.

'What fine fellows!' said one. 'Let us give them a present.'

'Yes, what shall it be?' asked another.

'This youth has a coverlet over him,' said the first fairy. 'When he wraps it round him, and wishes himself in any place, he will find himself there in an instant.'

Then said the second fairy: 'This youth has a purse in his hand. I will promise that it shall always give him as much gold as he asks for.'

Last came the turn of the third fairy. 'This one has a horn slung round him. When he blows at the small end the seas shall be covered with ships. And if he blows at the wide end they shall all be sunk in the waves.' So they vanished, without knowing that Ciccu had been awake and heard all they said.

The next day, when they were all cutting wood, he said to his brothers, 'That old coverlet and the purse are no use to you; I wish you would give them to me. I have a fancy for them, for the sake of old times.' Now Peppe and Alfin were very fond of Ciccu, and never refused him anything, so they let him have the coverlet and the purse without a word. When he had got them safely Ciccu went on, 'Dear brothers, I am tired of the forest. I want to live in the town, and work at some trade.'

'O Ciccu! stay with us,' they cried. 'We are very happy here; and who knows how we shall get on elsewhere?'

'We can always try,' answered Ciccu; 'and if times are bad we can come back here and take up wood-cutting.' So saying he picked up his bundle of sticks, and his brothers did the same.


But when they reached the town they found that the market was overstocked with firewood, and they did not sell enough to buy themselves a dinner, far less to get any food to carry home. They were wondering sadly what they should do when Ciccu said, 'Come with me to the inn and let us have something to eat.' They were so hungry by this time that they did not care much whether they paid for it or not, so they followed Ciccu, who gave his orders to the host. 'Bring us three dishes, the nicest that you have, and a good bottle of wine.'

'Ciccu! Ciccu!' whispered his brothers, horrified at this extravagance, 'are you mad? How do you ever mean to pay for it?'

'Let me alone,' replied Ciccu; 'I know what I am about.' And when they had finished their dinner Ciccu told the others to go on, and he would wait to pay the bill.

The brothers hurried on, without needing to be told twice, 'for,' thought they, 'he has no money, and of course there will be a row.'

When they were out of sight Ciccu asked the landlord how much he owed, and then said to his purse, 'Dear purse, give me, I pray you, six florins,' and instantly six florins were in the purse. Then he paid the bill and joined his brothers.

'How did you manage?' they asked.

'Never you mind,' answered he. 'I have paid every penny,' and no more would he say. But the other two were very uneasy, for they felt sure something must be wrong, and the sooner they parted company with Ciccu the better. Ciccu understood what they were thinking, and, drawing forty gold pieces from his pocket, he held out twenty to each, saying, 'Take these and turn them to good account. I am going away to seek my own fortune.' Then he embraced them, and struck down another road.

He wandered on for many days, till at length he came to the town where the king had his court. The first thing Ciccu did was to order himself some fine clothes, and then buy a grand house, just opposite the palace.

Next he locked his door, and ordered a shower of gold to cover the staircase, and when this was done, the door was flung wide open, and everyone came and peeped at the shining golden stairs. Lastly the rumour of these wonders reached the ears of the king, who left his palace to behold these splendours with his own eyes. And Ciccu received him with all respect, and showed him over the house.

When the king went home he told such stories of what he had seen that his wife and daughter declared that they must go and see them too. So the king sent to ask Ciccu's leave, and Ciccu answered that if the queen and the princess would be pleased to do him such great honour he would show them anything they wished. Now the princess was as beautiful as the sun, and when Ciccu looked upon her his heart went out to her, and he longed to have her to wife. The princess saw what was passing in his mind, and how she could make use of it to satisfy her curiosity as to the golden stairs; so she praised him and flattered him, and put cunning questions, till at length Ciccu's head was quite turned, and he told her the whole story of the fairies and their gifts. Then she begged him to lend her the purse for a few days, so that she could have one made like it, and so great was the love he had for her that he gave it to her at once.

The princess returned to the palace, taking with her the purse, which she had not the smallest intention of ever restoring to Ciccu. Very soon Ciccu had spent all the money he had by him, and could get no more without the help of his purse. Of course, he went at once to the king's daughter, and asked her if she had done with it, but she put him off with some excuse, and told him to come back next day. The next day it was the same thing, and the next, till a great rage filled Ciccu's heart instead of the love that had been there. And when night came he took in his hand a thick stick, wrapped himself in the coverlet, and wished himself in the chamber of the princess. The princess was asleep, but Ciccu seized her arm and pulled her out of bed, and beat her till she gave back the purse. Then he took up the coverlet, and wished he was safe in his own house.

No sooner had he gone than the princess hastened to her father and complained of her sufferings. Then the king rose up in a fury, and commanded Ciccu to be brought before him. 'You richly deserve death,' said he, 'but I will allow you to live if you will instantly hand over to me the coverlet, the purse, and the horn.'

What could Ciccu do? Life was sweet, and he was in the power of the king; so he gave up silently his ill-gotten goods, and was as poor as when he was a boy.

While he was wondering how he was to live it suddenly came into his mind that this was the season for the figs to ripen, and he said to himself, 'I will go and see if the tree has borne well.' So he set off home, where his brothers still lived, and found them living very uncomfortably, for they had spent all their money, and did not know how to make any more. However, he was pleased to see that the fig-tree looked in splendid condition, and was full of fruit. He ran and fetched a basket, and was just feeling the figs, to make sure which of them were ripe, when his brother Peppe called to him, 'Stop! The figs of course are yours, but the branches they grow on are mine, and I forbid you to touch them.'

Ciccu did not answer, but set a ladder against the tree, so that he could reach the topmost branches, and had his foot already on the first rung when he heard the voice of his brother Alfin: 'Stop! the trunk belongs to me, and I forbid you to touch it!'

Then they began to quarrel violently, and there seemed no chance that they would ever cease, till one of them said, 'Let us go before a judge.' The others agreed, and when they had found a man whom they could trust Ciccu told him the whole story.

'This is my verdict,' said the judge. 'The figs in truth belong to you, but you cannot pluck them without touching both the trunk and the branches. Therefore you must give your first basketful to your brother Peppe, as the price of his leave to put your ladder against the tree; and the second basketful to your brother Alfin, for leave to shake his boughs. The rest you can keep for yourself.'

And the brothers were contented, and returned home, saying one to the other, 'We will each of us send a basket of figs to the king. Perhaps he will give us something in return, and if he does we will divide it faithfully between us.' So the best figs were carefully packed in a basket, and Peppe set out with it to the castle.

On the road he met a little old man who stopped and said to him, 'What have you got there, my fine fellow?'

'What is that to you?' was the answer; 'mind your own business.' But the old man only repeated his question, and Peppe, to get rid of him, exclaimed in anger, 'Dirt.'

'Good,' replied the old man; 'dirt you have said, and dirt let it be.'

Peppe only tossed his head and went on his way till he got to the castle, where he knocked at the door. 'I have a basket of lovely figs for the king,' he said to the servant who opened it, 'if his majesty will be graciously pleased to accept them with my humble duty.'

The king loved figs, and ordered Peppe to be admitted to his presence, and a silver dish to be brought on which to put the figs. When Peppe uncovered his basket sure enough a layer of beautiful purple figs met the king's eyes, but underneath there was nothing but dirt. 'How dare you play me such a trick?' shrieked the king in a rage. 'Take him away, and give him fifty lashes.' This was done, and Peppe returned home, sore and angry, but determined to say nothing about his adventure. And when his brothers asked him what had happened he only answered, 'When we have all three been I will tell you.'

A few days after this more figs were ready for plucking, and Alfin in his turn set out for the palace. He had not gone far down the road before he met the old man, who asked him what he had in his basket.

'Horns,' answered Alfin, shortly.

'Good,' replied the old man; 'horns you have said, and horns let it be.'

When Alfin reached the castle he knocked at the door and said to the servant: 'Here is a basket of lovely figs, if his majesty will be good enough to accept them with my humble duty.'

The king commanded that Alfin should be admitted to his presence, and a silver dish to be brought on which to lay the figs. When the basket was uncovered some beautiful purple figs lay on the top, but underneath there was nothing but horns. Then the king was beside himself with passion, and screamed out, 'Is this a plot to mock me? Take him away, and give him a hundred and fifty lashes!' So Alfin went sadly home, but would not tell anything about his adventures, only saying grimly, 'Now it is Ciccu's turn.'

Ciccu had to wait a little before he gathered the last figs on the tree, and these were not nearly so good as the first set. However, he plucked them, as they had agreed, and set out for the king's palace. The old man was still on the road, and he came up and said to Ciccu, 'What have you got in that basket?'

'Figs for the king,' answered he.

'Let me have a peep,' and Ciccu lifted the lid. 'Oh, do give me one, I am so fond of figs,' begged the little man.

'I am afraid if I do that the hole will show,' replied Ciccu, but as he was very good-natured he gave him one. The old man ate it greedily and kept the stalk in his hand, and then asked for another and another and another till he had eaten half the basketful. 'But there are not enough left to take to the king,' murmured Ciccu.

'Don't be anxious,' said the old man, throwing the stalks back into the basket; 'just go on and carry the basket to the castle, and it will bring you luck.'

Ciccu did not much like it; however he went on his way, and with a trembling heart rang the castle bell. 'Here are some lovely figs for the king,' said he, 'if his majesty will graciously accept them with my humble duty.'

When the king was told that there was another man with a basket of figs he cried out, 'Oh, have him in, have him in! I suppose it is a wager!' But Ciccu uncovered the basket, and there lay a pile of beautiful ripe figs. And the king was delighted, and emptied them himself on the silver dish, and gave five florins to Ciccu, and offered besides to take him into his service. Ciccu accepted gratefully, but said he must first return home and give the five florins to his brothers.

When he got home Peppe spoke: 'Now we will see what we each have got from the king. I myself received from him fifty lashes.'

'And I a hundred and fifty,' added Alfin.

'And I five florins and some sweets, which you can divide between you, for the king has taken me into his service.' Then Ciccu went back to the Court and served the king, and the king loved him.

The other two brothers heard that Ciccu had become quite an important person, and they grew envious, and thought how they could put him to shame. At last they came to the king and said to him, 'O king! your palace is beautiful indeed, but to be worthy of you it lacks one thing -- the sword of the Man-eater.'

'How can I get it?' asked the king.

'Oh, Ciccu can get it for you; ask him.'

So the king sent for Ciccu and said to him, 'Ciccu, you must at any price manage to get the sword of the Man-eater.'

Ciccu was very much surprised at this sudden command, and he walked thoughtfully away to the stables and began to stroke his favourite horse, saying to himself, 'Ah, my pet, we must bid each other good-bye, for the king has sent me away to get the sword of the Maneater.' Now this horse was not like other horses, for it was a talking horse, and knew a great deal about many things, so it answered, 'Fear nothing, and do as I tell you. Beg the king to give you fifty gold pieces and leave to ride me, and the rest will be easy.' Ciccu believed what the horse said, and prayed the king to grant him what he asked. Then the two friends set out, but the horse chose what roads he pleased, and directed Ciccu in everything.

It took them many days' hard riding before they reached the country where the Man-eater lived, and then the horse told Ciccu to stop a group of old women who were coming chattering through the wood, and offer them each a shilling if they would collect a number of mosquitos and tie them up in a bag. When the bag was full Ciccu put it on his shoulder and stole into the house of the Man-eater (who had gone to look for his dinner) and let them all out in his bedroom. He himself hid carefully under the bed and waited. The Man-eater came in late, very tired with his long walk, and flung himself on the bed, placing his sword with its shining blade by his side. Scarcely had he lain down than the mosquitos began to buzz about and bite him, and he rolled from side to side trying to catch them, which he never could do, though they always seemed to be close to his nose. He was so busy over the mosquitos that he did not hear Ciccu steal softly out, or see him catch up the sword. But the horse heard and stood ready at the door, and as Ciccu came flying down the stairs and jumped on his back he sped away like the wind, and never stopped till they arrived at the king's palace.

The king had suffered much pain in his absence, thinking that if the Man-eater ate Ciccu, it would be all his fault. And he was so overjoyed to have him safe that he almost forgot the sword which he had sent him to bring. But the two brothers did not love Ciccu any better because he had succeeded when they hoped he would have failed, and one day they spoke to the king. 'It is all very well for Ciccu to have got possession of the sword, but it would have been far more to your majesty's honour if he had captured the Man-eater himself.' The king thought upon these words, and at last he said to Ciccu, 'Ciccu, I shall never rest until you bring me back the Man-eater himself. You may have any help you like, but somehow or other you must manage to do it.' Ciccu felt very much cast, down at these words, and went to the stable to ask advice of his friend the horse. 'Fear nothing,' said the horse; 'just say you want me and fifty pieces of gold.' Ciccu did as he was bid, and the two set out together.

When they reached the country of the Man-eater, Ciccu made all the church bells toll and a proclamation to be made. 'Ciccu, the servant of the king, is dead.' The Man-eater soon heard what everyone was saying, and was glad in his heart, for he thought, 'Well, it is good news that the thief who stole my sword is dead.' But Ciccu bought an axe and a saw, and cut down a pine tree in the nearest wood, and began to hew it into planks.

'What are you doing in my wood?' asked the Maneater, coming up.


'Noble lord,' answered Ciccu, 'I am making a coffin for the body of Ciccu, who is dead.'

'Don't be in a hurry,' answered the Man-eater, who of course did not know whom he was talking to, 'and perhaps I can help you;' and they set to work sawing and fitting, and very soon the coffin was finished.

Then Ciccu scratched his ear thoughtfully, and cried, 'Idiot that I am! I never took any measures. How am I to know if it is big enough? But now I come to think of it, Ciccu was about your size. I wonder if you would be so good as just to put yourself in the coffin, and see if there is enough room.'

'Oh, delighted!' said the Man-eater, and laid himself at full length in the coffin. Ciccu clapped on the lid, put a strong cord round it, tied it fast on his horse, and rode back to the king. And when the king saw that he really had brought back the Man-eater, he commanded a huge iron chest to be brought, and locked the coffin up inside.

Just about this time the queen died, and soon after the king thought he should like to marry again. He sought everywhere, but he could not hear of any princess that took his fancy. Then the two envious brothers came to him and said, 'O king! there is but one woman that is worthy of being your wife, and that is she who is the fairest in the whole world.'

'But where can I find her?' asked the king

'Oh, Ciccu will know, and he will bring her to you.'

Now the king had got so used to depending on Ciccu, that he really believed he could do everything. So he sent for him and said, 'Ciccu, unless within eight days you bring me the fairest in the whole world, I will have you hewn into a thousand pieces.' This mission seemed to Ciccu a hundred times worse than either of the others, and with tears in his eyes he took his way to the stables.

'Cheer up,' laughed the horse; 'tell the king you must have some bread and honey, and a purse of gold, and leave the rest to me.'

Ciccu did as he was bid, and they started at a gallop.

After they had ridden some way, they saw a swarm of bees lying on the ground, so hungry and weak that they were unable to fly. 'Get down, and give the poor things some honey,' said the horse, and Ciccu dismounted. By-and-bye they came to a stream, on the bank of which was a fish, flapping feebly about in its efforts to reach the water. 'Jump down, and throw the fish into the water; he will be useful to us,' and Ciccu did so. Farther along the hillside they saw an eagle whose leg was caught in a snare. 'Go and free that eagle from the snare; he will be useful to us; ' and in a moment the eagle was soaring up into the sky.

At length they came to the castle where the fairest in the world lived with her parents. Then said the horse, 'You must get down and sit upon that stone, for I must enter the castle alone. Directly you see me come tearing by with the princess on my back, jump up behind, and hold her tight, so that she does not escape you. If you fail to do this, we are both lost.' Ciccu seated himself on the stone, and the horse went on to the courtyard of the castle, where he began to trot round in a graceful and elegant manner. Soon a crowd collected first to watch him and then to pat him, and the king and queen and princess came with the rest. The eyes of the fairest in the world brightened as she looked, and she sprang on the horse's saddle, crying, 'Oh, I really must ride him a little!' But the horse made one bound forward, and the princess was forced to hold tight by his mane, lest she should fall off. And as they dashed past the stone where Ciccu was waiting for them, he swung himself up and held her round the waist. As he put his arms round her waist, the fairest in the world unwound the veil from her head and cast it to the ground, and then she drew a ring from her finger and flung it into the stream. But she said nothing, and they rode on fast, fast.

The king of Ciccu's country was watching for them from the top of a tower, and when he saw in the distance a cloud of dust, he ran down to the steps so as to be ready to receive them. Bowing low before the fairest in the world, he spoke: 'Noble lady, will you do me the honour to become my wife?'

But she answered, 'That can only be when Ciccu brings me the veil that I let fall on my way here.'

And the king turned to Ciccu and said, 'Ciccu, if you do not find the veil at once, you shall lose your head.'

Ciccu, who by this time had hoped for a little peace, felt his heart sink at this fresh errand, and he went into the stable to complain to the faithful horse.

'It will be all right,' answered the horse when he had heard his tale; 'just take enough food for the day for both of us, and then get on my back.'

They rode back all the way they had come till they reached the place where they had found the eagle caught in the snare; then the horse bade Ciccu to call three times on the king of the birds, and when he replied, to beg him to fetch the veil which the fairest in the world had let fall.

'Wait a moment,' answered a voice that seemed to come from somewhere very high up indeed. 'An eagle is playing with it just now, but he will be here with it in an instant;' and a few minutes after there was a sound of wings, and an eagle came fluttering towards them with the veil in his beak. And Ciccu saw it was the very same eagle that he had freed from the snare. So he took the veil and rode back to the king.

Now the king was enchanted to see him so soon, and took the veil from Ciccu and flung it over the princess, crying, 'Here is the veil you asked for, so I claim you for my wife.'

'Not so fast,' answered she. 'I can never be your wife till Ciccu puts on my finger the ring I threw into the stream. Ciccu, who was standing by expecting something of the sort, bowed his head when he heard her words, and went straight to the horse.

'Mount at once,' said the horse; 'this time it is very simple,' and he carried Ciccu to the banks of the little stream. 'Now, call three times on the emperor of the fishes, and beg him to restore you the ring that the princess dropped.

Ciccu did as the horse told him, and a voice was heard in answer that seemed to come from a very long way off.

'What is your will?' it asked; and Ciccu replied that he had been commanded to bring back the ring that the princess had flung away, as she rode past.

'A fish is playing with it just now,' replied the voice; 'however, you shall have it without delay.'

And sure enough, very soon a little fish was seen rising to the surface with the lost ring in his mouth. And Ciccu knew him to be the fish that he had saved from death, and he took the ring and rode back with it to the king.

'That is not enough,' exclaimed the princess when she saw the ring; 'before we can be man and wife, the oven must be heated for three days and three nights, and Ciccu must jump in.' And the king forgot how Ciccu had served him, and desired him to do as the princess had said.

This time Ciccu felt that no escape was possible, and he went to the horse and laid his hand on his neck. 'Now it is indeed good-bye, and there is no help to be got even from you,' and he told him what fate awaited him.

But the horse said, 'Oh, never lose heart, but jump on my back, and make me go till the foam flies in flecks all about me. Then get down, and scrape off the foam with a knife. This you must rub all over you, and when you are quite covered, you may suffer yourself to be cast into the oven, for the fire will not hurt you, nor anything else.' And Ciccu did exactly as the horse bade him, and went back to the king, and before the eyes of the fairest in the world he sprang into the oven.

And when the fairest in the world saw what he had done, love entered into her heart, and she said to the king, 'One thing more: before I can be your wife, you must jump into the oven as Ciccu has done.'

'Willingly,' replied the king, stooping over the oven. But on the brink he paused a moment and called to Ciccu, 'Tell me, Ciccu, how did you manage to prevent the fire burning you?'

Now Ciccu could not forgive his master, whom he had served so faithfully, for sending him to his death without a thought, so he answered, 'I rubbed myself over with fat, and I am not even singed.'

When he heard these words, the king, whose head was full of the princess, never stopped to inquire if they could be true, and smeared himself over with fat, and sprang into the oven. And in a moment the fire caught him, and he was burned up.

Then the fairest in the world held out her hand to Ciccu and smiled, saying, 'Now we will be man and wife.' So Ciccu married the fairest in the world, and became king of the country.



Don Giovanni De La Fortuna

Sicilianische Mahrchen


There was once a man whose name was Don Giovanni de la Fortuna, and he lived in a beautiful house that his father had built, and spent a great deal of money. Indeed, he spent so much that very soon there was none left, and Don Giovanni, instead of being a rich man with everything he could wish for, was forced to put on the dress of a pilgrim, and to wander from place to place begging his bread.

One day he was walking down a broad road when he was stopped by a handsome man he had never seen before, who, little as Don Giovanni knew it, was the devil himself.

'Would you like to be rich,' asked the devil, 'and to lead a pleasant life?'

'Yes, of course I should,' replied the Don.

'Well, here is a purse; take it and say to it, "Dear purse, give me some money," and you will get as much as you can want But the charm will only work if you promise to remain three years, three months, and three days without washing and without combing and without shaving your beard or changing your clothes. If you do all this faithfully, when the time is up you shall keep the purse for yourself, and I will let you off any other conditions.'

Now Don Giovanni was a man who never troubled his head about the future. He did not once think how very uncomfortable he should be all those three years, but only that he should be able, by means of the purse, to have all sorts of things he had been obliged to do without; so he joyfully put the purse in his pocket and went on his way. He soon began to ask for money for the mere pleasure of it, and there was always as much as he needed. For a little while he even forgot to notice how dirty he was getting, but this did not last long, for his hair became matted with dirt and hung over his eyes, and his pilgrim's dress was a mass of horrible rags and tatters.

He was in this state when, one morning, he happened to be passing a fine palace; and, as the sun was shining bright and warm, he sat down on the steps and tried to shake off some of the dust which he had picked up on the road. But in a few minutes a maid saw him, and said to her master, 'I pray you, sir, to drive away that beggar who is sitting on the steps, or he will fill the whole house with his dirt.'

So the master went out and called from some distance off, for he was really afraid to go near the man, 'You filthy beggar, leave my house at once!'

'You need not be so rude,' said Don Giovanni; 'I am not a beggar, and if I chose I could force you and your wife to leave your house.'

'What is that you can do?' laughed the gentleman.

'Will you sell me your house?' asked Don Giovanni. 'I will buy it from you on the spot.'

'Oh, the dirty creature is quite mad!' thought the gentleman. 'I shall just accept his offer for a joke.' And aloud he said: ' All right; follow me, and we will go to a lawyer and get him to make a contract.' And Don Giovanni followed him, and an agreement was drawn up by which the house was to be sold at once, and a large sum of money paid down in eight days. Then the Don went to an inn, where he hired two rooms, and, standing in one of them, said to his purse, ' Dear purse, fill this room with gold;' and when the eight days were up it was so full you could not have put in another sovereign.

When the owner of the house came to take away his money Don Giovanni led him into the room and said: 'There, just pocket what you want.' The gentleman stared with open mouth at the astonishing sight; but he had given his word to sell the house, so he took his money, as he was told, and went away with his wife to look for some place to live in. And Don Giovanni left the inn and dwelt in the beautiful rooms, where his rags and dirt looked sadly out of place. And every day these got worse and worse.

By-and-bye the fame of his riches reached the ears of the king, and, as he himself was always in need of money, he sent for Don Giovanni, as he wished to borrow a large sum. Don Giovanni readily agreed to lend him what he wanted, and sent next day a huge waggon laden with sacks of gold.

'Who can he be?' thought the king to himself. 'Why, he is much richer than I!'

The king took as much as he had need of; then ordered the rest to be returned to Don Giovanni, who refused to receive it, saying, 'Tell his majesty I am much hurt at his proposal. I shall certainly not take back that handful of gold, and, if he declines to accept it, keep it yourself.'

The servant departed and delivered the message, and the king wondered more than ever how anyone could be so rich. At last he spoke to the queen: 'Dear wife, this man has done me a great service, and has, besides, behaved like a gentleman in not allowing me to send back the money. I wish to give him the hand of our eldest daughter.'

The queen was quite pleased at this idea, and again messenger was sent to Don Giovanni, offering him the hand of the eldest princess.


'His majesty is too good,' he replied. 'I can only humbly accept the honour.'

The messenger took back this answer, but a second time returned with the request that Don Giovanni would present them with his picture, so that they might know what sort of a person to expect. But when it came, and the princess saw the horrible figure, she screamed out, 'What! marry this dirty beggar? Never, never!'

'Ah, child,' answered the king, 'how could I ever guess that the rich Don Giovanni would ever look like that? But I have passed my royal word, and I cannot break it, so there is no help for you.'

'No, father; you may cut off my head, if you choose, but marry that horrible beggar -- I never will!'

And the queen took her part, and reproached her husband bitterly for wishing his daughter to marry a creature like that.

Then the youngest daughter spoke: 'Dear father, do not look so sad. As you have given your word, I will marry Don Giovanni.' The king fell on her neck, and thanked her and kissed her, but the queen and the elder girl had nothing for her but laughs and jeers.

So it was settled, and then the king bade one of his lords go to Don Giovanni and ask him when the wedding day was to be, so that the princess might make ready.

'Let it be in two months,' answered Don Giovanni, for the time was nearly up that the devil had fixed, and he wanted a whole month to himself to wash off the dirt of the past three years.

The very minute that the compact with the devil had come to an end his beard was shaved, his hair was cut, and his rags were burned, and day and night he lay in a bath of clear warm water. At length he felt he was clean again, and he put on splendid clothes, and hired a beautiful ship, and arrived in state at the king's palace.

The whole of the royal family came down to the ship to receive him, and the whole way the queen and the elder princess teased the sister about the dirty husband she was going to have. But when they saw how handsome he really was their hearts were filled with envy and anger, so that their eyes were blinded, and they fell over into the sea and were drowned. And the youngest daughter rejoiced in the good luck that had come to her, and they had a splendid wedding when the days of mourning for her mother and sister were ended.

Soon after the old king died, and Don Giovanni became king. And he was rich and happy to the end of his days, for he loved his wife, and his purse always gave him money.

<eob>

The Submarine Boys For The Flag: Deeding Their Lives To Uncle Sam

By

Victor G. Durham



Chapter I

"Do You Speak German?"


"Hey, there, Mister!" called out Jabez Holt, from one of the two office windows in the little hotel at Dunhaven.

As there was only one other man in the office, that other man guessed that he might be the one addressed.

With a slight German accent the stranger, who was well-dressed, and looked like a prosperous as well as an educated man, turned and demanded:

"You are calling me?"

"I reckon," nodded Jabez.

"Then my name is Herr Professor -- "

"Hair professor?" repeated Jabez Holt, a bit of astonishment showing in his wrinkled old face. "Hair professor? Barber, eh? Why, I thought you was a traveler. But hurry up over here -- do you hear me?"

"My good man," began the German, stiffly, drawing himself up to his full six-foot-one, "it is not often I am affronted by being addressed so -- "

"There! He'll be outer sight in another minute, while you are arguin' about your dignity!" muttered Holt. "And that's the feller you said you wanted to see -- Jack Benson."

"Benson?" cried the German, forgetting his outraged dignity and springing forward. "Benson?"

"That's him -- almost up to the corner," nodded Landlord Jabez Holt.

"Run out and bring him back with you," directed Herr Professor Radberg. "Be quick!"

"Waal, I guess you're spryer'n I be," returned old Jabez, with a shrewd look at his guest. "Besides, it's you that wants the boy."

Running back and snatching up his hat, Professor Radberg made for the street without further argument.

Moving along hastily, the German soon came in sight of young Captain Jack Benson, of the Pollard Submarine Torpedo Boat Company.

"Ach, there! Herr Benson!" shouted the Professor.

Hearing the hail, Jack Benson turned, then halted.

"You are Herr Benson, are you not?" demanded Professor Radberg, as soon as he got close enough.

"Benson is my name," nodded Jack, pleasantly.

"Then come back to the hotel with me."

"You are a foreigner, aren't you?" asked Jack, surveying the stranger coolly.

"I am German," replied Radberg, in a tone of surprise.

"I thought so," nodded the boy. "That is, I didn't know from what country you came. But, in this country, when we ask a favor of a stranger, we usually say 'please.'"

"I am Herr Professor -- "

"Oh, barbers are just as polite as other folks," Jack assured him, his laughing eyes resting on the somewhat bewildered-looking face of the German.

"Then please, Herr Benson, come back to the hotel with me."

"Yes; if it's really necessary. But why do you want to go to the hotel?"

"Because, Herr Benson, when we are there, I shall have much of importance to say to you."

"Important to me, or to you?" asked Jack, thoughtfully.

He had no intention of answering a much older man disrespectfully. But there was about Herr Radberg the air of a man who expects his greatness to be recognized at a glance, and who demands obedience from common people as a right. This sort of thing didn't fit well with the American boy.

"Oh, it is important to you, and very much so," urged the Professor, somewhat more anxiously. "Besides," added the German, with a now really engaging smile, "I have met your demand, Herr Benson, and have said 'please.'"

"Then I suppose I'll have to meet your demand," nodded Jack, good-humoredly. "Lead the way, sir."

"Ach! You may walk at my side," permitted the German.

It all seemed a bit strange, but Captain Jack Benson had been through more strange experiences than had most Americans of twice or thrice his age. Besides, as he walked beside Herr Professor Radberg Jack imagined that he had guessed at least an inkling of the other's business. The German had announced himself as a professor; probably, therefore, he was a scientist. Being a scientist, the Professor had very likely invented, or nearly invented something intended for use in connection with submarine torpedo boats, and wanted to interest the concern by which the young submarine skipper was employed. Though this guess was a reasonable one, it soon turned out to be the wrong one. The Professor's real reason for seeking this interview was one that was bound to take the submarine boy almost off his feet.

Readers of the preceding volumes in this series need no introduction to Captain Jack Benson, nor to his chums, Hal Hastings and Eph Somers. Such readers recall, as told in "The Submarine Boys on Duty," how Jack and Hal drifted into Dunhaven just at the right moment to fight for an opportunity to work themselves into the submarine boat building business. How the boys helped build the first of the now famous Pollard submarines, and afterwards learned how to man her, was all told, together with all their strange adventures in their new life.

In the "The Submarine Boys' Trial Trip" was related how Jack Benson solved the problem of leaving a submarine boat when it lay on the ocean's bottom, and also the trick of entering that submerged boat again, after diving from the surface of the water. The attempt of shrewd business men to secure control of the new submarine boat company was also described, together with the manner in which the submarine boys outwitted them. Through a successful trial trip, and Captain Jack's ingenious ways of arousing public interest, the government was forced to buy the "Pollard," as the first of the submarines was named.

In "The Submarine Boys and the Middies" was narrated how the submarine boys secured the prize detail of going to the Naval Academy at Annapolis as temporary instructors in submarine boating. Many startling adventures, and some humorous ones, were related in that volume.

Then in "The Submarine Boys and the Spies" was shown how the young men successfully foiled the efforts of spies of foreign governments to learn the secrets of the Pollard craft.

In "The Submarine Boys' Lightning Cruise" the adventures of these clever, enterprising boys were carried further. In this book, was told how the boys were trained in the handling of the actual torpedo of, warfare. The Pollard boats, "Benson" and "Hastings" were entered in official government tests in which the submarine craft of several other makes competed. The desperate lengths to which the nearest rival of the Pollards went in order to win were told with startling accuracy. The result of all these tests was that the Pollard company received from the Navy Department an order for eighteen submarine torpedo boats, the "Benson" and the "Hastings" being accepted as the first two boats on that order.

By the time the present narrative opens it was near the first of May. Over at the shipyard, where facilities had been greatly increased, two of the submarines had lately been finished, and four more were under way in long construction sheds. Work on the government's order was being rushed as fast as could be done while keeping up the Pollard standards, of high-class work.

Of late Jack and his young friends, though their pay went on, had little work to do. Whenever a new boat was completed it was the task of the submarine boys to take her out to sea and put her through all manner of tests in order to determine her fitness. But there were days and days when the submarine boys had naught to do but enjoy themselves as their fancy dictated.

"Shall we sit down here?" asked Jack, as he and the tall German entered the hotel office.

Jabez Holt stood behind the desk, bent over the register, on which the Professor's name had been the only new one in a week. The old landlord pretended to be busy, but he was covertly watching and listening.

"Sit here?" repeated Professor Radberg. "Ach, no! Come along with me."

There was something rather disagreeably commanding in the German's invitation, but Jack merely smiled quietly as he followed in the stranger's wake. Up the stairs they went. The Professor unlocked a door, admitting himself and his guest to the outer of a suite of two rooms. Once they were inside Radberg locked the door behind them.

"Come to the other room, Herr Benson," directed the Professor. The door of this inner room the German also locked, remarking:

"Now, if the man, Holt, chooses to follow and listen, he can hear nothing."

"All this sounds mighty mysterious," laughed Jack Benson, good-humoredly.

However, the submarine boy went and stood by a chair near the window and then waited until he saw that the stranger was about to seat himself.

"Now," asked Jack, stretching his legs, "what's the business about? I haven't a whole lot of time to-day."

"Listen, and you shall hear, as soon as I am ready," came, stiffly, from the stranger. "You are a boy, and I am Herr Professor -- "

"Oh, you told me all about being a hair professor before," smiled Jack. "Now, see here. Whether you're really a barber, or whether you're just amusing yourself with me, we want to have one thing understood. I came here, sir, as a matter of courtesy to you, and you will have to treat me with just as much courtesy. Otherwise, I shall wish you good-morning."

This was said with a flash of the eye which warned Radberg that, in his rather overbearing way, he was going too for.

"Oh, my dear young friend," he replied, persuasively, "you don't understand. In Germany I am -- well, perhaps what you would call a rather distinguished man. At least, my neighbors are good enough to say so. And, in Germany, when a herr professor talks, others listen respectfully."

"Just the same way with the hair professors in this country," chuckled Jack. "When an American barber gets wound up and started, all a fellow can do is to listen. It's no use trying to run away from a barber anywhere, I guess. He has you strapped down to the chair."

"Barber?" repeated Professor Radberg, in disgust. "I don't understand you."

"Oh, it isn't necessary," laughed Jack. "It's a sort of Yankee joke. And I beg your pardon, Professor, if I am wasting your time. Now, go ahead, please, and tell me why you invited me here."

There was something of salt water breeziness and crispness about Jack's speech that caused the German's brow to cloud for an instant. Then, after a visible effort to compose himself, Radberg leaned forward to ask:

"Do you speak German?"

"No, sir." Jack shook his head.

"Ach, that is too bad!" muttered the German, in a voice suggesting severe disapproval of one who hadn't mastered his own native tongue. "However, you will soon learn."

"Yes; if there's a big enough prize goes with it," agreed Jack.

"Prize?" repeated Professor Radberg. "You will say so!"

Then, leaning forward once more, and speaking in his most impressive voice, Herr Professor Radberg continued:

"Herr Benson, we are going to take you into the German Navy!"

The Professor now leaned back to watch the effect of his words.

"Are you going to do it when I'm awake?" asked Jack, curiously.

"Nein! I do not understand you."

"Are you going to take me in by force, or wait until you catch me asleep?" questioned Captain Jack Benson.

"Ach! Do not be silly, boy!"

"I might say the same to you, Professor," replied Jack Benson, composedly, "but we'll let it pass. How are you going to get me into the German Navy, and what are you going to do with me after you get me there?"

"How?" cried Professor Radberg. "Why we are going to pay you a very handsome sum of money, and we are going to give you a most honorable position in our imperial service. And -- "

Here Professor Radberg leaned forward once more, lowering his voice considerably.

"There are three of you boys, all experts at the Pollard works. Well, we are going to take all three of you into the German navy, and we will do something very handsome for you all."

"The other fellows will be delighted when I tell 'em what's coming their way," smiled Captain Jack.

"Ach! So? Of course."

"Now, what do you propose to do with us in your navy?" Jack went on. "Are you going to make officers of us?"

"Officers?" repeated Herr Professor Radberg, slowly. "Well, no, Herr Benson. We could not exactly do that. Our officers are, as you will understand, very -- what is your English word? -- aristocratic. They could not be quite persuaded to take American commoners as their brother officers. That you would not expect, of course."

"Certainly not," young Benson agreed. If there was a slight tinge of sarcasm in his it was lost on the German, whose brow cleared as he went on, heavily:

"No, no, my young friend; not officers. But you shall all three have very honorable positions, and handsome sums of money to pay you for entering our service. We in Germany know the rank which you young men have won as submarine experts, and we shall not be niggardly, for we have determined to have you in our service."

"I hope you'll pardon me," proposed young Benson. "There is just one point that has been overlooked. You tell me that you are authorized to come to Dunhaven and kidnap my friends and myself. But, really, how do I know that you have such authority from your own side of the water?"

Radberg looked a bit puzzled, for a moment. Then, as he seemed to begin to comprehend, he replied, heavily:

"Herr Benson, I have already told you that I am Herr Professor -- "

"Now, don't hang out the striped pole again, please," urged Jack, his face as sober as that of a judge. "Come right down to the points of the compass. How am I to know that you really do represent the German government?"

"Ach! I comprehend," nodded the German. "Of course you will understand that, on an errand of this kind, I do not travel with too many papers. But I shall take you and your two companions on to Washington to-morrow, I think -- "

"To-morrow ought to do as well as any time," replied Jack, ironically.

"Yes; I think it will be to-morrow," continued the German. "I shall take you to our German Embassy, and one of our officials there will prove to you that I have been acting with authority."

"That'll be right fine of him," agreed Jack, placidly.

"Ach! It is settled, then," replied the German, all but dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. "Yet you must bring your two comrades here. They must understand just what is wanted of them. And now, Herr Benson, do you wish to understand what is to be paid to you to transfer your services to our German flag?"

"Why, yes; that will be mighty important -- if we go under the German flag."

"If you go?" repeated the Professor. "Why, that is all settled!"

"Then I must have missed something, by not watching you closely enough," murmured Jack. "I shall have to sit up straighter and keep my eyes wider open. When was it all settled, sir?"

"Why, did you not tell me -- "

"Haven't had a blessed chance to tell you anything," replied Jack, looking astonished. "You've been doing all the telling."

"But you'll go with me, of course, to Washington?" uttered Radberg, looking much taken aback.

"I doubt it," muttered young Benson, shaking his head. "In fact, sir, I may as well tell you that it's waste of our time to carry this line of talk any further."

"Ach! You are cunning," smiled Professor Radberg, no longer nonplussed. "That is as it should be, too, for you are a clever young man, Herr Benson."

"A thousand thanks," murmured Captain Jack.

"But, instead of talk," pursued the German, "you wish to see some money. Quite right! I should, were I in your place, Herr Benson. Well, then -- ach! Look at this."

Thrusting a fat hand down deep in a trousers pocket, Herr Professor Radberg brought up into view a big roll of money. He held this up so that the submarine boy could feast his eyes on it. Jack looked, composedly.

"Did you ever see anything like this -- you, who are such a young boy?" smiled the German, teasingly.

"I -- I don't know, really," responded Jack, thoughtfully, thrusting a hand down into his own trousers pocket. Young Benson brought up into the light a very comfortable looking handful of banknotes, rolled and surrounded by a broad elastic band. "Let's measure the two, Professor, and see how they compare."

"Ach!" muttered the German, regarding Jack's money with some displeasure. "Where did you get all that?"

"Oh, now, Professor!" cried the young submarine captain, reproachfully. "I didn't ask you where you got yours!"

"Ach! This is all so much foolishness!" cried the German Professor, returning his money to his pocket.

"That's what I think, too," agreed Jack, following suit. "It's what our English cousins call 'bad form,' to go to comparing piles of money."

"Now, sit down, Herr Benson, and I will tell you what a very handsome sum of money, and what excellent wages, the German government will pay you to enter our imperial naval service."

"How much money is there in Germany?" interrupted the submarine boy, thoughtfully.

"How much, in all Germany?" demanded the Professor. "Nein! How should I know?"

"You expect me, of course, to turn my back on this country for good, to tell you Germans whatever I may know about submarine secrets, to drill with your navy, and be prepared to fight in your navy if war comes?"

"Ach, yes! of course," replied Radberg. "Now, we are beginning to understand one another."

"Professor," interrupted Captain Jack Benson, "we've had enough of joking."

"Joking? I assure you -- "

"Professor," once more broke in the submarine boy, "I wouldn't sell out my country's flag for all the money you ever saw!"

For a few moments the Professor's face was a study in consternation. Then he broke forth, angrily:

"Ach! You are a fool!"

"I guess so," nodded Jack, without resentment. "That's just the kind of fools we Americans are generally."

Herr Radberg was a good enough reader of human faces to realize that, at all events, there was no use in continuing the conversation at present.

"Very good," he growled. "You can go. I shall see your friends, instead."

"When you get through with 'em you'll think they're idiots," grinned Captain Jack Benson.

Herr Radberg wasn't a fool. Neither was he a rascal, expert in offering bribes. Brought up within the wall's of a German university, he would have been willing to lay down his life instantly for the good of the Fatherland. Yet he couldn't understand that men of other nations could be just as devoted to their own countries. From Herr Professor Radberg's point of view Germany was the only country in the world that was fitted to inspire a real and deep sense of patriotism.

"No harm done, Professor," said Jack, moving toward the door, and turning the key to unlock it. "I'm sorry you had all the trouble and expense of coming to Dunhaven on a useless errand. Good-bye!"

"Ach! You may go, but you will come back," scowled the other. "If not, your comrades will, I hope, prove to be young men of better sense and judgment."

"Oh, they'll listen to you," smiled Jack. "Good-bye!"

"I shall have two of you, anyway," were Radberg's last words before the door of the outer room closed and Jack's footsteps sounded in the corridor.



Chapter II

"French Spoken Here"


"Well, what do you think of that?"

It was Eph Somers who put the question, and the time was some fifteen minutes later.

Captain Jack had met his two comrades up on the main street of the village. He had told them, with a good deal of amusement, of his late talk with the German.

Hal Hastings didn't say a word, but his eyes twinkled.

"I wouldn't have minded," laughed Jack, "but it was the Professor's cock-sureness that I was to be Germany's oyster."

"Is he an old man?" asked Hal.

"Not very," Jack answered. "Perhaps not old enough to know better. Anyway, if I were going to a foreign government, Germany would be about the last country. Germany is our rival in building a large navy. About every other month the experts in Germany sit down to figure whether they are anything ahead of us in the tonnage of warships, and, if so, whether there is any danger of our catching up with them. Now, unless the Germans have a notion that they may need, to fight us one of these days -- "

"Oh, I don't believe anything of that sort," broke in Hal, shaking his head. "I don't believe any country in the world is aching to pick a quarrel with us."

"Not while the United States pocket-book is such a fat one, and so well built for paying war expenses," grinned Eph. Then his look became more solemn, as he added:

"But we don't want ever to get into a naval condition where it will be easy for some other country to snatch that fat pocket-book out of our hands."

"Let's go along, fellows. Drowning and confusion to all possible foes afloat," proposed Hal, the one who could never see "war" on the horizon. "After a winter on hot sodas, it'll be a relief to know that the druggist put in icecream soda to-day."

So the three boys turned and made their way to the drugstore. While they were exploring with spoons the bottoms of their glasses, the street door opened. Herr Professor Radberg looked in, then came in, beaming condescendingly on the young men.

"Ach! You young men are just the ones I wish to see," he exclaimed, resting one hand on Eph's shoulder, the other on Hal's.

"Lots of folks will pay for that privilege," declared Eph, solemnly.

"Yes? Well, I will pay, too -- you shall see. I shall look for you at the hotel, in just one hour. One hour -- remember."

"Have you a telescope?" inquired Eph, calmly.

"A telescope. Eh?" inquired the German. "What for?"

"You might need it in looking for us," Eph replied.

"Then, in one hour, I shall see you -- at the hotel!"

"You'll be lucky, if you do," grinned Eph.

"Eh? I do not know that I understand," responded Herr Professor Radberg, slowly.

"If you're figuring on seeing us," Eph went on, gravely, "I'm afraid you're in for bad news."

"Bad news? Ach! What do you mean, young man?"

"Just what I said," replied Eph.

Professor Radberg looked so puzzled that Hal Hastings broke in, quietly:

"Professor, unless I'm much in error, you want to see us about a proposition that we enter the German naval service."

"Hush! Not so loud," warned Radberg, looking suspiciously around.

"There's nothing we have to keep quiet about," Hal went on. "You have already spoken to our captain, Jack Benson, about this matter."

"Ach! Yes."

"And Jack has refused."

"Your captain is a fool!" cried the German.

"Then we serve a fool, because he's our captain," retorted Hal, quietly, though there was a flash in his eyes.

"I shall look for you two at the hotel in one hour," declared the German, impressively.

"My friend, Mr. Somers, has already told you that you'll be using your eyesight to poor advantage, then," Hal answered.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, I mean, Professor, that you can't possibly persuade us to go to Germany and tell your people anything that we know about the Pollard submarine boats, or any other type."

"But you shall be well paid!"

"Professor, what would be your price for selling out your country to the United States?" asked Hal, gazing fixedly at the German.

"You insult me!" cried the German, his face growing red. "I am a patriot."

"Yet, you insult us by thinking that we would sell our country," went on Hal, coolly.

"Are you two going to be as big fools as your captain?" demanded Herr Professor Radberg, almost incredulously.

"Bigger!" promised Eph, with a grin.

"Ach! Well, we shall talk this all over when you come to the hotel in an hour," replied the German. He turned and left the store.

"Now, I don't doubt," mocked Hal, "he has gone away firm in the belief that we'll keep his appointment."

"He'll wake up after a while," laughed Eph Somers.

After indulging in a second ice cream soda the submarine boys started down the street toward the Farnum shipyard where the Pollard boats were built.

As they passed a street corner they heard a cautious:

"Hss -- sst!"

"Now, who threw that our way?" demanded the irrepressible Eph, turning swiftly. Then he added, in a tone so low that only his comrades could hear:

"Say, fellows, I'll bet that cost something!"

"That" was, a rather undersized little man, of perhaps thirty. Dark of hair, and sparkling of eye, the stranger's rather pallid face was partly covered, in front, by a short goatee, of the French "imperial" sort, and a moustache whose points were waxed out in fierce military fashion.

It was the stranger's apparel that had attracted Eph's notice particularly. The stranger was arrayed almost exquisite fashion; his clothes were of finest texture and latest Parisian type. His little, pointed shoes were almost as dainty as a girl's. Though the day was warm the stranger was gloved, and handled a cane in the head of which a handsome amethyst shone.

"I wonder how that got through the custom house?" was Eph Somers's next undertoned question.

"Ah, good morning, gentlemen," greeted the stranger, coming toward them, all smiles and bows. "Av I have not med ze mistake, zen I am address ze torpedo boys."

"Right-o," drawled Eph. "Regular human torpedoes, as touchy as gun-cotton. Why, I am due to explode this moment!"

Though the stranger looked puzzled at first, his face rapidly broke into a cordial smile.

"Oh, ah! I understand. You mek what is call ze American joke, eh? You have little fun wiz me."

The Frenchman, for that he unmistakably was, laughed in the utmost good humor. The boys found themselves much inclined to like this stranger.

"Now, young gentlemen," continued the Frenchman, "I am ze Chevalier Gari d'Ouray."

"Glad to meet you, Chev," volunteered Eph, with suspicious amiability, holding out his hand, which the Frenchman took daintily. "I'm a 'shoveleer' myself, and this awkward, gawky looking boy with me is our engineer."

Eph had a tight grip on the stranger's hand, by this time, and was surely making it interesting for the Frenchman. The Chevalier d'Ouray was doing his best to retain his politeness, but Somers's hearty grip hurt the foreigner's soft little hand.

"What can we do for you, Chev?" demanded Eph, holding to the Frenchman's hand so persistently that Hastings gave his friend a sharp nudge in the back.

"Let us go somewhere," urged the Frenchman. "Some place were we can sit down and have ze talk about important matters. I have ze message for you zat I cannot deliver upon ze street."

"Now, don't say, please," begged Eph, "that you have heard we are wanted in the French Navy."

The Chevalier d'Ouray looked intensely astonished.

"Parbleu! You are one marvel!" gasped the Frenchman. "You read my most secret thought. But yes! You have made ze one right guess. However, I cannot more say upon ze street. Let us go somewhere."

"All right," nodded Eph. "You go along, now, and we'll be along in an hour."

"Wiz pleasure," nodded the chevalier, eagerly. "But we're shall I go?"

"Anywhere you like," suggested Eph, cordially.

"But, zen, how will you know w'ere I am to be found?"

"Oh, we'll take a chance on that," proposed Eph, carelessly.

"But, unless I am able to say, now, w'ere I shall be -- " the Frenchman started to argue.

"We'll guess the meeting place as well as we did your errand," proposed Eph.

"Ten thousan' thanks!" cried, the chevalier. "Yet, for fear we mek ze one mistek, suppose I say -- "

Eph Somers had struck such a streak of "guying" nonsense that Jack Benson felt called upon to interpose, for he and Hal both liked the twinkling eyes and good-humored face of this dandified little Frenchman.

"Pardon me, sir," Jack accordingly broke in, "but, if we happened to guess your errand, it was because we have just gotten away from the agent of another government."

"How? Is zat posseeble?" cried the Chevalier d'Ouray, a disappointed look coming into his face.

"Yes; it's true," nodded Jack.

"But you did not come to any terms wiz him?"

"Oh, no!"

"Ah, zen, ze coast is steel clear," cried the little Frenchman, delightedly. "So, as to w'ere we can meet and mek ze one talk -- "

"We can get that all over with, right here," Jack replied. "We can make you the same answer that we gave the other man. We are Americans, and would never think of serving any other flag, even in peace time. Chevalier, I can save your time by telling you that any arrangement to engage our services away from the United States would be utterly hopeless."

"But ze money -- " began the Frenchman, protestingly.

"There isn't money enough across the Atlantic to hire us," Jack answered, bluntly.

"And ze honneur -- "

"Honor? What would that word afterwards mean to Americans, Chevalier, after they had left their own country to serve another?"

The Chevalier d'Ouray began to look as though he realized he had a harder task before him than he had expected.

"So you see, sir," Jack went on, "it will not be in the least worth your while to try to tempt us. Come what will or may, we are under the American flag for life. You yourself, Chevalier, wouldn't leave the French flag to serve this country, Great Britain or Germany."

"No; but zat is deeferent, for I, monsieur, am French."

"And we are American," Jack responded.

"I will leave you, now, zen, gentlemen," replied the Frenchman, in a tone of disappointment. "But I shall not go away before to-morrow. If you change ze mind -- or weesh to hear w'at I have to mek ze offer -- "

"Thank you," nodded Jack. "But don't waste any more time on us, Chevalier. And now -- good-bye!"

The Chevalier d'Ouray shook hands with them all most gallantly. Eph felt somewhat ashamed of his late nonsense, and, to prove it, hit the Chevalier d'Ouray a friendly slap on one shoulder that set the Frenchman to coughing.

"Say," muttered Jack, as the three now hurried along the street, "I begin to wish I had a good umbrella."

"Humph! You'd look great with one," retorted Hal. "You, who have stood on the platform deck of a submarine for hours, steering unconcernedly, when the skies were trying to drown you."

"But I feel," remonstrated Jack, "that it's soon going to rain foreign agents. I'd like to get in out of the international wet."

"Oh, we won't see any more of these fellows," smiled Hal.

"Now, there's just where I believe you're wrong, messmate," Jack contended. "These foreign governments hire detectives to watch each other. When we hear from one, we're likely to hear from the whole lot at once. Look around you, Eph. Do you see a Jap anywhere?"

"Not a solitary jiu-jitsu fiend," responded Eph, after halting and staring both ways in turn along the street.

"Well, Japan is about due," laughed Benson. "And now, let's get in through the gate of the shipyard. If any more of these foreign agents show up -- well, there are two boats in the harbor that are in commission. We'll find an excuse to put to sea in one of them."

"Just the youngsters I was going out to try to find," hailed Grant Andrews, foreman of the submarine construction work, as he hurried across the yard. "Mr. Farnum told me to get out and find you. He'd have sent some one else, but I guess the business is rather on the quiet."

"Is he in his office?" queried Jack.

"Yes."

"Thank you; we'll go right in, then."

"Now I wonder what country it is whose agent has gotten hold of Mr. Farnum?" asked Eph, plaintively.

"Nonsense!" mocked Jack.

"That's what we try to tell 'em all," mocked Eph. "But the Germans are the hardest."

All three of the submarine boys were laughing so heartily, as they entered the shipbuilder's private office that Jacob Farnum, a youngish looking man to be at the head of so large a manufacturing plant, glanced up quickly.

"What's the joke, boys?" he asked. "I haven't had a laugh since I pounded my thumbnail with a sledge-hammer."

Captain Jack Benson quickly detailed the meetings with Radberg and d'Ouray.

"The Frenchman didn't look a bit like a 'shovelee' either," muttered Eph. "If anything, that looked more in the German's line."

"Well, you'll have a chance to get rid of nonsense, now, for a while," went on Mr. Farnum, after having enjoyed a few laughs with the boys. "I've some serious business in hand for you, and the time has come."

That was like the shipbuilder. Whatever he was planning, at any time, he kept strictly to himself until the time came to put the plan into operation.

"There's quite an important little job for you up at Craven's Bay," continued Mr. Farnum. "You know, there are important fortifications there, because the Navy people expect, in wartime, to use Craven's Bay as a possibly important naval station and shelter for vessels that have to put in. Now, for some time the Army engineer officers have been perfecting a system of submarine mines for the bay. The engineers have a problem on hand as to whether an enemy's submarine boats could sneak into the bay and blow up the submarine mines before the Army woke up to the danger."

"There's a chance that that could be done," nodded Jack, musingly.

"Jest so," nodded Mr. Farnum. "So I want you to go up in one of the boats. To-morrow the engineer officers at that station will test it out with you whether a submarine can destroy the mines, or the mines could be made to destroy the submarine boats."

"Then the Army engineer officers will use dummy submarine mines, I hope," broke in Eph.

"Oh, of course," nodded Mr. Farnum. "Now, the trip to Craven's Bay is only an eight-hour sail at a good gait, so you won't really need to start until after dark to-night."

"I believe I'd rather start now, though, and go at less speed," suggested Jack, thoughtfully.

"That's just as you please, of course," nodded the shipbuilder.

"It will take us out on the water, for one thing," Captain Jack continued, "and we've been growing stale on shore, of late." Then he added, whimsically: "Besides, if the agents of any more foreign governments show up, they won't find us here."

"And there's a Jap just about due now," grimaced Eph.

"Take Williamson with you, for use in the engine room," advised Mr. Farnum. "That will allow you to take the boat through with two watches above and below. Which boat will you take?"

"The 'Spitfire,' unless you'd rather have us take the other one," young Benson replied.

"Take the 'Spitfire,' by all means," nodded the owner.

Twenty minutes later, Williamson having been found, the crew was all ready for the start for Craven's Bay.

Eph and Williamson cast off from moorings while Hal Hastings, down below at the gasoline motors, started the twin propellers as soon as Jack Benson, at the deck wheel, signaled for speed ahead.

Right after the start, Williamson, a grown man and machinist, dropped below. Eph Somers stood beside the young submarine captain.

For some minutes both boys gazed out over the waters. Then Eph remarked:

"Well, we got away without being overhauled by a Jap or a Russian, didn't we?"

"I don't know," smiled Jack, unsuspectingly. "See that launch over to port? Hanged if she doesn't seem to be putting toward us."

"She does," admitted Eph, solemnly. "Oh, well, with a few more turns of the screw we can easily get away from that launch."

For some moments Captain Jack paid no especial heed to the launch bearing down upon them on the port side. He noted only, at the distance, that the launch contained two men. Presently, however, as the launch came nearer, Captain Benson made a discovery.

"Eph," he gasped, "look over there! Are my eyes going back on me, or is that a Japanese in the bow of the launch?"

"Japanese?" gasped Eph Somers, in turn. "Nothing but!"

Eph made a swift dive for the box that contained the signal flags used in the international marine signaling code. Moving swiftly, young Somers selected the two flags representing "N" and "D." These he strung to the halliard of the short signal mast forward. Nor was he ahead of time, for by this time the launch had described part of a circle, and was coming up alongside.

In the bow of the launch stood the Japanese, smiling, and holding a megaphone in his hand.

"Submarine, a-ho-o-o-oy!" came the hail. "Will you slow down? I have something to say to you."

Up flew the signal flags, fluttering in the breeze. Then Eph snatched up a megaphone, holding the smaller end to his mouth.

"Launch ahoy!" he shouted back. "Just tell your folks that you saw our signal!"

The Japanese read the fluttering flags, then called back:

"N.D.? What does that mean?"

Hoarsely Eph Somers bellowed back:

"Nothing doing!"



Chapter III

The Man Who Marked Charts


It was a little before midnight when the "Spitfire" came to anchor in Craven's Bay, after having been piloted to anchorage by a quartermaster's tug that put off from Fort Craven on signal.

"Fine place, if your searchlight is keen enough," yawned Eph, gazing off into the darkness.

Eph and Williamson had slept through the evening, after supper, and were now to take the night watch tricks, the machinist's deck watch beginning at once and lasting until four in the morning.

About an hour after daylight, Eph Somers deserted the deck, except for occasional intervals. After a while the odor of coffee and steak was in the air. Then, snatching up a bugle, Somers sounded the reveille tumultuously through the small cabin of the submarine torpedo boat.

Not long did the other members of the crew take to turn out and dress. They came out into the cabin to find Eph trotting between table and galley, putting things on the table.

"This seems like old times," chuckled Williamson, as he seated himself with the boys.

"Yes; because you don't have to cook," grimaced Eph. "Wait until after breakfast, when you have to clear away and wash dishes!"

"Even so, I have the best of it," laughed the machinist, good-humoredly. "I have something in my stomach to work on."

"I always do get the tough end of any job, don't I?" grumbled Eph, resignedly, then buried his troubles under a plateful of steak and fried potatoes.

"You hoisted the signal, 'N.D.', yesterday afternoon," laughed Captain Jack, laying down his coffee cup. "If you don't watch out, Eph, I'll hoist the 'N.G.' flag over this table."

"Breakfast no good?" demanded Eph, looking much offended.

"No; 'N.G.' will stand for 'no grouch.'"

Somers joined heartily in the laugh that followed.

Just as they were finishing a really good meal, for which every breakfaster had a royal, salt-water appetite, a steamer's whistle was heard, not far off to port.

"I'll bet that's the Army tug!" muttered Captain Jack, rising hastily from the table. "Tell you what, fellows, we've got to begin to have something like Navy discipline aboard this craft. In that case, we'd have had breakfast over an hour ago."

Jack was off up the steps as though pursued. Eph went after him as soon as that youth with the sun-kissed hair had time to pull on his visored cap and button his blouse. No matter what the need of haste, Somers never appeared on deck looking less natty than a veteran naval officer.

Forward, on the tug, stood a major of engineers, a young lieutenant beside him.

"Good morning, Mr. Benson," hailed Major Woodruff. "We're going to try to come in close enough to put a gang-plank over. Can you take a bow line from us?"

"Yes, sir," Captain Jack saluted the Army officer, and Eph hurried to receive the line.

In less than two minutes Major Woodruff and Lieutenant Kline were on the platform deck of the "Spitfire."

"This is the first one of your craft we've seen," declared the major, as Eph cast off the bow line, and the tug backed water. "Will you show us over?"

This the submarine boys gladly did, as the Army shares with the Navy in the defense of the country.

"You see what you have to do, Kline," said Major Woodruff, presently. Then the older officer turned to Jack to say:

"Mr. Benson, since Mr. Farnum has been kind enough to place you and the boat at our orders, Kline is going to remain on board, today, during the tests. He will give Mr. Somers whatever orders are necessary in order to make the tests most successful."

"Why not give the orders to me, sir?" Jack asked.

"Why, you see, Mr. Benson," replied the major, "I plan for you to be on shore, out on the neck, to make certain observations regarding the work of your craft. Those observations you will turn in to me."

"Very good, sir. The neck, I take it, is the narrow strip of land that separates this part of the bay from the ocean?"

"Quite right, Mr. Benson."

It was to be observed that the major, like naval officers, addressed Jack by the title of "mister," not "captain." This was because, in the military service, Army and Navy titles are not recognized unless conferred by government appointment or commission. Hence, though young Benson was "captain" to his crew and to civilians, officers of the United Service could address, him only as "mister."

"The neck, Mr. Benson," continued Major Woodruff, "is the land best suited for watching our work from to-day. And now, I will state what the object of to-day's tests is. This morning our tug will be engaged in planting certain submarine mines. Mr. Somers will watch our work of planting. Of course the mines will contain no explosives. You young men have, I understand, solved the problem of leaving a submarine boat while it lies on the bottom? You are also able to enter the submarine again from the surface?"

"Quite right, Major," Jack nodded.

"Then, if Mr. Somers watches the planting of the dummy mines, he will have the same advantage as would the commander of an enemy's submarine in knowing where our mines are planted. We shall plant four of them, this morning, and Mr. Somers, after seeing each mine planted, will mark down its position on a chart of the bay. He will then take the boat outside, enter under water, and, without touching any of our mines, while handling the boat, will see if he can stop close by and cut the connecting wires."

"If your mines contain no explosive, Major," Eph inquired, "how are you going to be able to tell whether I collide gently with one of your submarine mines?"

"We shall know at once," smiled Major Woodruff. "If you should collide with one, you will cause, a bell to be rung in the camera obscura room over at the fort. The bell that rings will show us which one of the mines you touched against."

The "camera obscura," as used at a modern fort, is in itself a most interesting contrivance. While no elaborate description of it can be attempted here, it will be enough to explain to the reader that, in the camera room, which is darkened, is a large white table covered with white oil-cloth, or other white substance. On this white surface is drawn a plan of the harbor to be defended. The position of each mine sunk under the water's surface is indicated on this map against the white background. Each mine is numbered. Overhead is a revolving shutter, somewhat on the plan of a camera's lens shutter. This shutter, which turns a reflecting lens on the harbor, can be turned in any direction. Any vessel in the harbor can thus be "caught," and its reflection, in miniature, thrown upon the white map surface.

Suppose an enemy's battleship to be entering the harbor. The camera obscura shutter, in being turned about, suddenly throws upon the white screen-map the miniature picture of the hostile battleship. Henceforth the officer in command sees to it that the shutter is so operated as to keep the image of the battleship always upon the white screen map. Thus the course of the battleship is followed -- absolutely. At any second the exact position of that battleship in the harbor is known.

Let us suppose that the officer in command at the white, map-covered table finds that the battleship is gradually approaching the position indicated in the harbor as mine number nineteen; as the officer watches the moving image of the battleship, he sees it going closer and closer to the exact spot numbered nineteen or the white map.

"Be ready, Sergeant," calls the officer, warningly, to a non-commissioned officer who stands before a board on the wall on which are several electric push-buttons, each numbered.

"Yes, sir," replies the sergeant.

At this moment the officer sees the image of the battleship passing fairly over the dot on the white map that is numbered nineteen.

"Fire nineteen, Sergeant," calls the Army officer in charge.

The non-commissioned officer quickly presses electric button numbered nineteen. As he does so the electric current is sent flashing, perhaps along four or five miles of insulated wire on the bottom of the harbor. At the other end of that wire is submarine mine number nineteen. In a breathless instant the current traverses the whole length of the wire. The spark has reached the gun-cotton! There is a dull, booming sound; a great column of water shoots up from the surface. In the midst of the commotion the enemy's battleship is rent, and all on board, perhaps killed. The cool, dry-eyed Army officer bending over the white screen-map sees all this scene of horror depicted under the white surface beneath his eyes. He knows that submarine mine number nineteen, planted out there in the harbor, has done its duty in protecting this portion of the coast of the United States.

Here, at Fort Craven, it was desired to find whether an enemy's submarine boat could creep in, below the surface, find the mine, whose location was already known through spies, and effectively cut the firing wire. If this could be done, then, in war-time, it might be that the sergeant at the wall-board would press the button in vain. No explosion would follow. With the current thus cut off, the officer bending over the white screen would not see the miniature reproduction of the destruction of the enemy's battleship.

A submarine torpedo boat, coming into a harbor underneath the surface, is not pictured on the white table under the camera obscura. So it was desired to see whether Eph could come in, knowing the exact locations of each of the four dummy mines, and quickly cut the firing electric wires. If this could be done, the Army would have to revise its method of firing such submarine mines by means of the camera obscura detection.

As Eph listened to the explanation his mind began to revolve plans rapidly whereby he hoped to succeed in cutting the mine wires.

"You will keep sufficiently below the surface, too, Mr. Somers," continued Major Woodruff. "We do not want you so close to the surface of the water that a ripple would show on the camera obscura table. You cannot, of course, rise and use your periscope to see where you are. Even the periscope would betray you."

The "periscope" is a device also of the nature of a camera obscura. In the case of the periscope a narrow metallic tube is thrust above the water and the shutter turned about, reflecting all the scene about on a white-covered table in the boat's cabin.

"I think I can beat you, Major," smiled Eph.

"I certainly hope you can," replied Major Woodruff. "That is what we want to see today. We shall watch closely, too, and see whether any plan can be devised for beating a submarine torpedo boat at its own game."

Lieutenant Kline was to remain on board the "Spitfire," both in order to watch the work and to give Eph any instructions that might be necessary in order to make the tests more conclusive.

"If you will come along with me, then, Mr. Benson," suggested Major Woodruff, "I will put you ashore on the neck. On the way over I will give you your instructions."

As the tug came alongside again Jack followed the major over the gang plank to the deck of the other craft.

"Good-bye, Captain Somers," called Jack, laughingly. "Give a fine account of yourself as an enemy of the United States!"

"Oh, you -- " began Eph, flaring red, but wisely cutting his speech short.

On the way over to the strip of land known as the "neck" Major Woodruff managed to make his instructions wholly clear to young Benson.

"Now, you know what to watch for, and what observations, to report to me," finished the major of engineers, as the tug came to a stop. A small boat was lowered, and, in this, Captain Jack Benson was put on the desolate shore.

Then the tug went back over by the fort. Jack grew tired of waiting, for it was some two hours ere the tug finally left the ordinance wharf at Fort Craven.

It was warm out there, on the low, sandy cliffs, provided one got into a position sheltered from the ocean winds. So Jack, in the weariness of his waiting, threw himself down in a sheltered hollow.

Finding that the sun shone disagreeably in his eyes, the submarine boy pulled his cap forward over his face.

Then, in the course of a very few minutes, the inevitable happened. Jack Benson drifted off into sleep.

He awoke with a fearful start, for he had no idea how long he had slept. Yanking out his watch and noting the time, the submarine boy concluded that he had not been asleep more than twenty or thirty minutes.

"But I might just as easily have slept for hours," Benson reproached himself. "Then what a hero I'd have felt. Asleep on post!"

At that moment Jack Benson heard a faraway whistle, across the bay. Showing just the top of his head above a ridge of sand, Captain Jack saw the Army tug just pulling out from the dock across the bay.

But Jack saw something else, too, in that brief instant.

A slim, soldierly-looking man of perhaps thirty, tall and of naturally good carriage, was skulking along in front of the submarine boy, yet hidden from the bay by a sand ridge.

Under one arm the stranger carried a draughtsman's board and a book. A strap over one shoulder held a field-glass case.

"Where in blazes have I seen that chap before?" wondered Captain Jack Benson, staring hard. "For I have seen him -- somewhere. I'd declare that under oath."

Figure, carnage and face all strangely haunted the submarine boy, who crouched lower, watching.

"By the great turret gun! He's skulking for a reason!" muttered Benson. "Is he spying on the mine-planting? I wonder? Yes! That must be his work! Long-legs, I'll keep my eyes on you!"

The stranger hastened along for perhaps a quarter of a mile further. Then he threw himself down on the sand, choosing a position in which he could lie flat, his head fairly well hidden behind a low ridge of sand.

Unslinging the field-glass, the stranger brought it to his eyes, closely watching the progress of the tug.

"Ha-ha!" muttered watchful Jack, who had followed, keeping behind another sand ridge. "So, sir!"

The minutes passed, though Jack Benson was so absorbed in watching this long stranger that the boy had but the vaguest notions of the flight of time.

The tug had halted, now. A great crane at the bow swung around, and a submarine mine hung poised in the air. Then, with a rattle of chains not audible at the distance, the mine was slowly lowered until it touched on bottom.

While this was going on, the long-legged stranger, wholly absorbed in his own work, made some observations and some hurried calculations. Then he pulled the drawing-board toward him, jotting down a point.

Jack Benson, standing stealthily, got a good look, for the first time, at the top of that drawing board.

"A chart of the bay, of course," muttered Benson, savagely, between his teeth. "The fellow is marking down the exact position of that mine!"

Still, the submarine boy did nothing to betray his own presence. He watched and wondered. The thought struck him that this long-legged one might be an officer of the Army, on observation duty like the submarine boy himself.

"But that isn't right; I'm sure it isn't," decided young Benson, quickly. "If they fellow were here on honest business, he wouldn't have sneaked out here to get in position. Besides, I have a vague remembrance of this fellow, and I don't connect him with anything honest!"

The Army tug, out on the bay, was now engaged in planting a second mine. Again the slim stranger was all attention. When the crane began to lower the mine, a second mark was made on the chart on the drawing board.

Now, once more, the fellow lay at full length, watching intently off over the bay. At his right hand lay drawing-board, the book and the field-glasses.

"I'll give him a little excitement!" grimaced Jack Benson, stealing softly forward.

Suddenly the boy swooped down upon drawing board, book and glasses, then, with a panting whoop, wheeled and started off on a dead run.

"Here you -- stop!" yelled the slim one, hoarse with sudden anger.

Like a flash the stranger was up and in pursuit. As he quickened in the chase this stranger drew a revolver that glinted in the sun.



Chapter IV

Jack's Queer Lot Of Loot


"Stop, thief!"

Jack Benson only sped onward the faster.

"Halt, you young rascal!" roared the long-legged one, in pursuit.

"The fellow who can call names like that, under the circumstances, has no sense of humor!" chuckled the submarine boy, inwardly.

"Drop that chart and book!" panted the one in chase. "You're stealing government property!"

"Yes, but which government?" Jack shot back at his pursuer.

"Are you going to stop?"

Jack's answer was to increase his burst of speed slightly.

"Then I'm going to fire!" came the warning. Glancing over his shoulder the submarine boy saw the long-legged one still running after him. At the same time the pursuer was raising his revolver, sighting.

Jack felt a little shiver. He had never been suspected of being a coward, yet he was willing to admit that he didn't want to feel a chunk of lead plowing its way through him.

"Last word to halt!" yelled the pursuer, in an ugly tone.

"Fire, then!" dared Jack Benson.

Crack! Whizz-zz! Chug! The weapon was discharged promptly. Jack, still in flight, heard the bullet whistle by him. Then it struck the sand, fifty feet ahead, throwing up a spurt of the fine particles.

"That was for a caution. The next shot will be to hit!" panted the pursuer.

"I wonder if you can do it?" Jack taunted backward over his shoulder.

There was method in the submarine boy's tactics. He hoped, by making the stranger angry, to spoil his aim.

Crack! The bullet sped by, fanning the fugitive's face. The close aim, however, had the reverse of the effect expected by the marksman. It roused all the submarine boy's anger. He might be hit, but he would stop, now, only if a bullet laid him low.

Two more shots sped after the fugitive. Their aim was too close for comfort, though not true enough to score a hit. Each of the shots sounded a bit further back, too.

"He's getting winded," gritted the running submarine boy. "With his long legs that chap ought to get over ground faster than I. The difference is that that fellow is out of condition, and my hard work keeps me about up to the mark of condition all the time. He -- "

Crack! Jack happened to turn, just as the fellow fired, and the boy was able to see that the bullet struck the ground behind him.

"Out of range!" clicked Benson. "What's the good of carrying a pocket revolver for service work? Now, if he had a dozen shots more left he would be wasting his cartridges to fire at me."

In fact, it was plain enough that the pursuer had given up the chase for the time being. Not only was he out of range of his quarry, but the long-legged one lacked the wind to keep on on foot.

"Say, what a fool I'd have been, to give up this plunder!" cried Jack, mockingly. "That chap couldn't catch me; he couldn't hit me. So I've gotten away with the stuff he was so anxious to have -- and which the Army, I'll bet, would a thousand times rather he didn't have!"

"Now, how am I going to get back to the Army people?" wondered young Benson, slowing down to a walk, though keeping a vigilant lookout to the rear. "I don't want to walk something like a million miles to find a place from which I can get across the bay."

It was desolate country, over here. Jack and the long-legged one, well to his rear, now, might be the only human beings within some miles. The outlook was not an encouraging one.

"Say! Wow! Whoop! Blazes!" uttered Captain Jack, suddenly. "Now, I remember Long-legs! Millard was the name he gave when he came to us, at Dunhaven, last Fall. He was the chap who wanted to work on the submarine construction. Said he'd do any kind of work, but Grant Andrews put him in a separate shed, sorting and counting steel rivets, and never let him get near a submarine boat. That's the same fellow -- Millard. Or, at least, that was the name he gave them. But, when Millard found he wasn't going to do anything but take care of rivets, he threw up the job four days after. He had pretended to be mighty hard up, too, and wanted work at any sort of wages."

Jack's face began to glow as he remembered more and more of the brief career of Millard at Dunhaven.

"And Dave Pollard, when he was over in Washington later, said he ran across Millard living at the swell Arlington Hotel! Millard had a different name in Washington, and refused to recognize Mr. Pollard -- said there was some mistake. By hookey! There isn't any mistake. Millard was trying to steal submarine secrets at Dunhaven, and now he's trying to map out harbor defenses in Craven Bay!"

Again Captain Jack glanced backward over his shoulder, but Millard was no longer in sight.

"He knew me, probably, in a flash," muttered the submarine boy. "I'm sorry I didn't recognize him sooner."

Having gotten his wind back, Jack broke into a run again. Just because Millard had dropped out of sight was no reason for taking chances of a sudden swoop from the stranger.

For some five minutes Jack Benson jogged along. Then he came in sight of a little semicove. Here lay a small motor launch, whose skipper, somewhat of the fisherman type, was busily engaged with the engine.

"Say," hailed young Benson, running down to the water's edge, "can you start your engine at once?"

"I reckon," nodded the fisherman, looking up.

"Run your bow in, so I can get aboard, then," directed Captain Jack, briskly. "I want to get over to where the Army tug is at work. Do you know where that is -- over to the southeast ward?"

"Yep," nodded the fisherman.

"I'll give you three dollars to take me over there in a hustle," proposed Jack.

"You're easy enough," grinned the man in the boat, starting the engine, then lightly driving the bow of the boat upon the sand. "But you'll pay me in advance."

"Certainly," nodded the submarine boy, taking out the money, as he stepped into the boat, and handing it over.

"Now, pick up that boathook, and shove off, and we'll start," added the master of the little launch.

As Jack snatched up the boathook he caught, sight of Millard, three hundred yards away, just coming in sight on a run.

"You'd better get your engine going fast," warned Jack, "or that fellow headed this way will make trouble for us both. He's carrying a gun."

The skipper took just one look at Millard, who was racing along, pistol in hand, and was prepared to believe his present passenger. That little launch stole out of the cover under its reverse gear until the master of the craft thought himself far enough from shore for him to be out of range of Millard's weapon.

"Who is that feller?" asked the fisherman, when satisfied that he was at a safe distance and increasing it every instant.

"From the way he's dancing up and down, it looks as if he were crazy," laughed Jack, coolly.

"What's his particular specialty in craziness?" asked the master of the launch, looking shrewdly at the submarine boy.

"Now, see here," protested Benson, good humoredly, "as I understand it, you're paid to take me over to the Army tug -- not to ask questions. Am I right?"

"You're right," nodded the fisherman, then surveyed the boy's uniform curiously.

"Your uniform looks like you was in the Navy?" suggested the man at the stern of the boat.

"Does it?" queried Jack.

"Are you in the Navy?" persisted the boat man.

"Just now, I'm serving with the Army," Captain Jack replied, evasively.

"Are you -- " started in the human interrogation point, anew.

"See here," broke in the submarine boy, "I thought we agreed you had just one job to do for me, and that questions formed no part of it."

"That's right," agreed the fisherman. "But say, there's just one question I wish you'd answer me. Are you -- "

"No!" interrupted Benson, decisively. "I am not. I never was."

"You didn't let me finish," complained the man.

"Wait until I'm out of the boat," proposed the submarine boy. "Then ask all the questions you like. Maybe you're paid to ask questions, but I'm paid to hold my mouth shut."

It went a good deal against the submarine boy's grain to be so brusque with an inquisitive stranger, but there seemed to be no other defense.

"Oh, well, if you're ashamed of your business -- " retorted the fisherman, falling into a sullen silence.

This turn of affairs just suited Benson. He compressed his lips and sat back, looking out across the bay at the tug, which was at work some three miles away.

"Can you put on a little more speed?" inquired Jack.

"No," answered the fisherman, sulkily. "Doin' all the gait she'll kick now."

So Jack possessed his soul in patience until the wheezy little launch had covered the whole distance.

While still some two hundred yards off Jack caught sight of Major Woodruff coming out of the after cabin of the tug.

"Ahoy, Major!" yelled the submarine boy, holding his hands to his lips. "Perhaps you'd better stop work until I've reported."

Then the launch ran in alongside, and Jack stepped up to the deck of the tug, holding tightly to the loot he had taken from Millard.

The master of the launch manifested a disposition to hang about in the near vicinity, until curtly ordered away by Major Woodruff.

"I suppose you thought, Major, that I took a good deal upon myself in advising you to suspend work," Jack hinted. "Yet I've something to show you, and much to tell you. And I'm wagering an anchor to a fish-hook that you'll be glad you stationed me over on that neck of sand."

Major Woodruff led the way back into the cabin. There he examined the chart, with a start of astonishment.

"The fellow was marking down all our mine positions," came savagely from between the Army officer's teeth.

Then he picked up the book.

"A nice little assortment of notes on matters of military interest along this coast," muttered the soldier. "Your long-legged fellow has been busy at other points than Craven's Bay."

Then, closing the book with a snap, Major Woodruff looked keenly at the submarine boy as he remarked:

"Mr. Benson, I think our present submarine tests can be well suspended. We have a much more important task ahead of us -- to catch this impudent thief of military secrets! And, in this undertaking, Benson, you can be of the greatest sort of help!"



Chapter V

Sighting The Enemy


"You can count on me, sir," declared Captain Jack Benson, eagerly.

"I can count on every one of you submarine boys, can't I?" asked Major Woodruff, thoughtfully.

"You can count on us," declared Benson, earnestly, "as though every one of us were sworn into the service and had a record of being tried and tested!"

In an instant after speaking the submarine boy realized that this must have had a boastful sound. So he added, quickly:

"Please don't suspect me, Major, of being a braggart. But Hal, Eph and I have always taken our work with seriousness. We have always acted just as though the Flag depended upon us for its protection. We have the desire, every minute of our lives, to be great Americans -- that is, great in our devotion to the Flag, even if we cannot be great in deeds."

"By Jove, I believe you!" cried Major Woodruff, reaching forward and clasping Jack's hand tightly in his own.

The major went on heartily:

"No, no, Benson, I don't consider you boastful. You're talking the way I heard some youngsters talk when I was a boy. It's refreshing and encouraging to hear you talk that way. Do you know, boy, when we older fellows sometimes get to thinking of the country's past glories, we wonder whether the boys of to-day are going to make such men as have carried the United States of America forward in the past? The thought makes us solemn and anxious. I suppose every man who is grown and on toward middle life has always, in every generation, wondered whether boys were as serious and dependable, as staunch and loyal as the boys of the day before yesterday. Look here, lad!"

Major Woodruff rose, stepping to the door aft and throwing it open. The stern of the tug was visible. From the pole that slanted out over the stern, hung the Stars and Stripes.

"You don't need to glance at that fine old bit of bunting more than a second, lad," continued the major, "before you feel all that it can ever make you feel. In your case, I believe the sight of the Flag is always an inspiration to you. I pray it is so with every boy who grows up in this country. But is it?"

Standing there before the Flag, Jack quietly doffed his cap.

"Thank you, Benson," acknowledged the major, also doffing his own cap. Then, closing the door, Major Woodruff stepped back to the table on which lay chart and book.

"This chart, Benson, shows what the rascal Millard, has been doing out on the neck. This book proves that he has been at work at some other points. The book doesn't tell much of the story, though. Of that I am certain. Millard, if he has been at work long, has compiled other notes in other written volumes. If so, then he has also made other charts of our coast defenses. For what other government has he thus marked a series of charts with our secrets? And has Millard succeeded in getting other charts, and other books of notes, off to the foreign government he is serving -- or has he them hidden somewhere in this country, awaiting his chance to take the results of his spying out of the United States?"

"I wish I knew!" muttered Jack.

"I'm coming to the point," continued Major Woodruff, briskly. "Now, of course, when we discover evidence that spies of other governments are at work along our lines of national defenses, the first thing we try to do is to catch these foreign agents and all the material they have succeeded in getting together."

Major Woodruff, who was becoming considerably excited, paused to light a cigar, ere he continued, more slowly:

"Now, you and your two friends, Benson, know this fellow Millard. You will spot him instantly, wherever you go. I shall communicate with Washington, at once, by means of a telegram in cipher. The War Department will order me to use all speed in catching Millard, and in finding out where he keeps his other stolen records. Men and money will be used in running down this fellow. Yet you and your two chums should be in the front ranks of pursuit, for you will know him the instant you lay eyes on him."

"You want me to take my friends ashore, then, Major, and lay the 'Spitfire' up?"

"By no means," answered Major Woodruff, decisively. "In reality operations will be suspended at this point until we have run Millard down. Yet we must have the appearance of being as busy as ever. The submarine will hover about, and this tug will be busy, apparently, in laying the bay with mines. You have a fourth man on your boat?"

"Yes, sir; Williamson, the machinist."

"Can he run the engines all right?"

"As well as any of us, Major."

"Then I will put aboard a man who can steer. Thus the 'Spitfire' will be seen moving about the bay, and apparently at work. I'll also put aboard a guard of a sergeant and three or four soldiers of the engineer corps, and they'll guard that boat from harm with their lives. That will leave all three of you young officers of the 'Spitfire' free for shore duty."

"It will, Major. And now, sir, what is that shore duty to be?"

"Simply to locate Millard. He may be at one of the hotels in Radford."

Radford was the busy, important little port four miles farther up the bay.

"He's likely to be somewhere in Radford, anyway," nodded young Benson.

"Wherever the fellow is found, he must be seized at once," continued Major Woodruff, warmly. "Any policeman will seize him on your request. I will give each of you three a written statement that you have been asked to locate Millard and have him arrested. If you run across Millard anywhere, turn him over to a policeman, then show my written authorization. On that the police authorities will hold the scoundrel and notify the military authorities. Then, once we have Millard out at Fort Craven, securely under lock and key, by authority from Washington, we will make every effort under the sun to locate his charts and notebooks."

"Why, the work you want us to do is going to be easy enough," murmured Captain Jack.

"It is going to be easy, if you succeed in finding the fellow, and in turning him over to a policeman," replied Major Woodruff. "And, by the way, I have just remembered that Lieutenant Ridder, of the engineer corps, reported last night from a former station in the West. No one around here will know him. Good enough! I'll have Ridder get into citizen's clothes and go about with you three. He can give you instructions on any point about which you're in doubt."

"We ought to run that rascal down, sir," answered Jack Benson, rising. "Unless -- "

"Unless what, Benson?"

"Why, sir, unless he's more clever than a rascal usually succeeds in being. I haven't lived so very long, Major Woodruff, but, from what little I've seen of the world, it has struck me that the cleverest scoundrels are always just a little less smart, in the end, than the average of honest men."

"I hope you'll prove it, in this case," replied the major. "And now, to signal your boat. We'll run both craft in at the ordnance dock at Fort Craven."

A couple of miles away Eph Somers was slowly running the submarine back and forth over the water in seeming aimlessness. In response to sharp blasts from the whistle of the Army tug, the "Spitfire" was seen to turn and head for the tug.

"Mr. Somers, you will follow in our wake," shouted Major Woodruff, when the two craft were within hailing distance of each other. "We will show you where to make fast at the ordnance dock."

"Very good, sir," Eph responded, with a salute.

A little later in the forenoon both boats docked at the water front of Fort Craven.

"You'll come up to my quarters, now, and meet Lieutenant Ridder," announced the Major, when he had gathered the submarine boys together, and when Jack had given necessary explanations to Williamson.

"You may not see us again, for a few days," Jack informed the machinist, in winding up.

"That won't surprise me so very much, either," laughed the machinist. "Things are always happening, where you are, and mysteries have ceased to puzzle me."

"Have you young men ever been on a military post before?" inquired Major Woodruff, as he led them up from the dock.

"Never sir," replied Jack. "We have seen considerable of Navy life, but this is the first time we've ever been at a fort."

"You don't see much about this place, do you," laughed the engineer officer, "that makes you think of a fort?"

"Not much," Benson admitted.

"Yet we have a fighting plant here that could prevent a big fleet, indeed, from getting far up the bay at the important cities beyond. That is," Woodruff continued, thoughtfully, in a low voice, "if the enemy, in advance of his coming here, doesn't know all about our defenses through the work of spies."

Just at the point near the dock, Fort Craven looked not unlike the yard of a big factory plant. Wagons going and coming constantly heightened this effect. Beyond, past the plain, on one side, Major Woodruff pointed out the barracks of the Coast Artillery, of the Engineers soldiers, and of the Infantry. There were also laborers' quarters, several office buildings, a hospital, a chapel, and two streets of cottages that served as quarters for the officers stationed at Fort Craven.

It was into one of these officers' streets that Major Woodruff soon led his three young companions. Admitting the boys to his home, the major took them to the library on the ground floor.

"Now, I'll telephone for Lieutenant Ridder to come over in citizen's dress," announced the major. "At the same time, I must advise Colonel Totten, who is commander of the post. He may come over here, or he may order us all over to headquarters."

Colonel Totten elected to come over to the major's quarters. He arrived just after Lieutenant Ridder, who proved to be a rather boyish looking young man, not long out of West Point.

The plans were quickly laid by which Lieutenant Ridder was to take an automobile up to Radford, going to one of the hotels and registering.

Jack and his two chums were to make the journey in another auto. They would go to still other hotels, perhaps to three different ones. At any moment when instructions were needed, any one of the three could call up Lieutenant Ridder on the telephone.

In addition, Major Woodruff gave each of the three submarine boys a written and signed authorization for them to call upon the police to seize Millard, if found, and hold the fellow for the United States military authorities.

"Now, you young men may start for Radford," continued the major. "Colonel Totten and I will busy ourselves with the despatches that must be sent to Washington about this affair. But I trust, lads, you will not fail to realize the importance of prompt success."

"It's a special duty to the Flag, sir," Captain Jack answered, simply.

The automobiles were waiting outside. Lieutenant Ridder was given a three minutes' start. Then the submarine boys followed after, in a second car.

As Radford was but four miles distant from the post the trip was not to be a long one.

"This is the sort of job that has me by the ears," glowed Eph Somers, enthusiastically. "I won't be selfish enough to say I hope to be the fellow to catch Millard. But, if he does stray my way, I hope I won't be idiot enough to let him slip through my fingers."

"I don't care if Lieutenant Ridder is the one who nabs him," remarked Hal, coolly. "All that I'm particular about is to see this foreign agent nabbed before he succeeds in getting any information out of the country."

The car that bore the boys was soon driving through the streets of Radford. Jack held in his hand a list of the better grade and middle-class hotels that Colonel Totten had given him.

"Which hotel are we going to first?" asked Hal.

"I don't know," uttered Jack, suddenly, sharply. "I know what I'm going to do, however."

Leaning slightly forward the young submarine captain prodded the chauffeur lightly, twice, in the back -- a signal that had been agreed upon at need.

In response, the chauffeur ran the car slowly in at the curb.

Captain Jack, opening the tonneau door, was quickly out on the sidewalk, without any need having risen for wholly stopping the car, which then shot forward again.

"Now, what on earth was that for?" demanded Eph Somers, as the car sped on.

"Don't look back," replied Hal.

"Why not?"

"Well, a certain party would see you looking at him."

"Who?"

"Why, Jack had the good luck to see Millard going along on the sidewalk. We've just passed the fellow!"

"Are we going to nab him?" demanded Somers, breathlessly.

"You'll have to leave that decision to good old Jack," chuckled Hal Hastings. "He's out there, dogging Millard from the rear. It's Jack Benson's affair just at this moment."

It was mighty hard for Eph to refrain from looking back. But he restrained his curiosity.



Chapter VI

Flank Movement And Rear Attack


When Jack Benson first touched the sidewalk, and the automobile glided on, leaving him in the wake of Millard, it was the young submarine captain's intention to follow his instructions to the letter.

Millard, having no especial reason of his own for feeling in danger, was walking along at a moderate gait, occasionally glancing into shop windows or gazing at the people whom he passed.

He did not look behind, so it was easy for Jack, less than half a block to the rear, and keeping close to the buildings, to follow without being detected.

"Hullo," muttered the submarine boy. "There's a policeman on the crossing at the next corner. In another moment our long-legged one will be safely in custody."

Feeling in his inner coat pocket for the written authorization, Benson's fingers touched the envelope.

"He's easily caught;" murmured the boy.

There is sometimes a big slip between a wish and its fulfillment. Just as Captain Jack was on the point of darting out into the street to hail the policeman a street car whizzed by. With a flying leap the policeman landed on the front platform and was whirled along the thoroughfare.

"Lesson number one about being too sure," grumbled disappointed young Benson. "However, we'll soon come upon another policeman."

Two blocks more were covered, however, without sighting a bluecoat. Jack even began to wonder how it would do to leap upon Millard, calling upon passing citizens to aid him until a policeman arrived.

"But that would be a two-edged sword, that might cut too keenly on the wrong side," reflected the submarine boy. "Millard would be sure to claim that I was assaulting him. It would look like that, too, and I'd probably get a thumping from the crowd, while Millard slipped away. Then he would be warned that he was wanted, and he'd make himself mighty scarce after that."

Still no policeman came into sight.

"Gracious!" muttered Jack Benson, suddenly. He had just glanced into a store's show window, where a mirror was set at an angle. The submarine boy, looking into that mirror, became aware that he could see people at a considerable distance behind him down the street.

"I wonder if Millard has been taking sights, too, and has had a peep at me, that way?" muttered the boy.

At the next corner the long-legged one, after a brief look down the side street, turned into it.

"Now, that we're getting away from the main street there'll be far less chance of finding a police officer," sighed Jack, at last wholly discontented with luck.

Millard led without, apparently, ever thinking to glance back. He turned a second corner, into another small street, and kept on.

"This is getting more exciting," muttered the young trailer. "Yet all signs point to the fact that I've got to make the grab all by myself. I wonder if I can down that chap and get the upper hand of him? I don't mind a thumping, but I'd be sadly ashamed of myself to let the fellow get away from me."

Millard was walking briskly, now. Next, he turned sharply to the left.

"Ah!" Then Jack Benson shot swiftly forward on tip-toe, trying to make no noise as he ran.

For the long-legged one had, to all seeming, at the distance, wheeled and gone through the wall of a brick building.

Just an instant later, however, this impossible feat was explained. The submarine boy found himself at the street-end of a narrow alley between two brick buildings.

"He has gone into the rear house, at the end of the alleyway," decided Benson, peering down this narrow thoroughfare. "He has left the door partly open, too. I'll have to have a look-in."

As he stole down the alley-way Jack Benson was too sensible, and by this time, too much experienced in the ways of a rougher world, not to suspect that there might be some trap in that door partly open. "He may have seen me, and may have left that door open on purpose," Benson reflected. "He may be lying in wait for me, inside. Or else he may have left that door open, just to make me suspect a trap and keep out. In the meantime, he may be slipping through a door on the other side of the house, and sneaking away from me."

For a few seconds Jack Benson paused thoughtfully on the step just outside the door that was partly ajar.

"I may walk into a trap, by going inside, or I may be letting that wretch walk out of one by staying out here," wavered Benson, torn between two impulses.

Then, just as suddenly, this thought flashed through his mind:

"What you're doing is for the Flag! Never mind what happens to you, Jack Benson. Just rash in and say 'here goes'!"

There was not another second's hesitation. Jack Benson softly pushed the door far enough open to admit him. At the back of the hallway he saw stairs leading below.

"Basement stairs, with a rear basement door letting out on another alleyway!" suspected the submarine boy.

Though he had determined to be as reckless as seemed necessary in order to get quickly on the trail of the vanished one, Jack moved on tip-toe. He had all but reached the head of the stairs when a ground-floor door behind him opened noiselessly. The long-legged one, who had an equally good reach of arm, thrust out a noose that fell over the boy's head.

"Ug-g-g-gh!" rattled in Jack Benson's throat, as Millard, in grim silence, jerked the rope noose tight about the boy's neck. A sharp pull, a twist, and Millard had the boy face down in that hallway, and was kneeling on the victim's back.

"You ought to have known enough to keep away from me," growled the wretch, as he tightened on the noose.

That was about the last that the young submarine captain heard or knew, just then, for things were rapidly growing black before his eyes. Jack tried to fight, but the choking was too severe. He couldn't get even a breath of air into his lungs to give him fighting strength.

Finding that the boy's struggles had ceased, the long-legged one eased off on the noose. He bent Jack's arms behind him so that the wrists crossed. Then, pulling another cord from one of his pockets, the wretch tied the youngster's hands with a few deft movements. Oh, but this rascal was an expert artist with ropes and cords.

Jack felt himself being prodded just over the pit of the stomach, and his senses slowly wandered back to him under the disturbing handling. He was lying on his back, when his eyes opened once more. His throat felt sore, but he could breathe again.

Then the submarine boy discovered that his hands and feet were securely lashed. Beyond that, he discovered Millard squatting on the floor, close by, in Japanese fashion, for the foreign agent was sitting back on his own crossed heels.

"Feel wholly comfortable?" mockingly inquired the foreign agent, when he saw the boy's eyes open.

"Not especially, thank you," mumbled the boy, dryly.

Jack had discovered, by this time, that he was lying on a wooden floor, very likely in the basement of the house. The room contained no furniture, beyond an old table. Daylight was excluded by wooden shutters fastened into place over the windows. On the table a single candle burned in a candlestick.

"Why didn't you bring along with you, Benson," sneered the long fellow, "the property of mine that you stole from me?"

It was plain, then, that the foreign agent remembered the submarine boy well.

"Why are you playing this fool trick on me?" counter-questioned Captain Jack. "You knew I didn't have the -- the things with me. You could see that."

"I put you to this inconvenience," replied the foreign agent, "because I wanted to know a few things. In the first place, why are you bothering with me, or with my plans?"

Jack remained silent.

"Won't talk, eh? Oh, well, then, perhaps we can find out a few things without any very especial help from you."

Millard bent over, thrusting his hand into one after another of young Benson's pockets. In so doing he brought to light the envelope in the lad's inner coat pocket. Just an instant later, the wretch snatched the folded sheet from the envelope, spread the paper open and held it up to the light.

"Ho-ho!" sneered the rascal, "an order authorizing you to cause my arrest? This disposes of your case, then, young Mr. Benson!"



Chapter VII

A Lesson In Security And Information


Despite the savageness of his utterance Millard continued to gaze thoughtfully, for a few moments, at the submarine boy's face.

As the rascal gazed, however, a grayness came into his cheeks that, somehow, smote Captain Jack with secret terror.

"I -- I don't see how it can be helped," gasped Millard, at last, in an altered tone that came as another dash of ice water over the submarine boy. "Benson, I hate to do it. I'd hate to use a dog in such a way, but -- but there's no help for it!"

A long-drawn-out sigh, a still queerer look in his face, then the scoundrel broke forth again:

"It's your own fault, after all, boy, and there's no help for it."

"By and by I suppose you'll enlighten me as to what 'it' means?" hinted Jack, trying hard to bolster up a courage that, none the less, would ooze and drop.

Millard's only answer was to bend over the boy and roll him somewhat in examining the prisoner's bonds. It was through this that Jack discovered what he had not known before -- namely, that his wrists, besides being bound behind his back, were also lashed fast to something in the flooring.

There was a queer little choke in Millard's breathing as he went out of the room and returned with a bushel basket of shavings. These he dumped on the floor, close to a wall. Then, again, he went out. When he returned he was carrying a can of coal-oil. The contents he poured over the shavings, then against the wall. Next, over the shavings, he heaped three or four newspapers.

Jack Benson didn't ask questions. Millard went at it all in such a business-like way that the submarine boy felt the words sticking in his throat; they couldn't be uttered.

Finally, when all else was ready, Millard took the lighted candle out of the candlestick.

"This candle will burn for thirty minutes yet," guessed the wretch, noting its unburned length with the air of an expert "That will be time enough. Poor lad!"

He set the lighted candle down on top of the papers, over the pile of oil-soaked shavings. It fitted nicely into a place that the wretch had made ready for it. Then, without a word, the long-legged one tip-toed softly over and bent beside the submarine boy.

"Open your mouth," he ordered.

Of course Captain Jack didn't propose to do anything of the sort. With one hand, however, Millard gripped the boy's nostrils, pressing tightly. Just a little later Jack had to open his mouth for air.

"Thank you," mocked the other, and neatly shoved a handkerchief between the boy's jaws. This he tied in place, and rising, looked down upon a gagged foe. Then, with a last look over at the candle, the long-legged one darted from the room.

Left alone, Jack Benson watched that candle on top of the prepared heap. His eyes gleamed with the fascination of terror. When that candle burned down to the right point it would set fire to the paper, and then -- !

Try as he would to bolster his grit, Captain Jack Benson found himself in a fearful plight. At first, he could only stare, with terror-dilated eyes, at that candle -- ever burning just a slight fraction shorter!

While the horror-laden moments were dragging by Jack heard a step on the stairs behind his head. Then he realized that some one was looking into the room. Then a voice spoke. It was Millard's, though scarcely recognizable on account of its huskiness.

"It's a fearful thing to do, Benson, but -- but I can't help it! If you only knew what it means to me to win!"

Then followed a moment of utter silence. Jack could hear his own heart beating, as he fancied he could hear that of his persecutor. Then there was another sound, as though some light-weight metallic object had fallen to the floor.

"Good-bye, old chap! I -- I respect you for your calm grit -- that's all I can say."

There was the sound of a quick turn, then soft footsteps. Jack knew that Millard had fled.

"He respects me for my 'calm grit'!" laughed Jack, grimly -- almost hysterically. "Doesn't the scoundrel know that I'm all but frozen into the torpor of dread?"

Then, just as suddenly, an anguished "oh!" broke from the boy's lips, to be followed, instantly, by a tremor of hope.

For, except at the time when interrupted by Millard's return, the young submarine captain had been fighting savagely at the bonds behind his back. Now, he fancied, he heard or felt a single strand giving way.

"I've got to get out of this quickly, if at all!" quavered the boy, staring with wavering eyes at the ever-shortening candle-bit. "There won't be anything left to do -- except bear it -- if I'm ten minutes longer at this all but hopeless task."

After a few frenzied moments of struggle there was another "r-r-rip" behind him -- close to his wrists.

Now, young Benson fought with rage and frenzied strength. His gaze was ever toward the candle, burning lower. It seemed as if it must communicate its flame to the paper at any instant.

There came another ripping sound. Captain Jack Benson, though he could not see, felt something giving around his wrists. Frantically he squirmed and twisted with his hands. Then, suddenly, his wrists fell apart -- free!

With an exulting throb of gratitude for this well-nigh unexpected boon, Benson forced himself up into a sitting posture. He was shaking, now, from sheer nervousness.

Swiftly, tremulously, he felt in his pockets.

"My long-legged friend never thought to take my knife -- probably because he hadn't the slightest idea I'd be able to use it," thrilled the submarine boy, as he forced a blade open.

It didn't seem to take an instant, now, to cut the cords and set his feet free. Jack staggered to his feet. The lighted candle had burned down, now, even more perilously close to the paper -- but what did the submarine boy care now? At the worst, he could easily run from this house which, he felt certain, was untenanted save for himself.

As soon as he could steady himself well enough, Benson bent and snatched up the burning candle from the tinder-like bed on which it stood propped.

"Instead of destroying me," he chuckled, "this candle will now light me on my way out."

At the doorway at the end of the room Jack Benson, by some strange chance, happened to remember that slight metallic sound of something falling to the floor while Millard was speaking. Now, Jack bent over, holding the candle to aid him in his hunt. Ah! There it was! Yet how utterly insignificant -- nothing but a hairpin!

"Trifles often lead to something big, though," muttered the submarine boy, dropping the hairpin into his pocket. "I've been too much around machinery to despise small things."

Candle in hand, Jack quickly ascended through the rest of the house, after finding, in the lower hallway, a stout stick that he picked up. With this club he felt he had a weapon to be depended upon at need.

But there was nothing in the rest of the little three-story house to throw any light upon the habits of Millard, or the place for which that worthy had departed.

In one upper room Benson found a small mirror hung from a nail in the wall. In this same room was a small trunk, lid up and empty.

Back to the basement Jack returned. At the rear he found a small yard. Beyond that a fence, with a gate in it. The gate was unlocked. On a nail at the edge of the gateway Jack found a fluttering fragment of gray veiling.

"A woman has left here," thought Jack, holding the fragment of veiling in his hand. "Or else Millard got away disguised as a woman. That trunk may have held woman's apparel for the very purposes of such an escape."

This rear gateway opened upon a long, narrow alley that led to a street beyond.

Having satisfied himself on this point, Benson stepped back into the yard.

"Hold on! Here's something that will help," muttered the boy, staring down curiously at the ground.

It was the imprint of a foot in a wet spot on the ground. As Jack bent over it he saw the marks of diagonal criss-crossing such as is found in the soles of rubbers.

"The print is a fresh one. Either Millard wore rubbers away, or some woman has been here who wore them," Jack concluded.

Dropping his cudgel, since he would have no use for it, Benson made his way down the alley to the street beyond. At the corner stood a small grocery store, whose proprietor was in the doorway.

"I wonder," began Jack, "whether you saw a woman came down out of this alley-way lately? A tall woman?"

"About twenty minutes ago I saw a tall woman, in a gray dress and wearing a gray veil," replied the storekeeper.

"Was she carrying anything?"

"Some sort of a grip -- a suit case, I guess."

"Did you ever see the woman before?" persisted Jack.

The storekeeper shook his head.

"Which way did the woman go?"

"I don't remember, particularly, but I think down that way," replied the grocer, pointing.

Jack hurried along. It was a quiet part of the town. None of the people to whom he spoke within the next three or four minutes remembered having seen the tall, veiled woman in gray, though some "thought" they "might have."

"I reckon," wisely decided Captain Jack Benson, "that I know just about enough to take my information to Lieutenant Ridder."



Chapter VIII

Eph Feels Like Thirty Tacks


As agreed, the young West Pointer was in a room at the Grindley House. As this room was equipped with a telephone, the young Army man was in touch both with Fort Craven and with the submarine boys, should the latter find anything to report over the talking wire.

Here in the room Captain Jack found Ridder, for the boy had felt it best to go direct to the hotel.

"Surely, you haven't found out anything as quickly as this?" asked the young lieutenant of engineers, looking up in surprise.

"I've learned a few things," replied Jack, quietly.

"Sit down, and let us hear what you've learned."

Jack dropped to the chair, but Lieutenant Ridder, when he heard the news, was so excited that no chair could hold him.

"Jove! and just our luck!" gasped the Army officer. "No policeman in sight! Now, if you three boys had kept together -- "

"But, you see, when I dropped from the automobile, I wasn't sure it was Millard. I had had only a glance, and his face was away from me."

"If you see that wretch again, jump on him wherever he is."

"I could have done it, this last time," Benson nodded. "Yet I had an idea that, if I followed him, he might lead me to the place where he kept his maps and his other stolen information. And he did, I guess," added Jack, with a somewhat disappointed smile.

"Wait a moment. I'll try to get Major Woodruff over the wire," muttered Lieutenant Ridder. "He may have some orders for us."

Major Woodruff was at his home. He heard the message and sent his orders crisply.

"The major thinks we had better keep this matter from the police, yet, and do our best to find Millard, either in his own garments, or behind that gray dress and veil," announced the Army lieutenant.

"Then I wish we had the other boys here," muttered Jack, wistfully.

At that moment the 'phone bell rang. It was Hal, reporting, and inquiring whether any word had come from his chum.

"Mr. Benson is here, and I think you'll do well to get here as quickly as you can," replied Ridder.

"Is there any word -- " began Hal Hastings.

Ting-ling-ling! The 'phone bell rang, cutting off Hal. The latter had received his orders, and his next concern was to obey them. That was lesson number one in brisk Army discipline.

Hal was on hand in five minutes. While Jack was recounting to him the adventure with Millard, Eph Somers came in. He stood in the background, listening, his jaw gradually dropping until his mouth was wide open.

"You heard how Benson ran into the fellow?" asked Lieutenant Ridder, turning to Somers.

"Yes," muttered Eph, disgustedly, "and I guess I have been enjoying the fool's part of the adventure!"

"How so?" demanded the Army officer quickly.

"I met that same woman, I'll bet a cookie," growled Eph, "and -- and -- I -- "

"Well, sir?" demanded Lieutenant Ridder, briskly.

"I carried that bag for her -- carried it nearly two blocks!"

"What's that?" cried Jack Benson, leaping up. "How -- "

"No; I don't believe, on second thought, that I'm the prize fool."

"Come, come," directed Lieutenant Ridder. "Talk up quickly, young man."

"If you want to hear what I have to say," retorted Eph, with a slight flash of his eyes, "you'll have to wait until I get around to it."

It was serving direct notice on Ridder that Army briskness wouldn't do in Eph's case.

"Well, what have you to tell?" demanded the young lieutenant, impatiently.

"I was on my way back here," Eph continued. "Guess, maybe, I was eight blocks or so away from here. I had been to the hotels that I agreed to visit, and -- "

"Why did you go to the hotel, anyway, after you knew Benson had sighted Millard?" broke in the Army officer.

"Because it wasn't a sure thing that Jack had seen Millard. He thought so, and so did we. But, after we left him, the auto ran along slowly, and we heard no row behind, so we guessed that maybe Jack had been wrong in his guess. At least, Hal and I figured it out that way. So I went to the hotels on my list, just the same, and I guess you did, didn't you, Hal?"

"Yes," nodded Hastings.

"This isn't bringing us, very fast, to your latest adventure," complained young Ridder.

"It's your fault, then," continued Eph, placidly. "You asked a question, and I answered it."

"Well, what about meeting the woman in a gray dress and veil?"

"I met her," retorted Eph.

"Could you see through the veil?"

"No."

"Then how do you know it was Millard?"

"I don't know," Eph rejoined. "But there are mighty few women as tall as Millard. Besides, this one had rather a long foot, and wore rubbers. I noticed that. Huh! This makes me feel like thirty tacks!"

"How did you meet her -- or him?" asked Ridder.

"I was crossing a street, maybe eight blocks from here," Eph replied, "and I saw that tall woman, in gray, slip on the crossing. There was a street car coming, and she gave a little yell. I got to 'her' just in time to pull 'her' out of the way of the trolley and to set 'her' on 'her' feet again. Then I picked up 'her' dress suit case. It struck me that the one I supposed to be a woman was on the point of speaking to me when he -- she -- seemed to see my uniform and then get a look at my face. Then the party, whether it was he or she, made signs to show that he, or she, was deaf and dumb. The suit case was heavy, so I offered to tote it along, as I was headed the same way. I thought it was the least I could do for a woman who had just had a great shock. If that was Millard -- and I'd bet a torpedo boat it was -- how he must have chuckled over the idea of having one of the submarine boys carry his bag for him."

"How far did you go with this 'lady'?" asked the Lieutenant Ridder, with a faint touch of sarcasm.

"Two blocks," replied Eph.

"And you left her -- "

"At a cheap hotel where I can find her again. And I guess it's up to us to start right away."

"Yes," nodded Jack. "And we can't start too soon."

It may have occurred to Lieutenant Ridder that he wasn't exactly being consulted. However, he saw that these submarine boys were used to acting swiftly, and he began to believe that they would work better if left to their own devices. So he merely nodded, adding:

"I'll wait here. I'll hope to have a report before long."

Eph led his two comrades back unerringly to the cheap hotel. They went straight to the hotel desk, Jack asking, bluntly, whether any very tall woman, in gray, and carrying a dress suit ease, had registered there.

"No," replied the clerk, very positively.

Then they interviewed the porter. He remembered the "woman" having stepped inside the hotel. She readjusted her veil in the lobby near the doorway.

"Then she went outside, spoke to a driver, got into his cab, and went away," continued the porter.

"She spoke to the driver, did she?" Eph asked.

"Of course, sir," retorted the porter. "You didn't think she made signs, did you?"

From their talk the submarine boys were satisfied that it was the same "woman" whom Eph had so gallantly assisted. They were equally sure that this veiled "woman" in gray was none other than Millard.

"Do you remember which driver it was whose cab she engaged?" Jack asked, turning to hand the porter a dollar.

"Jack Medway's cab, sir," was the quick answer. "And here it comes, now."

The submarine boys hurried out, transferring their attention to Medway.

"I'm just back from taking the lady," replied the driver, after Jack Benson had slipped him, also, a dollar bill. "But say -- was it a lady, or a joke?"

"Why?" queried Jack Benson.

"Well," replied the driver, "the voice was pitched high, but there was something peculiar about it. I wondered, at the time, if it was a man rigged and togged out like a woman."

"Where did she tell you to take her," Jack Benson wanted to know.

"To Furnam Square!"

"Did you take her to any address there?"

"No; just to the square. Then I waited to fill my pipe, and I saw the woman, if woman it was, walk across the square and get into another cab."

"If you haven't anything else to do," hinted Jack, "suppose you take us to Furnam Square now."

Within a very few minutes the three friends were gazing out of a cab window upon the square. It looked like a very quiet residence section.

"There was another cab here, you say, that took your last 'fare' from this square?" asked Jack.

"Yes; there is a fellow who has a regular stand here. It's his cab," replied Medway.

"Let us know, then, when that particular driver gets back here," begged Jack. "We'll sit here in your rig and wait."

Medway grinned. Waiting, as well as driving, meant money for him.

Fully an hour and a half dragged by. Jack was beginning to wonder if it would not be better to give up this present clue to the chase, when Medway, leaning down from his box, called quietly.

"That's the other fellow and his rig, coming back into the square now."

"As soon as he stops," directed Benson, "drive us over alongside. Don't say anything to him. Let me do the talking."

In a moment more Jack was out on the sidewalk, talking earnestly with the driver just returned.

"You've had a long trip of it," guessed Jack, noting the warm condition of the horses.

"You bet," nodded the other driver.

"Just got back from taking the tall woman in gray somewhere."

"Yep. But do you call it 'somewhere'? I'd call it most anywhere."

"How far was it?" asked Jack.

"What do you want to know for?" demanded the Jehu, looking with sudden sharpness at his questioner.

"Because we'd like to go to the same place that you took the woman," returned Benson, promptly.

"Huh! I took her for three dollars. I wouldn't go over that trip again for less'n five."

"We'll pay the five, and be glad to," proposed Jack Benson, displaying some money. "More than that, if you play right fair with us, we'll put another five on top of the first, just as a little present to your horses."

"You'd better use the young gentlemen right, Jim," advised Medway. "They're good fellows, and they pay well."

"Why do you want to go where I took that last party?" questioned Jim, with a shrewd look.

"One of the things that the second five-dollar note pays you for is asking no questions," retorted Jack. "Do you want to take up our offer?"

"Yes; if you'll give me fifteen minutes to rest and water the horses," agreed Jim.

"That'll be all right," nodded Jack. "And now, Medway, have we paid you enough?"

"Plenty," cheerfully responded the first driver, taking the hint and leaving.

"Where did you take that woman?" questioned Jack, while the new driver got out a bucket for watering his horses.

"Away down by the sea-coast. Know where the Cobtown fishing shanties are?"

"No."

"Well, Cobtown is made up of three or four little villages of rickety old houses. Some are occupied by fishermen, and some ain't. There's three or four coves down that way fishing craft anchor in. It's a lonely, wild bit of country, and some rough characters 'mong them fishermen."

"Did you take your fare to any particular house or shanty down at Cobtown?"

"Nope; she got out on the road, in sight o' Cobtown, an' walked along, toting her old grip."

"What kind of a 'grip' was it?"

"An old brownish suit case."

"That's the one," nodded Eph.

As the driver busied himself over his team, the submarine boys drew aside to talk over their new information.

"I reckon we're going to be too late," grumbled Captain Jack.

"What makes you think so?" Hal inquired.

"Fishing villages, smacks and fishermen," answered Jack, gloomily. "Fishermen are a daring, reckless lot of fellows. They'd take a craft anywhere, in any kind of weather, for money enough. Fellows, I'm afraid Millard has hired a smack and started up or down the coast."

"Then we've got a craft that can chase any smack on the Atlantic coast," declared. Eph, stoutly.

"Of course; if we knew which craft to overhaul, and had the authority to do it."

"Authority? Then what's the matter with the people at the Fort?" demanded Eph.

"Their authority runs only on the land. Besides, by the time we got through the red tape, and got started, any smart smack, in a good wind, would be forty miles the other side of the horizon."

"Are you going to take this long drive, then?" asked Hal Hastings, rather dubiously.

"Yes," declared Jack Benson, promptly. "Hal, old fellow, any trail is best where it's freshest."

"I reckon you can git in, now, gents, if ye want," called the driver.

Seated in the cab the submarine boys set out to meet whatever might be before them in Cobtown. Had they possessed the gift of prophecy -- 

However, none of us possess that!



Chapter IX

Jack Plays With A Volcano


After something more than an hour's drive the Jehu pulled his horses up, got down from the box and opened one of the doors.

"Here you are, young gents. This is the spot where I put the last fare down. An' now you know as much about her whereabouts as I do."

The district into which the submarine boys had come was well outside of the city, and in a different direction from Craven's Bay and the Fort.

It was bleak and wild here. Even the shanties of the three little villages, with their fish-sheds, their racks with nets spread, the rickety wharves -- all looked dismal. It seemed as though here must be one of the spots where only a scanty living is earned and only by the hardest kind of work.

"Well, we're much obliged to you, driver, and here's the money promised to you."

"Obliged to you, gents. Will you want to be going back with me?"

"No," Captain Jack answered. "I reckon we're going to be moored here for a while."

"Now, whereaway? What's the course?" demanded Eph Somers.

Benson glanced at his watch, then up at the sun.

"It'll be dark in about an hour and half," he muttered. "Why not wait until dark? We can't have been seen from any of the villages yet. Looking out over the water you don't see a craft of any sort headed away from here. From this point, looking down, we can see if any of the boats in port get ready to put out. So Millard, if he hasn't already escaped, can't get away by sea without our knowing it. If he tries to get away by land, we're right where we can see him coming."

"Then you think we'd better wait here, keeping out of sight, until dark?" asked Hal.

"Most decidedly. Don't you?"

"Yes," nodded Hal.

"But it'll be a mighty tedious wait," growled Eph, the impatient one.

"Well, youngster, we're not here to consult our own comfort," retorted Captain Jack. "There's something higher to consult -- the best interests of our country."

"Oh, if you put it that way!" grumbled Eph, much mollified.

The submarine boys had stepped into a little hollow, just off the road, and barely below a rise in the ground. There were trees and bushes about to aid them in concealing themselves. If they saw anyone coming their way they could easily find better hiding.

No one came, however. Dark found the boys desperately hungry.

"Of course we didn't think to bring anything to eat," uttered Eph, disgustedly. "What are we going to do about it?"

"We've got to each of us take a village, presently, enter it and search," replied Captain Jack. "With only one of us to each village, it will be tough luck if each one can't find some one who has enough food to sell a little of it."

"How soon are we going to start?" asked Eph, hopefully.

"Well, supper time will be the best time to go through the villages," decided the young submarine skipper "If Millard has taken refuge with anyone who lives in one of these villages, he'll be more likely to show himself at supper time than at any other."

"It won't take long to look into each of the houses," muttered Hal. "There aren't many in any one of the villages."

"If we don't espy our man at table," Captain Jack went on, "we'll have to try other means of finding him out. You two will know what to do when you're on the ground. If Millard is anywhere in the village that you go to look through, don't fail to find him -- that's all."

Jack chose, for himself, the northernmost village. Hal took the next one, and Eph the southernmost.

"Now, remember, fellows," breathed Benson, sharply, as they parted, "the one great thing is not to fail!"

The night was dark and the sky overcast as the submarine boys parted to go their several ways.

"I think I can understand how Eph feels about his stomach," grimaced Jack, as he strode along. "I don't believe I'd balk, just now, at the plainest food ever cooked. Why, I haven't eaten since this morning!"

The evening being rather warm, most of the houses, as Jack neared the village, proved to have open windows. Lights shone, and the fishermen and their families could be seen at table.

No one appeared in the street, at first. Jack strolled down the principal street, looking into each house without much difficulty. Yet the one face that he sought was not visible.

Down at the further end of the street Benson came upon a tumble-down-looking grocery store.

"What kind of sandwiches can you put me up?" queried the submarine boy, casually.

"Stranger, eh?" asked the man behind the counter, staring curiously.

"Yes; haven't you had any other strangers here lately?"

"Not as I knows on," replied the man, a shaggy, unkempt-looking fellow of forty.

"None here to-day, eh?" asked Jack, taking out a half-dollar and toying with it on the counter.

"Don't remember anybody very special," replied the storekeeper.

"You haven't answered me about the kinds of sandwiches you can put up," Jack reminded him.

"Not very fancy in that line, young feller. Cheese, or sardines; that's all."

"Give me three of each, then," begged Jack. He seized the first sandwich that was prepared and began to eat it.

"Hungry, eh!" asked the storekeeper.

"Yes," Jack admitted; "for want of anything better to do."

"Foller the sea, don't ye?"

"Depends," muttered Jack, his mouth half full of sandwich. "When I'm going before a brisk fair wind, sometimes the sea follows me."

"'Spose so," grinned the storekeeper, passing over the second sandwich. After that, the fellow got in slightly ahead of the submarine boy's appetite, though Benson finished the whole meal in a few minutes.

"Now, if you've got a bottle of soda water, to wash that all down with," hinted Benson. It was forthcoming, also a smoky-looking glass.

"So you haven't had any strangers here lately," hinted Captain Jack.

"Nope."

"Any craft been fitting out to sail to-night or first thing in the morning?"

"Nope."

"Gracious, but this is a dead place," laughed Jack. "Must be a lot of shacks for rent around here?"

"There was one place," stated the storekeeper, "but a dude feller hired it last week. Said some sort o' fishing club'd be down this way to fish, once in a while. That kinder minds me," went on the storekeeper. "I guess maybe some o' that crowd are down, 'cause I saw a light up there at the house, jest come dark."

"If there's a fishing club down here, that ought to make business good for you," suggested Captain Jack.

"Dunno. They can start tradin' as soon as they like. I'm ready."

"Which house has the fishing club hired?" was Jack's next question.

"Why, I guess you can make it out from the door," replied the storekeeper, coming out from behind the counter and going to the front of his establishment. "There, if yer eyes are good, you can jest make out a building over there on the point. See it? Well, there's a little boat wharf in front that ye can't see until you get closer."

Jack had found out just what he wanted to know. He had the very information for which he had been fishing, nor did he believe the storekeeper suspected him of undue curiosity.

"Well, I've got to be moving along, now I'm fed," announced young Benson. "The yacht I belong to is some distance from here. Good night!"

Nor did Captain Jack linger in the village. Had anyone stood still in that street and stared after Benson, he would have seen the boy vanish in the darkness.

Captain Jack, however, had not disappeared from the scene. He was merely shifting to the part of it that interested him most. Cautiously he stole out along the further side of a ridge of land, toward the rickety old house on the point.

"Not a sign of a light, now," breathed the submarine boy. "If Millard was really there, I hope he hasn't had time to get away for good."

All was silent and dark about the old house, as Captain Jack stole closer. At nearer range he made the circuit of the house, only to find every window shuttered, and the place as dismal as the grave.

"I'm afraid the game has escaped," muttered Benson, with a sinking feeling at his heart. "Yet he didn't escape, by sea or land, while we were watching outside the village. And it was just at dark that the storekeeper saw a light here. I wonder if it would be easy to -- "

Right there Jack Benson's train of thought broke off. From the opposite side of the house came a sound exactly like that of the opening and closing of a door.

"Can that be our man coming out?" wondered Skipper Jack.

He started cautiously around the house, but soon drew back around the corner of the building. Dropping to the ground, and lying flat, the submarine boy allowed only the top of his head to show as he peeped.

Glory! Jack knew, well enough, that tall figure striding off into the gloom. It was Millard, and under his left arm the fellow carried a large package that might be a bulky portfolio well wrapped.

"He has his drawings -- his maps of American fortifications and fortified harbors -- the very stuff that we want to get!" throbbed the boy. "And now -- we're going to get them!"

Keeping Millard's receding figure zealously in sight, Jack, crouching low, started after the long-legged one as soon as the distance between seemed sufficient to keep Millard from guessing at pursuit.

"Oh, how I wish Hal and Eph were here!" muttered Captain Jack, in keen disappointment.

"I need help on this!"

Within two minutes Millard had struck into a well-beaten path that led northward over succeeding ridges of laud. In a way, it was easier following here, for there were occasional trees and clumps of bushes behind which the young shadow could drop at need.

Two minutes in this path, and Jack Benson's heart gave another quick leap. Some one else was coming stealthily behind him. Jack dodged around a clump of bushes and waited.

"Hal!" breathed Jack, almost wild with joy, as the two chums clasped hands fervently for one brief instant. Then:

"See here, Hal, I've got to dart forward again, or Millard will be out of sight. But I'll tell you what -- while I trail Millard, you concern yourself only with following me."

"Good enough," whispered Hastings, nodding. "Now, you start again!"

For just an instant Millard had disappeared. However, by moving forward quickly, Benson was soon able to make out the quarry through the darkness.

For some five minutes more the chase continued. Then, his long body rather sharply defined against the sky, Millard began the ascent of a low hill that ended in a cliff overlooking the broad ocean.

As Millard's course forward could end only in the sea, Jack now crouched low, stealing along a parallel course behind a low ridge of rock.

Then Millard suddenly stepped into a clump of tall bushes. Though his game was now out of sight, Jack did not lose his nerve, for he could hear the fellow.

Spink! spank! clank! The noise came from a shovel, vigorously used.

"Not a hard one to guess," throbbed Captain Jack Benson, exultantly. "He has brought his maps and his stolen records with him, and is burying them in this lonely spot until some other time when he'll feel safe about coming back for them. Talk about luck! Why, Hal and I can pounce on this fellow, when he comes out over yonder, and, after we get him, we can next dig up whatever it is that this foreign agent thinks is worth burying!"

Then, with a shade of curiosity, Benson added to himself:

"I don't know, yet, how it happened that Hal was on my trail. There wasn't time for him to tell me."

Clank! clank! But after a while the noise of the shovel ceased for a while. Captain Jack craned his neck eagerly, trying to pierce the darkness of the night. He could make out nothing, though he heard some one still moving inside the clump of bushes.

Then again the noise of the shovel on the dirt was heard.

"He's filling in, now, beyond a doubt," thought Captain Jack. "He is burying -- what? The maps and records? Hiding them here that he may dig them up at some later date?"

Benson chuckled noiselessly.

"If that's Millard's game I reckon some one else will do some digging over yonder before he pays this place a second visit!"

Ah, the noise had stopped, at last. Now, Millard came out of the thicket.

"He hasn't that bundle he brought up here!" throbbed Jack Benson. "And he isn't bringing a shovel out, either, so it must be hidden right handy. Great!"

Mr. Millard could depart, now, if he wanted. Jack trusted to his chum, prowling somewhere about, to have the good judgment to follow the long-legged fellow away. As for Benson, he didn't mean to do another thing until he had found the shovel, and had determined just what had been so carefully buried on this dark night!

So Jack watched, rather indifferently, as Millard slunk off into the darkness. After three minutes or so had passed, Jack rose and ran straight for the thicket.

There it was -- new ground, that had just been turned over with a shovel. There was no mound, but the fresh earth showed just where to dig.

"Oh, this is as easy as making change for a blind man!" chuckled the young submarine skipper, rubbing his hands ecstatically.

What about the shovel? Jack turned to feel around in the darkness. Really, Millard couldn't be such a very clever fellow! Jack had no difficulty in finding the shovel. Its handle was sticking out from under a mass of dead brush.

Jack Benson drew out the implement, brandishing it.

"Hal had the good sense to shadow that chap away," decided the young skipper. "Otherwise, he'd have been here by this time. Good haul -- rascal and records in the same night. For, if Hal goes on Millard's trail, then Millard is pretty sure to be a prisoner before the night is over. Oh, I wish Eph would turn up."

Then Jack took a good grip on the shovel. Clank! spink! spink!

Having been so recently moved, this dirt was easy to dig.

Yet, suddenly, there came a new note on the night air.

"Jack, O Jack!" sounded in Hal's frantic tones. "Quick!"

"Eh?" called Captain Benson. "What's the row? Come here and see what I can show you!"

"No! You come here -- quick!"

"That's queer," pondered Jack Benson, leaning on his shovel, trying to understand what it could all mean.

Then he heard, even at the distance, the sound of Hal Hastings panting, as though engaged in hard physical effort.

Again rose Hastings's frantic voice, though somewhat muffled in its sound.

"If you don't hustle, it will be too late!"

Jack dropped the shovel on the ground, wheeled, and ran down the slope to where Hal's voice sounded.

"I'm coming, old fellow!" quivered the submarine skipper, starting to run.

Boom! A terrific explosion shook the ground. The air seemed full of flying fragments of rock.



Chapter X

"Mr. Gray" Makes New Trouble


Had Jack Benson started down the slope two or three seconds later he must have been killed.

As it was, the fearful force of concussion sent him sprawling headlong on the ground.

A shower of small fragments of rock and of loose dirt fell about him.

Yet Jack was up again, like a flash, never stopping to inquire whether he had been hurt.

"O-oh!" came the groan, from Hal Hastings.

"There, in a second!" panted Captain Jack, beginning to run again.

A blow sounded, then a fall.

Captain Jack raced into a little, bush-lined hollow, just in time to see Millard leap up and take to his heels.

Hal Hastings lay on the ground, as though badly hurt.

"Oh, you would, would you?" raged Captain Jack Benson, making a swift spurt after Millard.

He caught the long-legged one, too, by the back of the fellow's coat collar.

Yank! Millard was pulled over backward. Down he went, Benson piling a-top of him.

"Down!" cried Skipper Jack, exultantly. He found, however, that Millard possessed strength enough to put up a stiff fight.

"Come on, Hal -- if you can!" called Jack Benson, sharply.

"Can't -- just yet," came, in muffled tones, from the usually prompt Hal Hastings.

"Let go, you young hound!" ordered Millard, striking out savagely.

Jack hung desperately. Yet the trouble was that the young submarine skipper had tackled a man who was at least fifty per cent. stronger and fully as agile.

While Hal still hung back, Millard gave a heave, then rolled himself over on top of Jack Benson.

"I'll give you just a short lesson!" snarled the long-legged one.

He raised a fist, intent on bringing it down like a sledge-hammer across Benson's face.

That blow, however, wasn't the one that landed. Biff! whack! Two sturdy, hard fists registered on Millard's head from behind. Then a boy shot himself forward, battering-ram fashion, hurling Millard over to the ground. The boy went with the fellow, landing on top of him.

And that boy was Eph Somers!

"Come on, Jack, if you want some of this!" offered Eph, generously.

Truth to tell, there was need of both the submarine boys, for Millard now fought more fiendishly than before.

Millard was a powerful fellow, when aroused, but he had pitted against him two of the doughtiest, gamest boys to be found along the Atlantic coast. He was pretty well beaten up, in fact, by the time that Hal came limply upon the scene.

"Want any help?" demanded Hal, in a still somewhat breathless voice.

"Nope!" answered Eph, sturdily. "Not unless you want exercise."

As Somers spoke he landed another blow, this against the "wind" at Millard's belt-line. In the same instant Jack Benson managed to knot his hands in the fellow's coat lapels, and to press the backs of his hands against the wretch's throat.

"I sur -- ug-g-gh! -- er -- render," gurgled the long-legged one, weakly.

"You'd better, unless you want to discover that we haven't yet started in with rough handling," retorted Eph valiantly.

Young Benson eased his hold on Millard's wind-pipe. Yet all three of the submarine boys watched their prisoner, cat-like, for any new outbreak.

"Now, roll over on your face, if you want us to believe you're going to be good," ordered Jack.

Though he swore, under his breath, Millard obeyed. Then something flashed in the night -- handcuffs that Jack had brought away from his meeting with Lieutenant Ridder at the hotel.

Click! The steel band snapped into place around Millard's right wrist.

"Hold on -- not that!" protested the prisoner, hoarsely.

"Yes; even that!" mocked Eph, picking up a fragment of rock. "And keep quiet, unless you want me to batter your head in!"

It was this rough, vigorous sea-talk, backed by a belief that young Somers would prove equal to his threat, no doubt, that made Millard allow his left wrist to be brought over to meet the right.

"You've got those things on too tight," complained Millard, sullenly.

"No-o-o, I don't think so," retorted Captain Jack, after looking. "We need 'em as tight as we can have 'em, without causing pain, when we have a fellow like you to deal with. Now, what was that explosion?"

"Wait a second!" broke in Eph, in a low voice. "Millard had a pal here. It was the pal I shadowed here. And that pal is running, now, with a fair-sized bundle that he came here to get."

"He was running when you jumped into this business?" demanded Benson.

"Yes."

"Then the pal is too far away, by this time, for us to catch him by running after him," decided Skipper Jack. "Now, about that explosion!"

"This wretch had a mine planted up on the hill," explained Hal Hastings. "I was watching, at the rear, you know, and it happened that I stopped right close to the hollow where you found me. Then I saw Millard drop into that hollow, and I took a look-in. I was just in time to see him bending over to reach for the handle of a magneto battery. Now, I happened to know that magneto batteries are made for the purpose of touching off explosives at a safe distance. So I jumped in on him. Just at that second I heard you, Jack, old fellow, striking with the shovel up above there. I had to guess fast, so the whole thing struck me like a flash. Millard had been digging, up there, just to lead on anyone who might be shadowing him. While you were bent over the spot where he had been digging, he meant to touch off a mine that must have been planted and laid days ago. Millard, you rascal, if you suspected that you were being watched, it was your idea to lead the shadow out here, get him over that mine and touch it off!"

The prisoner's eyes flashed.

"That was your game, wasn't it?" demanded Benson, angrily.

"Find out, if you can," growled the prisoner.

"You've guessed it, Hal," nodded Jack, then shuddered. "Had I followed this villain out here alone, and then gone to digging, unwarned, where I had seen him digging, my remains would have come down in four counties. But, you mean scoundrel, you never happened to think that you'd be trailed by three different fellows, all at different points along your trail."

"This is where my account comes in," interposed Eph Somers. "You remember the village you sent me to, Jack? Well, all I could find out was that, a few days ago, a chap named Gray had come along and hired a little schooner that's about twice as fast as any other sailing craft in these parts. He hired two fishermen to sail it for him -- when he got ready. His crew have been wondering, since, when he'd be ready. Since he made the deal, Gray has just been hanging around and doing nothing."

"My informant pointed out Gray to me. Right after that, I vanished. But I kept an eye on Gray. When he left the village, so did I. The trail led up here. Gray went to a pile of dead brush that had been heaped up. He prowled under the brush, brought out a wooden box that had been hidden there, and, from the box, took a bundle. He started off with it. I figured that bundle was what we wanted. I didn't want to take the chance of tackling him and having him get the best of me, so I started to follow. Just then I heard the rumpus up here. Maybe I did wrong, but I figured we could get Gray again, so I hustled up here to help."

"This wretch, Millard, and I had a pretty rough-and-tumble time of it," Hal broke in. "At last, though, he gave me a blow in the wind that put me right down and out, for a little while. Then he got the handle of the magneto and pumped it."

"Glad I started down the slope just when I did," nodded Skipper Jack, dryly. "If I hadn't -- well, what's the use of talking about it?"

Forcing Millard to get upon his feet, the boys inspected, first the magneto battery, to which was attached wire buried in the ground. Then up the slope they went, to find a miniature crater, some ten feet deep and at least fourteen feet across, where the mine had been exploded.

"Say, it's hard, even yet, to understand why I wasn't killed," muttered Jack Benson. "But here we are, standing here, thinking about ourselves, when that fellow, Gray, is getting away with a package that we ought to have. Come along, fellows! And you, Millard, if you try to bold back on us, you'll learn some new things in the way of discomfort!"

Thus warned, and realizing that his determined young captors were in a savage frame of mind, the long-legged one didn't try to lag. All four appeared in the village in which Eph had prowled for information. The appearance of the handcuffed prisoner stirred up a lot of curiosity. Eph, however, showed his written authorization for taking Millard in the name of the United States government, so no one offered the captive any aid or sympathy.

But the submarine boys met with disturbing news. They heard that a little more than a half an hour before, Gray, still carrying a big package, had embarked on his chartered schooner, and had put to sea.

"Had we better charter something and go in chase?" wondered Hal.

"What's the use?" demanded one of the fishermen. "The 'Juanita' is four miles or more out to sea, by this time, and the night's dark you couldn't see her. And there's no craft hereabouts fast enough to catch the 'Juanita.'"

"Besides," whispered Jack, in his chum's ear, "we have no power to overhaul a craft at sea."

So, making the best of the situation, the submarine boys hired a driver, horse and wagon at the village, and started on their return to town.



Chapter XI

Facing The Secretary Of The Navy


Jack was the first to enter Lieutenant Ridder's room at the hotel. The young engineer officer jumped up out of his chair, looking somewhat angry.

"Look here, Benson," expostulated the lieutenant, "what sort of way is this to use me? Here I've been loafing about here for hours, and you haven't sent or brought me word of any kind. You -- "

"We've brought you something better," smiled Jack Benson, throwing the door further open. "Here is Millard, himself."

Millard came in, a policeman at his side, for the submarine boys had hailed the first policeman they met inside the city limits, and had explained to him.

"This man is wanted as a United States prisoner, is he, sir?" inquired the policeman.

"Yes, if his name is Millard," replied Lieutenant Ridder.

"Oh, this is Millard, all right," confirmed Jack Benson.

"Then shall I leave the fellow with you, sir?" inquired the policeman.

"Yes, of course; and thank you."

"You'll give me a receipt for the fellow, as a United States prisoner?" hinted the policeman.

"As a United States suspect," corrected Lieutenant Ridder, going to a table on which were writing materials. The policeman was handed the desired document, then withdrew. Then Ridder went to a telephone, calling up Major Woodruff.

"The major will be here in about ten minutes," announced Ridder, hanging up the receiver. "In the meantime we will do no talking in the presence of this suspect."

It was just a little less than ten minutes later when Major Woodruff, accompanied by a corporal and two private soldiers, entered the room.

Millard was at once taken away, under guard.

Then the boys told their stories, quickly, comprehensively.

"I'll have to get a clear wire all the way through to Washington," declared Major Woodruff, promptly, going to the telephone. In a minute more he had arranged matters, and hurried to the table to write his despatch. Ere the major had finished writing a messenger boy was at the door.

"Boy, you'll find my automobile at the hotel entrance," stated Major Woodruff. "Give this card to my chauffeur, and he'll take you on the jump to the telegraph office. Then come back in the automobile, and wait for more work."

"Do you expect anyone in Washington to get that message now, after ten o'clock at night?" Jack asked, wonderingly.

"To-night?" repeated Major Woodruff. "Yes, sir! You haven't much idea, I take it, Mr. Benson, how fast government business travels. Within five minutes the first part of my message will be ticking out on a receiver in the War Department. The Army officer in charge will get the Secretary of War over the telephone. Why, my answer will very likely be here inside of twenty minutes!"

It was thirty minutes, exactly, when a messenger placed a telegram in Major Woodruff's hands. As soon as the messenger had gone outside, the major read this telegram.

"Keep prisoner Millard close confinement pending further orders. Have communicated Secretary of Navy. Latter official says sea chase shall be made to catch fellow Gray on 'Juanita.' If submarine boys will accept sea service, briefly, for Navy Department, have them come to-night's train and report Secretary Navy at nine to-morrow morning. Their expenses borne by government."  (Signed) "Secretary of War."

"What does that mean, sir," cried Jack Benson, rising, "about if we will accept sea service, and reporting in the morning to the Secretary of the Navy at Washington?"

"Why, I belong to the Army," replied Major Woodruff, hauling out his watch, "and this is a Navy matter. However, since one of you youngsters knows Gray by sight, and you're all of you familiar with this business, I imagine the Secretary of the Navy wants to put you out to sea on one of the country's gunboats, to aid in the chase. For any real information, however, you'll have to apply in person to the Secretary of the Navy himself. Are you going to Washington?"

"Are we going -- " Jack started to repeat, with mild irony, when a knock at the door interrupted him. Major Woodruff opened the door, to receive another telegram.

"Washington wakes up quickly," he laughed. "Here you are, Mr. Benson -- a despatch from our other fighting department at the Nation's capital."

Clearing his throat, Major Woodruff read:

"Send description of schooner 'Juanita,' and of suspect, Gray, as mentioned in your telegram Secretary War. Are submarine boys leaving to-night to report in morning? Secretary of Navy."

"Here you are, and you see you've got to make up your minds quickly," said the major. "The night train south for Washington leaves in a little more than an hour from now."

"Why, there's only one answer possible, sir," cried Captain Jack Benson, his eyes shining. "Of course we'll take to-night's train and report to the Secretary of the Navy in the morning. When it's for the Flag I don't even have to consult my comrades, or look their way. I know their answer as well as I know my own."

"Good enough, young man," applauded Major Woodruff, while Lieutenant Ridder gave Jack a hearty slap across the shoulders. "But, to go to the Navy Department, you'll want citizen's clothes -- not your present uniforms, which are not official. I can send my auto to your boat, and you can be back here in forty minutes, if you dress quickly."

"Ready for the word, 'forward,' sir," responded Captain Jack, saluting. Hal and Eph also raised their hands to their foreheads.

It was a swift trip, with some hurried dressing on board the "Spitfire," but Major Woodruff landed them at the railway station ten minutes ahead of train time.

"Good fortune, gentlemen," wished Major Woodruff, pressing the hand of each when the train was ready. "Don't be scared when you find yourselves face to face with so big a man as the Secretary."

It is not to be wondered at if the minds of all were in a bit of a whirl as they made for their berths in a sleeping-car.

"After all," muttered Jack, to himself, as he undressed in his berth, "it's strange how some fellows get the cream of things. Here we get the trip to Washington, while Lieutenant Ridder will have only the fun of going out to the cliff above Cobtown to-morrow to have a look at what is left of Millard's mine."

Their train brought the submarine boys into Washington just before seven in the morning. There was time for a good breakfast. Then, being strangers at the national capital, the youngsters engaged a cab to take them to the imposing building that shelters the State, War and Navy Departments.

Jack Benson sent in his card. Five minutes later the three submarine boys were ushered into the presence of the Secretary of the Navy.



Chapter XII

Navy Officers For An Hour Or A Day


"So you're really the three famous submarine boys?" inquired Secretary Sanders, rising from his chair and extending his hand.

"We're submarine boys; that's all I ever heard about it, Mr. Secretary," replied Captain Jack, as he introduced his friends.

"Now, be seated, young gentlemen, and tell me all you know about this matter that has brought you over to Washington."

Jack Benson acted as spokesman, telling the whole tale clearly, yet using up no more time in talk than was absolutely necessary. It was a good, concise, business statement.

"Now, of course," pursued Mr. Sanders, "you wonder what the Navy Department wants you to do. Well, in the first place, we've been asking, by wireless, through the night and early morning, to have all craft on the lookout for a schooner answering to the description of the 'Juanita'."

Secretary Sanders paused, but none of the three boys asked any questions.

"You will wonder, of course, what success we've had so far, and I may say that our success has been ample," resumed the Secretary of the Navy, with an amused smile. "In other words, we've been able to pick up news of three schooners, all of which answer to the general description of the 'Juanita' -- but it happens that that isn't the name of any one of the three."

Jack Benson nodded, but did not speak.

"Of course," pursued the Secretary, "it may be that the skipper of the 'Juanita' has tried an old trick, through the night. He may have set a man to painting another name at the schooner's stern."

Again Skipper Jack nodded.

"The schooner that we think most likely to be the 'Juanita' is about fifty miles out at sea, now, according to a report received twenty minutes ago. Evidently she is headed for one of the British West Indies. Now, if the wind continues the same, and the suspected vessel keeps to her present course, she will, at five this afternoon, be off the Norfolk Navy Yard, and some sixty-two miles out at sea. Now, unless we are otherwise advised, we want a gunboat, the 'Sudbury,' now at Norfolk, to overhaul the suspected schooner and ascertain whether she is really the 'Juanita,' and whether the man, Gray, and his bundle of documents are still on board. The suspected vessel is to be searched, and Gray and the documents, if found, are to be seized, and the schooner then released. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, sir." Jack answered quietly.

"One of you young men will know Gray at a glance. The other two are familiar with the whole case. Otherwise, it would not have been necessary to have called you into this matter. Yet, to overhaul a vessel, or to make an arrest or a seizure, you require authority. Such authority can be vested only in naval officers. Hence, for the present, it will be necessary to give all three of you appointments as officers in the United States Navy."

At this announcement Jack Benson lost, for the moment, some of his cool composure.

"Officers of the Navy, sir!" he gasped, but his eyes glowed at the mere thought.

"You will be officers only temporarily," returned the Secretary. "You are not of age, any of you, I take it."

"We are all just about the same age, sir -- seventeen, nearly eighteen," Jack replied.

"Just so. Now, none of you could legally bold officers' commissions, except by a special act of Congress. However, with the approval of the President, it is legal for me to give you special, temporary appointments under which you have the title, rank, pay and command of officers. These appointments I am going to give and, for a brief while, though you will not have commissions, you will nevertheless be as actually officers of the Navy as are any admirals on the list."

This astonishing statement almost took away the breath of the submarine boys.

"You are familiar with navigation, Benson, and are a capable enough sea-pilot along this coast. I learned that much, early this morning, through Mr. Farnum's answer to my telegram."

"Then Mr. Farnum knows what we are going to do?" asked Jack, quickly.

"He doesn't," replied Secretary Sanders, with a shake of his head. "Mr. Farnum knows, only, that you have a chance to be of some service to the Navy. He seemed to be much pleased by our inquiry."

The Secretary had just touched an electric button on his desk. Now a clerk entered the room.

"Telephone the secretary of the President," directed Mr. Sanders, "and ask him whether the President has examined and approved the special appointments that I sent over a while ago."

The clerk was quickly back, to say:

"The special appointments, Mr. Secretary, are duly approved, and are now on their way over from the White House."

Two minutes later, a messenger entered, handing a sealed envelope to the Secretary of the Navy.

Breaking the seal, Mr. Sanders drew forth three heavy, folded sheets of parchment.

"Here you are, Mr. Benson," resumed the Secretary, handing over one of the parchments. "This document confers upon you, for the time being, the rank, pay and command of a lieutenant, junior grade, in the United States Navy. You, Mr. Hastings, and you, Mr. Somers, will rank as ensigns under your special appointments."

Jack's head swam a bit as he thanked Mr. Sanders; then he started to glance over this marvelous document.

But the Secretary of the Navy now cut in, briskly:

"That is all, gentlemen. You know your instructions, in general, Lieutenant Benson. You will now go to my chief clerk, who will swear you into the service. He will also give you an order on a local tailor for the uniforms of your ranks. In one hour and twenty minutes your train starts south. On arrival at Norfolk you will report without an instant's delay at the Navy Yard. Aboard the 'Sudbury' you will receive all further instructions, wired from this Department. Good morning, gentlemen."

Then, indeed, things moved fast. At the desk of the chief clerk of the Navy Department the three budding naval officers stood with their right hands raised while the official at the other side of the desk administered to them the oath binding them to loyalty to the government and to obedience to all lawful orders of their superiors.

"And now, gentlemen," continued the chief clerk, "I will send for Ensign McGrath, who is on duty here, and present you to him. He will go with you to the tailor's, and will see that you are properly rushed to the train that you are to take. Remember, you are not to pay for your uniforms or equipment. The bill will be sent here."

Ensign McGrath looked sleepy, but proved to be a hustler. One of the Department's autos was out in the grounds, and into this McGrath bundled the three submarine boys. Five minutes later they were in the tailoring establishment, where a good many ready-made uniforms were kept for sale.

What a whirl it was. Yet, in twenty minutes, each submarine boy found himself in the duty uniform of a United States junior naval officer, each uniform adorned with the insignia of the wearer's rank. In the meantime, dress-suit cases had been procured from a store near by.

"All right and proper," nodded Ensign McGrath. "And -- I'm not throwing bouquets, gentlemen, but you really look as though you had been born for the uniforms. Now, only one thing is missing -- the swords."

"Are we to wear swords?" asked Jack, his face flushing with pleasure.

"Under certain conditions, on duty, naval officers wear swords. You will need them as parts of your equipments."

The dealer brought these side-arms at once. The naval sword is a handsome one, vastly more natty than the infantry side-arm of a junior officer.

What a thrill each submarine boy felt as he was shown how to adjust his sword to the belt!

"They're really nonsensical jewelry in these civilized days," declared Ensign McGrath, dryly. "But the regulations call for swords at some times. Now, gentlemen, you will need to get your uniforms off as quickly as you can, and the tailor's helpers will pack them in your suit cases. You travel in citizen's clothes, and don your uniforms as soon as you get aboard the gunboat."

Ten minutes later each proud submarine boy picked up his suit case and sword, the latter, in each instance, being inside of a chamois-skin carrying case.

In single file they made their way to the street.

"Now, for the last leg of the race in Washington," announced Ensign McGrath, as they entered the automobile once more.

"I wonder if it will happen on the way, or at the station?" laughed Jack, as the government gas-wagon whirled them down Pennsylvania Avenue.

"Will what happen?" inquired McGrath.

"Why," laughed Benson again, "I know we've got to wake up out of this trance, but I can't figure when it's going to happen."

"I suppose all of you do feel excited," nodded Ensign McGrath, understandingly.

"Not excited," declared Jack. "I'm just simply unprepared to believe that any part of this has really happened."

At the railway station they were met by a messenger from the chief clerk's office, who handed each of the submarine boys a small parcel.

"Copy of the Regulations, sir" stated the messenger. "It is required that each officer of the Navy possess a copy."

"You'll want to scan the book good and hard most of the way down to Norfolk," advised Ensign McGrath. "You'll find much between the covers that you'll need to know right at the first jump-off. And now, for the tickets."

These McGrath bought, including parlor car seats. The ensign then saw them safely to their seats.

"Now, you've got enough to do, reading your new books," laughed the ensign, "So I'm not going to waste your time by staying here to talk to you. It's ten minutes, yet, to the time of your departure. Good-bye, gentlemen -- and good luck!"

When McGrath had gone Jack leaned across the aisle to whisper:

"Eph, can you get at your sword handily -- to draw it, I mean?"

"What's up?" said Eph, suspiciously.

"I want you to stick about a sixteenth of an inch of the point of your sword into me, so I can judge how long I've been dreaming."

"What's the matter with using your own sword?" demanded Eph, a trifle gruffly.

"That's just the trouble," smiled Benson, plaintively. "I'm afraid I'll wake up and find I haven't any."

Hal was leaning back in his parlor car chair, his eyes closed. He was dreaming delicious daydreams.



Chapter XIII

Commander Of A U.S. Gunboat!


"Lieutenant Benson, sir?" inquired a coxswain, saluting.

"Yes," replied Jack, returning the salute.

"The gig is waiting to take you to the 'Sudbury' sir."

This information was punctuated by another salute which Jack, as head of the party of three young officers, again returned.

"Lead the way," directed Jack.

For the third time saluting, the coxswain possessed himself of Jack's suit case and sword, then crossed the wharf to the landing stairs down below, the gunboat's cutter waited, a natty little craft, occupied by a bowman and four oarsmen.

The three young officers seated themselves at the stern of the gig.

"Cast off," directed the coxswain. "Up oars! Let fall! Give way!"

With the long, steady, magnificent sweep of the Navy which the sailors pulled, the little gig seemed to race through the water.

"Is that the 'Sudbury'?" inquired Jack, nodding toward a trim little gunboat some two hundred feet long.

"Yes, sir."

All three of the submarine boys gazed at the gunboat with secret enthusiasm. Had it not been for the guns fore and aft, and at the rail on either side, the "Sudbury" might have been mistaken for some multi-millionaire's yacht.

In another moment the gig was making fast at the gangway. Then Jack Benson stepped out, and, heading his comrades, went up over the side.

At the head of the gangway a corporal and four marines stood drawn up. At a low-voiced command from the corporal the marines presented arms, standing thus until the three new young officers, saluting, passed.

Just beyond the marines, stood an officer of the Navy. He brought his hand to his cap in a smart salute.

"Lieutenant Benson?" inquired this officer.

"Yes."

"I am Ensign Fullerton, executive officer of this vessel."

They shook hands and Jack presented his comrades.

"I think I had better show you to your cabin, sir," suggested Ensign Fullerton.

"As you please," nodded Jack.

The way was actually led, however, by three of the marines, who, at a word from the corporal, had possessed themselves of the limited baggage of the new arrivals.

In Jack's cabin was a broad double berth, two deep wardrobe closets, a book-case, desk and several chairs.

"I had no idea junior officers had such roomy quarters," murmured Jack.

"They don't, usually, sir," smiled Fullerton. "But it's different, of course, in the case of the commanding officer."

"But I'm not the commanding officer," gasped Jack.

"For the purposes of this cruise you are," smiled Fullerton. "But I forget. You haven't received your orders. There they are on your desk. They arrived less than an hour ago by wire."

Like one in a dream young Jack Benson picked up a bulky telegraph envelope and broke the seal. There, before his eyes, danced the words of the latest order from the Secretary of the Navy.

Lieutenant Jack Benson was directed to take command of the United States gunboat, 'Sudbury,' until further orders. Ensigns Hastings and Somers were directed to assume such duties aboard as were assigned to them by Lieutenant Benson.

"I didn't expect this," stammered Jack. "I -- I -- we thought our temporary rank in the Navy was given us merely that we might have legal standing in making one arrest that is wanted."

"No one ever does know just what is wanted of him, until the order comes," laughed Ensign Fullerton. "At least, that has been the case since Mr. Sanders became Secretary of the Navy. He keeps all officers on the jump. But I guess that is what a good many of them need, sir."

As the Ensign appeared to be at least twenty-five years old that respectful "sir" struck young Benson's ear queerly.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, but be seated," suggested Lieutenant Jack, suddenly, as he realized that his chums and this one sure-enough naval officer were all standing.

"You have been aboard naval vessels before, sir, haven't you?" asked Ensign Fullerton.

"Oh, yes; but never in the present way," smiled Benson.

"Then, no doubt, you understand, sir, that the 'Sudbury' is under steam, only awaiting your order to put to sea."

"The last part of these orders," replied Jack, picking up the telegram, "advises me that sailing orders will be wired soon."

"Then may I make a suggestion, sir?"

"Of course," nodded young Benson.

"At your direction I will have Mr. Hastings and Mr. Somers shown to their cabins. Then I will send for the one other young man left of the gunboat's old equipment of officers, and present him to you. After that I would suggest, sir, that I have the crew piped to quarters for brief inspection by the new commanding officer."

Hal and Eph were quickly made acquainted with their own cabins, which were on the port side of the gun-deck, Jack's being on the starboard.

Ensign Fullerton brought in a slim, very erect young man in a midshipman's uniform -- Mr. Drake, just out of the Naval Academy.

"Our engineers are all warrant machinists or petty officers; no commissioned officers among them," stated Fullerton. "Our highest marine officer is Sergeant Oswald. Besides the sergeant we have eighteen other enlisted men among the marines. Here is the ship's complete roster," continued the Ensign, taking a document out of a pigeon-hole over the young commander's desk. "And now, sir, shall I pass the order for piping the crew to quarters?"

"If you will be so good," Jack nodded, rising.

At this moment Hal and Eph appeared at the doorway.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, for suggesting that you had better put your swords on," suggested Fullerton, "Inspection of crew at quarters is about to come off."

Hal and Eph vanished, but soon reappeared, wearing their new swords and trying hard not to look conscious of the fact. Jack was engaged in adjusting his own side-arm to his belt.

"I neglected to state, sir," continued Ensign Fullerton, "that we have no medical officer at present. A hospital steward down in sick bay is our nearest approach, at present, to a medical officer."

"Forewarned is forearmed," laughed Jack. "We'll try not to be ill."

It was time, now, to proceed to the quarterdeck; for, forward, the shrill sound of the boatswain's whistle seemed to fill the air.

Though all the crew, including the marines, had been summoned and formed at the mast, the inspection was but a matter of a moment. Its purpose was more to give the crew a glimpse of their new officers.

Just as the inspection was ending, a marine of the guard approached, announcing in a low tone:

"Telegram for the commanding officer, sir."

Ensign Fullerton received it, returning the marine's salute, and passed the envelope to Jack Benson, who opened it.

"Our sailing orders, Mr. Fullerton," announced Jack, as soon as the former had dismissed the formation at the mast. "This telegram gives, as you see, the latest reported position of the schooner believed to be the 'Juanita,' and her course. You will get under way at once, Mr. Fullerton. Then you and I will work out the course."

"This is the starboard watch, sir," continued the executive officer. "Which officer is to command it?"

"Mr. Hastings. Mr. Somers will take the port watch."

"Very good, sir. And I would suggest, sir, that Mr. Drake is an excellent pilot between here and the sea."

"Then direct Mr. Drake to take the bridge with the watch officer."

"Very good, sir."

"And, as soon as we are under way, Mr. Fullerton, come to my cabin and we will figure out our course more in detail."

"Very good, sir."

It was Ensign Fullerton, who, acting as executive officer, transmitted the needed orders to Hal, Eph and Midshipman Drake.

The three young officers now removed their swords, sending them by a marine orderly to their respective cabins. Hal took command from the bridge, subject to Fullerton's directions, while Jack, as commanding officer, also took his station there briefly. Eph, being free to do as he pleased for the time, went to his cabin to try to figure out whether he were dreaming.

Quickly the "Sudbury" left her anchorage, proceeding downstream. As soon as the start had been fairly made Ensign Fullerton reported at the cabin of the young commanding officer. They worked out on the chart the probable positions that the suspected schooner would take that afternoon.

"We should sight her at about five o'clock, sir, if she doesn't change her course, and if the wind holds the same," said Ensign Fullerton.

"If we get the right craft, first off, it will be a short cruise, won't it?" smiled Jack, rather wistfully.

"I -- I -- " began Ensign Fullerton, slowly, then paused.

"Well?" smiled Jack Benson.

"On second thought, I believe I had better not say what I started to say," replied the ensign.

"Oh, go ahead, Fullerton," urged Jack. "It isn't easy to wound my sensibilities."

"I was going to say, sir," replied the Ensign, flushing a bit, "that I quite understand how you feel about a short cruise. The sensation of holding a command in the United States Navy is one that you would not care to give up too soon."

"I was thinking of something of the sort," Benson admitted. "But -- see here! On one point my orders don't quite enlighten me. If the suspected schooner proves not to be the right are we to come back to report the fact?"

"If you were so to order," replied Fullerton. "Yet you do not need to. This vessel is equipped with wireless, and you are in instant communication, at every moment of the day and night, with the Navy Department at Washington."

"I'm glad of that," admitted Lieutenant Benson, frankly. "It will lessen the danger of my making a fool of myself during my first and last naval command."

"Not your last command, I hope," remarked the ensign.

"The only way I could get a permanent command," retorted Jack, "would be to get appointed to Annapolis, if I could, and then work through the long, long years for command rank."

"There are other ways," replied Ensign Fullerton, quietly. "And especially, if a war should break out. Young men trained as finely as you and your comrades, and showing as great talent, sir, would have no difficulty in reaching important rank in a war of the future, when so much must be risked on the submarine craft of which you young men are masters."

"We have run a few submarine boats, I suppose," nodded Benson. "But none of us has ever had the Annapolis training."

"Not all of the best American sea-fighters have come out of Annapolis, sir," replied Fullerton, soberly. "If a boy gets through Annapolis there's nothing wonderful in his making a fairly good officer. But my cap, sir, is off to boys who can come through the ordinary machine shop and qualify themselves to command submarine boats or anything else afloat!"

Then, dropping back to his ordinary manner, Fullerton saluted, next left the cabin to carry to the watch officer the orders for the course.

Lieutenant Jack Benson, briefly of the U.S. Navy, strolled out to the after deck for a short promenade. Here he was joined by Eph Somers, who, in his naval uniform, did not forget to salute before accosting the commanding officer of the U.S.S. "Sudbury."

"I'm really beginning to feel that I'm not dreaming," confided Eph, almost in a whisper. "Whee! but it's fine to be out on a craft so big that you don't get a cramp in your leg from walking! Say, do you know, Jack," he whispered, "I am almost crazy to see one of this ship's big guns fired!"

"You may have your wish," laughed Jack. "Who knows?"

Who knew, indeed?

How was it possible, for that matter, for any of these three young officers to guess what lay ahead of them?



Chapter XIV

The Bow Gun Booms And Eph Puts Off


In the nineteenth century, when a vessel left port, her destination unknown, that craft might get away from a pursuing squadron scattered over the seas.

At best, knowledge of a marine fugitive's whereabouts could be gained only from the masters of other vessels that had sighted the fugitive. Usually, such information must be delayed until the informing master of the sighting ship reached port.

In the twentieth century all is greatly changed.

A vessel bound for parts unknown, carrying some fugitive from justice, is sighted by some steamship that is equipped with a wireless telegraph outfit. Hours before, perhaps, the master of the steamship has been asked to keep a weather-eye open for a vessel that answers the name or description of the runaway craft. Now, she is sighted by the master of the steamship. Ten minutes later the authorities on shore know the exact whereabouts of the fleeing craft. Should she change her course wholly, her new whereabouts is soon after reported to land by the master of some other wireless equipped steamship.

Once upon a time the task of finding and overtaking a runaway vessel at sea presented innumerable difficulties. Nowadays, it is often necessary only that the pursuing craft possess sufficiently greater speed to overtake the easily located fugitive.

As the "Sudbury" turned out into the open sea that little gunboat was in instant communication with Washington, and also with any wireless equipped ocean traveler up to nearly half way across the great Atlantic.

At three o'clock the Navy Department at Washington reported to a gunboat out of sight of land that the last sighting of the supposed "Juanita" placed her on the same course as hitherto reported.

At four o'clock came word that the Navy Department had had no new report as to the schooner by wireless.

At five o'clock another wireless despatch was flashed through the air. Lieutenant Jack Benson, reading, discovered that the "Juanita" had again been sighted on the same course, headed for some port in the British West Indies.

At 5:20 Ensign Eph Somers, port watch officer of the "Sudbury," sent a marine orderly to report to Lieutenant Benson that a schooner's topmasts were within sight.

Benson hurried to the bridge, but found Ensign Fullerton there just ahead of him.

"We'll shape our course in straight pursuit of the schooner, Mr. Fullerton," decided Lieutenant Jack.

"Very good, sir."

As yet the schooner's topmasts were visible only from the military top. After a few minutes had passed, however, the vessel's masts were visible from the bridge.

"Does her rig look like that of the 'Juanita,' Mr. Somers?" questioned young Benson.

"I can't say, sir," Eph replied. "I didn't see her, at Cobtown, under sail. I shall have to wait until I can make out the hull, sir, before I can make even a good guess."

Smoke was pouring heavily from the "Sudbury's" two funnels by this time, for the gunboat was being pushed, under forced draught, to considerably better than twenty knots an hour. The schooner apparently was making between seven and eight knots an hour.

In a few minutes more the hull of the stranger began to show. Eph, with a pair of marine glasses to his eyes, studied the stranger long and carefully. Lieutenant Benson, knowing it would be folly to hasten his comrade's judgment, waited in silent patience.

"That craft looks very much like the 'Juanita,' sir," ventured Eph, at last. "In fact, sir, I think that's our schooner."

"Steer up to windward of her, then, Mr. Somers," Jack directed. "Mr. Fullerton, give orders to have the port bow gun manned. When the order is given, be prepared to fire a blank shot toward the schooner. If, after one minute, the schooner shows no signs of heaving to, then fire a solid shot across her bows."

"Very good, sir."

Without leaving the bridge Ensign Fullerton passed the word for the manning of the gun and loading with a blank cartridge.

There was a new, deeper glow in Eph Somers's eyes as he paced the bridge. He was to have, at last, his wish to see the "Sudbury" fire a shot.

In a few minutes more the "Sudbury" was ranging tip alongside the schooner, though a full quarter of a mile away to windward.

"Mr. Fullerton, fire the blank shot at the stranger," ordered Lieutenant Jack Benson.

"Aye, aye, sir."

The order was carried by a simple wave of the executive officer's hand. The petty officer in command behind the bow gun, looking for the signal, saw it and gave a low-toned order.

Bang! Eph was watching for it. His eyes danced as he heard the sharp explosion and saw the cloud of white smoke, with the tongue of fire spitting through the center of it. In most of us there is left some of the spirit of the old Norse pirate; Eph had a lot of it.

"The people on the schooner act as though they were bewildered," smiled Jack, watching the schooner through his glass. "It doesn't look as though they expected any such order from us. I wonder if they mean to obey?"

"Worse for them, if they don't," replied Ensign Fullerton, grimly. "A solid shot across the bows, and a shot through their rigging after that. What schooner has any chance to defy a ship of war?"

"There they go around," cried Jack, barely above his breath, "They'll heave to."

"Of course," smiled Fullerton. "Your orders, sir?"

"Lower the power launch. Send a corporal and four marines, and six sailors, armed, beside the boat-handlers. Mr. Somers will take command, as he's the only one of us who knows the fellow Gray by sight."

Ensign Fullerton accordingly transmitted the orders, also ordering Midshipman Drake up to the bridge to serve as watch officer in Eph's absence. Hal Hastings was asleep in his cabin at the time.

In the meantime the schooner continued "hove to," several men lining her starboard rail.

"Somehow, Mr. Fullerton," muttered Lieutenant Jack, after Eph had departed in the power launch with his boarding crew, "I'm not much inclined to think that's our schooner."

"Somers seemed to think so."

"Mr. Somers said it looked like the 'Juanita.' He's too careful to commit himself to more than that."

"We shall soon know, sir, anyway."

It is probable that Eph was disappointed that the schooner had been stopped by anything less than a round shot through her rigging. Yet, as he stood up in the stern of the launch, as it bounded over the waves, he felt a heap of satisfaction in the thought that he commanded the searching party, and that he did so by virtue of being an officer in the United States Navy. And this, too, was a form of duty in which Ensign Somers wore his sword at his side.

"I hope they're preparing a surprise for us," chuckled Eph, as he looked about him at his armed crew. "I hope the schooner's people will try some mean trick for us, or attempt to put up a fight. Whee!"

Yet none of these aggressive thoughts showed in the young Ensign's face. Eph knew his place, usually, and the amount of dignity that went with any place.

"Make fast alongside!" Eph sang out, as the launch rounded in alongside the schooner.

"What's wrong with the United States Navy, Midshipman?" came the jovial question from a bronzed, broad-shouldered, bearded man of fifty who appeared at the quarter rail, offering Eph a hand to aid him on board.

But Eph, disdaining the proffered hand, seized the rail, vaulting neatly on board. Then he straightened up.

"I am Ensign Somers, from the gunboat 'Sudbury.'"

"Ensign, eh?" muttered the schooner's master, looking in some bewilderment at Eph's boyish face. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Somers."

"What craft is this, sir?" Eph continued.

"Schooner 'Varia,' from New York, bound for Jamaica."

"We saw 'Varia' painted on your stern, of course," smiled Eph. "But was that name painted there during the night?"

"Sir?" demanded the skipper, in some astonishment. "Oh, I see, Ensign. Your commander thinks we may be sailing under false colors. Will you be kind enough to step down into my cabin?"

Here an elderly man, in yachting dress, stepped forward out of a group of sailors at the waist of the craft.

"This schooner is chartered to convey -- " he began, but Eph interposed, politely:

"Pardon me, sir, but I am talking with the captain only."

Then, turning toward the launch, Ensign Somers called:

"Corporal, board with your marines, and wait further orders."

Then Eph followed the captain below.

"The gentleman who spoke to you," explained Varia's master, "is Dr. Herman Barnard. He chartered the 'Varia' at New York for a West Indian cruise for himself and his family. Here are my papers, as master. Here is the 'Varia's' license to carry passengers, and here are our clearance papers, from New York to Jamaica."

The papers were all in regular order. Eph looked them over, noting that the master's name was Walford.

"I don't see anything wrong here, Captain Walford," Eph continued. "Where is your list of passengers?"

"Here, sir."

Eph glanced over the list, noting that besides Dr. Barnard, there were five other men passengers, besides Mrs. Barnard, her two daughters and one other woman.

"I shall have to ask you, Captain, to line your passengers up on deck," Eph continued.

"I had hoped to escape that annoyance, sir," protested the schooner's master. "The ladies were alarmed, and took to their staterooms."

"I am very sorry, Captain," Eph insisted, "but I must look over the passengers."

"Very good, then," sighed Captain Walford.

"And muster the crew forward. I must see on deck every person on this craft."

"Very good, sir."

Eph returned to deck, leaning against the starboard rail of the quarter deck. Below, he heard some sounds of remonstrance in feminine voices. Then, as a step sounded on the after companionway, and Eph straightened up, he heard a woman's voice say:

"United States Navy? I would call this a good deal more like piracy!"

"But, mamma -- "

"Hush, child!"

Mrs. Barnard, when she stepped on deck, looked as severe as her husband appeared mild.

Ensign Eph doffed his cap quickly to the ladies.

"I know this does not please you," he said, courteously, "but I will ask you to remember that I am acting under orders, and have no choice."

"It is outrageous to stop a pleasure craft in this fashion!" declared Mrs. Barnard, haughtily.

"Do you know why we are making this search, madam?" asked Eph, sweetly.

"Of course I don't," snapped the good lady.

"Then I marvel," replied Eph, with another bow, "that you can have an opinion of something that you don't understand."

One of the girls was so undutiful as to snigger. Thereupon, one of the young men joined in the laugh, which became so general that the severe expression on Mrs. Barnard's face softened considerably.

"Perhaps I owe you an apology, young man, for having spoken as I did of you," admitted the good lady.

"You only called us pirates," smiled Eph. "That wasn't much."

"Perhaps I said more than I should have said, young man," admitted Mrs. Barnard.

"Mamma, wouldn't it be better to address this officer by his title?" asked the elder of the girls. Then, turning to Eph, the same speaker inquired:

"May I ask your title? Are you a captain?"

"Only an ensign, miss," Eph replied, "and only an acting ensign at that."

While this brief conversation had been going on, the cook, stewards and watch below were being routed out. Now Captain Walford came aft to report:

"All hands on board, sir, have been turned out for your inspection."

"All?" insisted Eph.

"All, sir."

"Then, Captain Walford, I am going to do something that may appear very extreme, but I regret to say that I can't help it. I must search this craft. If I allowed one for whom we are seeking to slip through our fingers it would bring a lot of blame down about my head."

Eph now stepped back to the rail, ordering six of the sailors on board. To them he gave his orders. The party spread, going below. Eph, excusing himself to the ladies, went with the sailors.

No more thorough search could have been made. Every nook and cranny of the schooner was searched, but at last Eph was obliged to admit that the man he sought was not aboard.

"My apologies to everyone for all trouble caused," declared Ensign Somers. "I trust you will find it easy to believe that I have only been following my orders; and, therefore, doing my duty."

"You couldn't have done less, Ensign," replied Dr. Barnard, courteously. "You couldn't have been more courteous."

"Are we at liberty to proceed on our way, sir?" asked Captain Walford, as the young acting ensign went over the side.

"I shall have to ask you to take the signal for that from the 'Sudbury,'" Eph answered.

On the gunboat's quarter deck, following Ensign Somers's report, there was an anxious conference.

"If this is the craft we've been following all the time," muttered Jack Benson, "we've a lot of hunting yet ahead of us."

"Shall I signal the schooner permission to proceed, sir?" asked Ensign Fullerton.

"By all means."

Darkness came down over the ocean while Lieutenant Jack was sending a wireless despatch through the air to the Navy Department.



Chapter XV

"The Right Boat And The Right Crew!"


Three hours later, under a new order from Washington, the gunboat's launch stole in alongside of a second schooner that had been pursued, overhauled and brought to a standstill.

This craft, however, proved to be a Nova Scotian vessel, with papers all right, a cargo beyond suspicion and no sign of the fugitive Gray aboard.

When news of this second failure had been flashed to Washington, and twenty minutes more had passed, the instructions came back out of the ether:

"Cruise slowly about where you are. Await new instructions, which will go forward to you as soon as we have fresh, reliable information from any source. See that your own search light is freely used through the night."

"'Puss in the Corner,' at sea," muttered Lieutenant Benson. "And we ain't even find a corner."

An hour later the young commander of the "Sudbury" turned in. Hal was on the bridge.

The gunboat cruised along lazily at about eight knots an hour. For some time Hal paced the bridge indolently, while the sailor lookout, forward, manipulated the searchlight, sending its beam in wide circles over the waters.

It was within half an hour of the time of calling the new watch, in fact, when the bow watch reported:

"Sail dead ahead, sir!"

Barely more than a topsail could be made out, even through the marine glass of the young watch officer.

"Hold the light on her; we'll overtake and examine her, anyway," was Ensign Hastings's quick decision. From the bridge he gave orders for the engine room to go ahead with increased speed. While the gunboat was bounding off after the stranger, time came to call the port watch. Eph Somers came up to the bridge, somewhat sleepy.

"Same old story, I guess," yawned Eph. "Have you passed the word to the executive office?"

"Not yet," Hal replied. "I didn't believe it worth while to break the slumber of Mr. Fullerton, or of the commander, until we got close to see whether the stranger looks in the least like the 'Juanita.'"

"I don't believe the 'Juanita' is anywhere on this wide ocean," muttered Eph, stifling a yawn.

"It doesn't look that way," smiled Hastings.

Down before the wheelhouse a bell began to sound briskly.

"Eight bells; your watch, Mr. Somers," announced Hastings. "But I am going to remain on the bridge with you for a while. I want a look at that mud-hooker over yonder."

Within fifteen minutes more the gunboat was running fairly close, though off to starboard.

"That doesn't look even a little bit like the 'Juanita,'" muttered Ensign Eph, disgustedly. "Why, she's longer than the Cobtown schooner. Besides, the 'Juanita' is a two-sticker, while that hooker yonder has a third mast with a yawl-rig leg-o'-mutton sail."

Hal said nothing, but continued to study the stranger through his night-glass.

"She is a queer-looking hooker," muttered Hastings. "Say, Eph, somehow that boat doesn't look as though she was built to fit her own rig."

"Why not!" demanded Eph.

"Well, look at her length. Then take a peep at the height of her dory-mast. Does it look tall enough for the length of the schooner?"

"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Somers, also taking a careful look through the nightglass. "Jove, Hal, she is an odd-looking piece of hulk."

Eph turned to pass the order to run in still closer to the schooner.

"What's wrong with her stern-hull?" asked Ensign Somers, three or four minutes later.

"Looks like a patchwork affair," declared Hal, more interested than ever.

"Has she a built-on stern?" demanded Somers, half a minute later.

"By Jove, I half believe she has. Eph, without that stern and the yawl mast, would you say the craft looks like the 'Juanita'?"

"I believe she would," muttered young Somers, excitedly. "Marine orderly!"

A sea-soldier came quickly up the bridge stairs, saluting.

"Mr. Somers's compliments to Mr. Fullerton, and will the executive officer come to the bridge?"

Again saluting the marine vanished aft. It doesn't take a naval officer long to report, even when he has to rouse himself out of a sound sleep to do it.

Ensign Fullerton reached the bridge rubbing his eyes, but he listened intently to what the two younger ensigns had to say.

"Marine orderly!" called the executive officer. "Mr. Fullerton's compliments to the commanding officer, and will he come to the bridge?"

Barely a minute later, Jack Benson stood on the bridge, listening to his subordinate officers and staring across the gap of water at the unknown craft.

"Mr. Fullerton," directed the young commander, "prepare to fire a signal shot and to lower the power launch. Make up the boarding party as usual. Mr. Somers, you will go in command of the launch. And I will accompany you this time. Mr. Fullerton, when I leave the bridge, you will assume command."

Both officers, as they received their orders, saluted.

Bang! The signal gun barked out, the flash from the muzzle sending a long tongue of red through the darkness.

But the stranger continued on her way through the night. Ensign Fullerton regarded the young commanding officer of the gunboat expectantly.

"Put a solid shot across her bows, Mr. Fullerton."

Again the order was transmitted, with little noise. The gun-crew then awaited the signal from the executive officer.

Bang! This time the solid shot struck the water a bare fifty feet ahead of the strange craft's bows as she forged on through the waves, her bow stirring up a gleaming white foam.

"That ought to stop her!" muttered Lieutenant Jack Benson, impatiently.

"I don't believe it is going to, though, sir," reported Ensign Fullerton, studying the other vessel through his night-glass. "I don't see a sign of motion on the stranger's decks."

"Load again with solid shot, then," directed the gunboat's young commander. "This time hit her square in the fore-rigging."

"I'll step below and sight the piece myself," replied Ensign Fullerton.

A few moments later the executive officer reported the port bow gun in readiness for service.

"Fire whenever you are ready, Mr. Fullerton," called Lieutenant Jack, in a low voice.

Bang! barked the bow gun, a moment later. Over aboard the stranger there was a crash, a tearing sound, and then her foretopmast toppled, hanging loosely in place by the stays.

"That'll stop her, I reckon." chuckled Jack Benson.

And "stop her" it did. There was no choice but to stop. This gunboat of the United States Navy was in a position to shoot every standing stick out of the schooner, if provoked too far, and the legal right to go to such lengths existed.

"Stranger is heaving to, sir," reported Ensign Somers.

"Very good, Mr. Somers. Order the power launch lowered. Put off as quickly as possible."

"Very good, sir."

Ensign Fullerton hastened back to the bridge, to assume command, while Hal hastings stood by him.

Boat-handlers and armed sailors and marines scampered over the side. Down the gangway followed Jack and Eph, looking very stately as they held their swords clear of their legs. Busily the launch chugged across the intervening water gap.

"Schooner, ahoy!" hailed Eph, as the launch ran in alongside "What craft is that?"

"Schooner 'Malta,' Cooper, master, from Sidney, N.S.," came the reply of a man at the after rail.

"Seems to me I've seen you before, in Cobtown!" suddenly exclaimed Eph Somers, as he leaped over the rail in advance of his marines.

"C-Cob -- town?" demanded the schooner's master, falteringly.

"By the great Constitution! We've caught the 'Juanita' in disguise!" bellowed back Ensign Eph, turning to Jack Benson, who was just boarding. "See! There's the false stern structure."

"You're making a huge mistake of some sort, gentlemen!" protested the vessel's master, tremulously.

"Marines, lay aboard," thundered Eph. "Take the deck, Corporal. Round up all the crew you see, and make 'em stand at attention along one of the seams of the deck! Sailors aboard, you down any man who tries to block or balk you. Lively, now! I've seen this master in Cobtown, and I'll take my oath this is the 'Juanita' with a pieced-out, false stern and a faked third mast!"

"We hold you responsible for the deck, Corporal," spoke Jack, in a low tone to the noncommissioned officer of marines. "We're going to take the sailors and go below."

A rush was made for the companionway leading down into the schooner's cabin. A man's white, scared face showed below, for a moment.

"Hurrah!" yelled Eph Somers, drawing his sword and making a bound below "There's Brother Gray. Oh, we've the right boat -- and the right crowd, too!"



Chapter XVI

The Duel Through The Door


Bang!

A stateroom door closed just before the two young officers reached it.

Click! That told the story of a bolt shot into place.

"You may as well open!" called Jack, coolly. "We have ample force for breaking down that door!"

Crack! In that confined space the discharge of a pistol sounded almost deafening. A line of red shot through the stateroom door. The bullet from the weapon whizzed between Jack Benson and Eph Somers, the missile burying itself in wood across the passage.

Crack! Crack!

With that desperate fellow the other side of the door, shooting through the key-hole, it was worse than folly to remain in line of range.

Yet Jack and Eph retorted coolly, with the dignity of officers.

"My man," requested Lieutenant Jack, turning to one of the sailors, "hand me your revolver."

Taking the weapon, Benson glanced at it a second or two, then raised the weapon, sighting for the top of the stateroom door.

Bang! The shot that Jack fired sent a bullet crashing through the door close to the upper framework.

"You see, Gray!" Jack called coolly, "we're armed, too, and in overpowering numbers. Resistance is worse than foolish."

Bang! came the hostile answer.

This shot was fired through one of the panels of the stateroom door -- fired at an angle, too.

Plainly the shot was intended to hit the young naval lieutenant. It passed Benson's right side by a margin of barely two inches.

"Pass me another revolver," whispered Benson, in the stillness that followed.

All through the day and evening these seamen, though outwardly respectful, and wholly well disciplined, had cherished a great deal of amusement over their boyish officers.

Now, however, these bronzed men of the deep beheld Benson and Somers at work in a manner worthy of any product of Annapolis.

The second revolver was handed to Jack.

"I want to be in this, too," muttered Ensign Eph, and held back his hand for weapons.

"Are you going to surrender, Gray, and open that door?" demanded Lieutenant Jack.

"Never -- to you," came the ugly defiance.

Bang! Again Gray fired, straight in the direction of the voice the bullet, crashing through a panel of the door, fanned Jack's left ear so that he felt the breeze.

"Open up on him, Mr. Somers," directed Benson. "Slowly. Fire high, and fire low. Try to get him somehow."

Two more shots came from the other side of the locked door.

Then pop-pop-pop! began the fusilade from outside, Jack and Eph firing with either hand as they sighted their weapons for new spots.

R-r-rip! crash! A long enough bombardment of this sort was certain to reduce the panels to splinters and leave the way clear -- if they didn't riddle Gray with bullets in the meantime.

Pop-pop-pop! The air was becoming heavy with the white fog of smoke. Breathing was somewhat difficult, with so many shots being fired in the confined space.

Then both young officers stopped, passing back one revolver apiece to be reloaded.

Bang! came a defiant shot from inside the stateroom. The bullet struck the cabin floor just behind Jack, having passed between his feet.

The sailors, back where they were comparatively safe from harm, looked on in admiration at these two grit-full young American officers.

Pop-pop-pop! began the fusilade by Jack and Eph again.

"Ouch!" came a sudden yell from the stateroom.

"Hit you, did we?" called Jack, calmly. "Well, we're going to riddle you unless you stop that nonsense."

The answer was another shot from inside the stateroom. The bullet clipped off a stray lock of hair at the left side of Eph Somers's head.

Both young officers fired slowly, searchingly, until their weapons were emptied. Then they passed the hot smoking revolvers back for new loads.

From the other side of the stateroom door came no sound.

As soon as he and Eph had received the reloaded weapons, Jack motioned Eph Somers not to fire.

For a few moments they listened. Then Jack turned, selecting the two most stalwart-looking of the husky sailors back by the companionway. A nod of Jack's head brought them stealthily to his side.

"Put your shoulders to the stateroom door, and force it," commanded Lieutenant Benson.

At the same time Jack and Eph moved up with the sailors, holding their revolvers ready to fire at the first sign of renewed hostilities from within.

Bump! Two pairs of sturdy shoulders went up against the door. From within there came no sign of defiance. Bump! At the second determined assault the door flew open.

"Step back, men! We'll go in first," commanded Lieutenant Benson.

Revolvers in hand, and ready, the two young officers of the "Sudbury" pressed forward into the battered-looking room.

"Where is the rascal?" growled Eph Somers.

"Here, hiding like a cornered rat," replied Jack, aiming both revolvers at a huddled figure well in under the lower berth. "Come out, Gray! You won't be hurt unless you try tricks on us."

The answer was a groan.

"Are your hurt?" inquired Lieutenant Benson.

"Yes."

"How badly?"

"You hit me twice."

"Where?"

"Once in the left arm; once in the right thigh. O-o-o-h!"

Jack Benson felt a swift twinge -- almost a guilty jerk of his conscience.

To be sure, Gray had been defying properly appointed officers of the government engaged in performing their sworn task. Gray had attempted to kill or injure the young officers.

Still, Gray was a human being. Benson, despite his fighting spirit, at need, was not fond of gazing upon misery.

"I guess you can get out, with a little aid," coaxed Lieutenant Jack.

Gray's answer was another groan.

"We'll help you out, then," Jack continued. "But don't you dare to open fire upon any of our party!"

"I would, if I could," snarled the wounded man.

"Why can't you?"

"Fired my last cartridge!" snapped the wretch, defiantly. "Else you wouldn't have got in here without losing a few men!"

Jack signed to the two men who had forced the door to lend a hand in moving Gray out from under the berth. As they got the wounded man out on the carpet he presented a sad picture in his bloodstained clothing.

"Will the Lieutenant pardon a suggestion?" spoke up one of the sailors, saluting.

"Yes."

"I have a first aid package, sir. With some help I can, bind this man's wounds until we get him over to the sick bay on the 'Sudbury.'"

"A fine idea," agreed Lieutenant Jack. "Go ahead."

First of all, the wounded prisoner was taken out into the passageway. Jack and Eph had yet important work to do here. For a few minutes they searched in vain. Then, in turning over the lower berth's mattress, Eph's hand touched something hard.

"Wait until I get my pocket-knife out," he smiled.

Rip! r-r-r-r-rip! As Ensign Eph tore open the mattress and thrust his hands inside, the grin on his face broadened.

"I reckon we've got the object of the whole expedition," he announced.

He drew out a package wrapped in heavy paper. Jack broke the string, unwrapping, and pulling out to the light, a bundle of charts, layer upon layer.

"Yes. Here we have what we're after," nodded Lieutenant Benson. "And here are two books written chock-full of notes to go with the charts. Gracious! That fellow. Millard must have stolen plans of every important fortified harbor on the Atlantic coast. And here are charts of some of the gulf ports as well."

Gray, his wounds bound, had been laid on the door of the stateroom, which had been taken from its hinges. On this stretcher, the prisoner was taken over the side into the launch.

"Who's going to pay for the damage done here, sir?" asked the skipper of the Cobtown schooner, stepping forward.

"Hm!" muttered Jack. "It seems to me you are lucky, my man, that we don't put a prize crew aboard this craft and take you back to Norfolk."

"I haven't done anything," protested the fellow, "except to stand for a lot of damage on board because you're backed by sailors and marines."

"My man," retorted Jack, grimly, "if you think you have suffered any unfair damage, then lay your case before the Navy Department. But my private advice is for you not to attract the attention of the authorities to you in case they seem likely to overlook you."

"Is my vessel at liberty to proceed?" inquired the man, sullenly.

"Yes; I have no orders to seize your craft. I'd like to, however," Lieutenant Jack Benson added, dryly.



Chapter XVII

The Last Hour Of Command


Through the night the "Sudbury" rolled lazily over the waves.

A wireless message had carried the news through space to Washington. Orders had come to return to Norfolk, there turning Gray over to the United States authorities.

Benson and his comrades were instructed to return to Washington with the charts and record books.

Down in a berth in the sick bay, lay Gray. The hospital steward had made the wounded man as comfortable as possible. The latter was painfully but not seriously wounded.

At the speed at which the gunboat was now proceeding the "Sudbury" was due at anchorage at six in the morning.

Lieutenant Jack had turned in, after leaving orders that he was to be called a few minutes before five. He wanted to be on deck to enjoy the sensations of his last hour of command on the cruise of a vessel of the United States Navy. Forward, the sailors of the watch were talking in low tones of their very youthful officers.

"There's the real stuff in those boy officers, mates," grunted one sailor who had been in the boarding party. "It don't make any difference whether they've been through Annapolis or not. Look at the way the lieutenant and Mr. Somers went up against the shooting. Kept us back, and took the medicine themselves, like real officers."

"You'd expect it of Somers," rejoined another sailor. "There's a bit of the bull-neck about him, and such men always fight. But the lieutenant makes a real officer that I'd be glad to foller anywhere."

"Mr. Hastings didn't get a chance to show what was in him," suggested another of Uncle Sam's old salts.

"Oh, you leave Mr. Hastings alone for fighting, if he saw any need to," retorted the sailor who had been the first to speak. "He's one of your very quiet chaps. Your quiet ones always sail into a fight while a brawler is getting his mouth wound up to do some talking."

"Hanged, if I don't wish them lads could remain on board!" muttered another old salt.

"With the young lieutenant to command the ship?" asked another.

"Him as well as anyone. He knows what he's doing, for which reason I don't care for the number of the year he was born in. Why, mates, the lieutenant is the head of them submarine boys we've read so much about in the newspapers when layin' in port. And the other two are his messmates. Now, I'll stand for it that the submarine boys are good for any kind of a job on salt water. I'd foller their lead on a battleship!"

It would have been fine for the three submarine boys had they been able to know what great opinions the crew held of them.

But Hal was again on the bridge in the last watch, and Eph had gone below for an hour's sleep ere he, like Jack Benson, was to be called.

Then, at last, two sleepy-eyed boys came from their cabins, going up to the bridge for what they felt was their last hour of real sea-glory.

Ensign Fullerton appeared half an hour before anchorage was made.

"You have the satisfaction, sir, of knowing that your task was put through in record time," said Fullerton, by way of congratulation.

"For which I'm truly glad," smiled Benson. "Yet I could wish our experience with the Navy had not ended so soon."

"Why, it hasn't ended yet, sir," smiled the executive officer.

"It will, in a few minutes more, however," sighed Jack. "My last official act will be to order the gig into the water to take us on shore. We're under orders to take the next train for Washington, you know."

"Very true," smiled Ensign Fullerton. "But, sir, you are commanding officer of the 'Sudbury,' no matter where you may be, until you receive an order to relinquish command. Also, sir, your present appointments as officers in the service run until the orders appointing you are revoked."

"But that will all happen before the day is much older," replied Jack, with a forced smile.

It was going to come harder than he had thought, after this brief taste of real naval life, to give it all up!

No sooner had the "Sudbury" let go her anchors than Jack called for the gig. He and his comrades hurried below, doffing their uniforms, which went back into the dress suit cases. Then, in citizen dress, with their precious swords again wrapped in chamois skin, the three submarines went over the side.

There was the same ceremony, however, which had attended their coming aboard. The marine guard turned out, presenting arms as Lieutenant Jack Benson passed to the side gangway. Ensign Fullerton and Mr. Drake stood by to salute Jack, and to receive his formal acknowledgment of their courtesy.

Their feet touched the bottom of the gig. They seated themselves, and the short row to the landing stage commenced.

On the landing stage stood an orderly, who promptly saluted.

"The Commandant's compliments to Lieutenant Benson, and will the Lieutenant and his comrades report at the Commandant's office."

Early as the hour was, the commandant was at his desk, in uniform, and received the young officers most graciously.

"Mr. Benson, and gentlemen," declared the commandant of the navy yard, "you have done your work well, and as quickly as it could have been done. I congratulate you. The Secretary of the Navy, I believe, will thank you personally, It was splendidly done. And now, if you will come around to the officers' club with me, you will find that your breakfasts have been ordered. It will be an hour and a half, yet, before it will be necessary for me to furnish you with the carriage that will convey you to the railway station."

In the presence of this much older officer the lads did not attempt to make too merry at breakfast. Seated in the dining room of the officers' mess, they listened respectfully to whatever the commandant saw fit to discuss.

The meal was about over when a marine orderly entered, crossed the dining room, stopped at a respectful distance, and saluted.

"Telegram, sir."

The commandant received the envelope, drawing out the sheet it contained.

"Lieutenant Benson, this will interest you and your comrades," pursued the commandant.

"The order revoking my command of the gunboat," thought Jack. Oddly enough, though he expected it, knew it must happen, the arrival of the moment brought a strange sinking at heart.

"I wonder how on earth it could have happened?" pursued the commandant, his eyes again turned toward the paper. "Millard has escaped from Fort Craven, and, so far, has eluded recapture!"



Chapter XVIII

Eph Bets An Anchor Against A Fish-Hook


"The government possesses the fellow's charts and notes, anyway," observed Jack Benson, rather proudly.

"Yes, thanks to you, gentlemen," nodded the commandant. "Still, I fancy the authorities, will be fearfully annoyed over this escape."

"There are no particulars, sir, you say?" queried Jack.

"No; the mere announcement of the fellow's escape, and a request to military and naval authorities to be on the lookout for the fugitive The despatch also states that description will follow by wire."

"We can give you a pretty fair word-portrait of Millard right now, sir," offered Lieutenant Benson.

"And I wish you would."

Jack proceeded to do so. He had about finished, when the carriage stopped punctually before the door of the officers' club. The commandant took cordial leave of his young guests, after which they were driven to the railway station. Just a little later they found themselves leaning back in parlor car seats, bound for Washington.

Most of the way back the youngsters dozed in their chairs. Now, that the excitement was over, all felt need of rest.

Not even at the railway station in Washington could they escape the watchfulness of the Navy Department. The same messenger who, the day before, had handed them their copies of the Regulations, now met Benson with a note.

"The Secretary will not be at his office until one o'clock this afternoon," announced Lieutenant Jack, looking up from the order. "We are directed to report at that hour."

"What shall we do until then?" demanded Eph, blankly, when the messenger had departed.

"Why, since we're still in the service," laughed Jack, "and as I've heard that the Arlington is much patronized by Navy officers, suppose we treat ourselves to a carriage, go to the Arlington and register. That will be the last grand feeling we'll get out of this."

His comrades rather merrily agreed. So, a few minutes later, the trio marched through the lobby of the Arlington to the desk. Jack picked up a pen, and registered:

"John Benson, U.S.N."

Hal and Eph followed suit. Then they were led to their connecting rooms.

"We'll have luncheon at half-past eleven," smiled Lieutenant Jack, as he dropped into an easy chair. "In the service one never knows when his next meal is coming."

"Good!" chuckled Hal, though there was a sad ring to his tone. "Keep up as long as you can, old fellow, the fiction that we're still in the naval service."

"Well, aren't we?" demanded Jack, stoutly.

"Surely," assented Hal, meekly.

"Say," demanded Eph, taking out notebook and pencil, "what is an ensign's pay, anyway?"

"Seventeen hundred dollars a year," replied Benson.

"I don't suppose the Navy Department will try to spring less than a day's pay on us," hinted Eph. "If that's right, then the government now owes me three hundred and sixty-five into seventeen hundred. Let me see -- "

"Oh, cut it!" laughed Hal.

"What? My pay?" demanded Eph, "Not much, sir! I want the only money I ever really earned."

"One of us ought to drop Mr. Farnum a line," hinted Jack, presently.

"Oh, well, let Hal do it," offered Eph. "He carries the only fountain pen in the crowd."

Without a word Hastings crossed to a table on which were envelopes and paper, and began to write. Perhaps he welcomed something to occupy his mind; for, truth to tell, each of these submarine boys had a woefully "blue" feeling. Though all were naval officers, still, at this moment, all realized that they would cease to be such as soon as they had received the thanks of the Secretary of the Navy. However, "blue" as all three felt, none of them hung back when half-past eleven arrived. They descended to the dining room, where they refreshed themselves heartily.

The meal over, there was just about enough time left for them to walk comfortably to the Navy Department.

They had walked a couple of blocks of the way when Hal suddenly felt the stamped letter in his pocket. He drew it out, and glanced hurriedly down the avenue.

"I don't see a letter-box ahead, fellows, but I saw one, half-way down the block, at the last corner we passed. You two keep right on. I'll join you."

Presently Jack and Eph halted in their walk to look back.

"Where is Hal?" demanded Somers.

"He can't have lost us," muttered Jack.

"Oh, I guess he has simply taken a short cut to meet us ahead on the way."

Yet, though they continued to look for their comrade until they had neared the State, War and Navy Building, Hal Hastings had not again appeared in sight.

"Say, but this is fearfully careless of good old Hal," muttered Jack Benson, uneasily, as he glanced at his watch. "We've no time to go back to look for him, either, for we've barely time to reach the Secretary's office."

"We'll have to go in without Hal, then," grumbled Eph. "It makes me feel like a fool, too!"

Had the two lads but known it, there was still plenty of time. For the Secretary of the Navy may make an appointment with an understrapper, and then find that he must first see some more important personage.

There were "big" callers ahead of the boys that day, so that it was nearly two o'clock when Lieutenant Jack and Ensign Eph were admitted to the presence that they were to leave shorn of their brief rank and command.

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant Benson. Good afternoon, Mr. Somers," was Secretary Sanders's swift greeting. "You were most successful, and I must congratulate you heartily. But -- where is Mr. Hastings?"

"We don't know, Mr. Secretary," Jack admitted. "He left us for a short time, as we thought, and, since then -- "

Mr. Sanders wheeled sharply as the door opened and a clerk came in.

"Pardon me, sir," apologized the clerk. "But a note has just come for Lieutenant Benson, sir, and the messenger was insistent that it was a most important matter -- "

"You may take your note and read it, Lieutenant," suggested the Secretary of the Navy.

Young Benson gave a start when he recognized, in the address, the handwriting of Hal Hastings.

In another instant Jack gave a much more violent start. For these were the words that met his astounded gaze.

"Dear Jack: I am in a Washington police station, feeling like a number-one idiot. Soon after leaving you I ran into Millard, face to face, There was a policeman within two hundred feet at the moment. I let out a full siren yell and dashed at Millard. He held on to me until the policeman reached the spot. I let him hold me, thinking that the easiest way. But Millard produced a paper -- a request from the military authorities at Fort. Craven, to arrest and hold anyone pointed out by the bearer. I talked -- some -- to that policeman, but it did no good. He took me to the station house, and here I am! Millard vanished, after saying that he'd wire the news of my arrest to Fort Craven. You'll have to explain me out of this. Yours disgustedly, Hal."

"May I read this to you, Mr. Secretary?" begged Jack Benson.

"Do so, Lieutenant."

"I will be back in a moment," muttered the Secretary of the Navy, rising, and hastily quitting the room.

The instant that high official was gone Eph caught at his sides with his hands.

"Oh, wow! Woof! Umpah!" chuckled young Somers, his face distorted with glee. "Some one catch me! I'm choking! Great Scott, what wouldn't I have given to see that? Hal, the quiet, the dignified? Oh, dear! Oh, dear. Hal pounces on the fellow, to arrest him, and Hal is the one who gets pinched Woo-oo! I can see Hal's face right now I'll wager an anchor to a fish-hook that the astonished look is stamped on Hal's face so hard that it won't come off for a week. Oh -- woof!"

Eph was laughing so hard that the tears streamed down his face.

"Quit that!" commanded Jack, stepping over to his comrade, his own face stern. "It's no laughing matter."

"Why, they won't hang Hal!" sputtered Eph, as soon as he could talk. "Hal will be at liberty almost at once. But fancy the shock! Imagine the dear old fellow's astonishment, and the jolt to his feelings."

Again Eph Somers went off into a paroxysm of laughter. It seemed uncontrollable, for Eph had a strong sense of the ludicrous, and Hal's face, as Somers pictured it, must have been a tremendously funny sight at the instant when Millard so neatly turned the tables.

"Come, quit your nonsense!" grumbled Jack, disgustedly.

"I can't," roared Eph, going off into still another burst of laughter.

Just at that instant Somers gave himself the lie. The door opened, admitting the Secretary of the Navy. In a fraction of a second Ensign Eph had straightened up, while his face was solemn enough for an Indian chief's countenance.

"I have just been straightening out that little matter," explained Mr. Sanders. "I have talked with the police, and have described Hastings. The police are in deep chagrin over their blunder. Mr. Hastings is now at liberty and on his way here."

At a motion from Mr. Sanders the two young officers seated themselves. The Secretary turned to his desk to sign some papers.

From Eph, suddenly, came a suppressed, explosive sound. Jack seated beside him on a sofa gave Somers an indignant elbow jab. The Secretary glanced up, then resumed his writing.

A minute later there came from Eph the sound of another smothered explosion. The picture of Hal Hastings's indignant astonishment had once more been conjured up before young Somers's face. Poor Eph was red in the face with all the effort of keeping back his laughter.

"I fear you must have caught some cold, standing watch on the gunboat's bridge," said the Secretary, sympathetically.

That sobered Somers in an instant. The notion that he -- he a sea-dog accustomed to stand watch in all weathers, could catch cold through exposure of the kind just mentioned made Eph feel a sense of ghastly humiliation.

Five minutes later Ensign Hal Hastings was shown into the office. The Secretary of the Navy greeted him kindly, though with a twinkle in his eyes.

"The paper that caused my trouble was one that was taken from Mr. Benson when he couldn't help himself," Hal explained. "For some reason, the military authorities never discovered that Millard had that paper about him. It was enough to save him from arrest an hour ago."

"And Millard is still at large," nodded Mr. Sanders. "It's a matter for the military authorities and the Secret Service, I imagine. I don't see how the Navy can be drawn into it. However, I am going to ask you young gentlemen to retain your special appointments a little longer. I may yet have considerable need of you in this affair. You are stopping at the Arlington? Perhaps, for this afternoon, you would enjoy going over to the United Service Club, where you are likely to meet a good many Army and Navy officers. I will send some one along with you who will see to it that you have ten-day cards at the club."

At any other time this all would have meant to Jack Benson that he was still an officer in the Navy. Just now, however, it meant that Millard was at large, and Benson had a strong notion that it would yet fall to the lot of the submarine boys to put that wretch where he belonged.



Chapter XIX

Jack's Caller At The United Service Club


"Ho-ho! Haw-haw! Woof!"

Eph found himself started again, the very instant the boys found themselves in the lower corridor of the building.

"Let him alone," uttered Jack, scornfully. "The poor fellow had better work it all out of his system."

"But, Hal, your face -- when the policeman took you, on Millard's complaint!" sputtered Somers, next going off into another burst of laughter.

"It didn't seem funny, at the time," returned Hal Hastings, quietly.

"Ho-ho! Haw! Of course, not. Say, Hal, can you do me a tremendous favor? Can you look, just for a moment, the way you did when that blue-coat pinched you?"

Hal began to laugh, despite the fact that his loss of Millard still rankled under his quiet outside.

"Now, hush up," warned Benson, suddenly. "Here comes Lieutenant Ulwin, who has undertaken to present us at the United Service Club. Idiots are barred from the club, you know, Eph."

By a great exercise of will power Eph managed to straighten his face by the time that the lieutenant overtook them. They entered a cab. By this time the young naval officers were beginning to understand that it is the usual custom to go about Washington in a carriage.

"Have you ever been at a Service Club before?" inquired their guide.

"We breakfasted at the club at Norfolk this morning?" Jack answered.

"Your acquaintance with our Service clubs is not very large, then?"

"We have also been at the club at Fort Craven."

"Oh!" smiled Lieutenant Ulwin. "I guess you gentlemen have been about a little more in the two branches of the service, than I had suspected. You have seen the officers of both the Army and the Navy at play?"

"Mostly at table, I should say," laughed Benson.

"The club is the only place where we can go and get away from shop-talk," continued Ulwin. "As a rule the Army and Navy men at our club do not talk much shop. It may be different to-day, however."

"Why to-day?" asked Jack.

"Because -- well, you see, I am introducing three rather famous strangers to-day."

"Meaning -- " began Hal, quietly.

"You young gentlemen, of course. The whole nation has heard much about the submarine boys. Yet it is in the Army and the Navy, after all, that the deepest, most abiding interest in you exists."

"This red spot on my cheek isn't a blush," explained Ensign Eph, suddenly. "It's where a mosquito bit me."

"I am not joking," replied Ulwin, with a friendly smile. "All the officers of the Navy know about you by this time."

"They'll be greatly disappointed, when they see us, then, won't they?" laughed Hal Hastings.

"Now, see here," protested Eph, earnestly, "I can stand a good deal. But, if they see us walking around the club, and ask who left the lid off the can of shrimps -- I'll fight!"

Ulwin laughed heartily.

"I shall have to pass the word to our worst jokers," he smiled, "that it won't be safe for the fellow who starts in to tease you young men."

"Why, if anyone does start, we've got to keep our tongues behind our teeth," returned Hal. "We're only boys -- kids -- and we can't say anything smart to men who have been a good many years in the service."

"You can answer back, if anyone starts to have any fun with you," replied Lieutenant Ulwin. "Remember, a club is where all men stand on an equal footing. If an admiral gets after you, you will do well to swallow any witticism he may try on you. But with any officer below an admiral you don't have to be so careful."

Eph Somers immediately began to look thoughtful. Now, Eph did know how to say caustic things when occasion seemed to demand.

"Here we are," announced Lieutenant Ulwin, suddenly, as the cab stopped before the club building.

Hal went in at Ulwin's side. Jack gripped Eph by the elbow, pulling the auburn-haired one back a few paces.

"Now, see here, Eph, remember that we don't want any funny answers inside."

"But Ulwin says -- "

"You listen to what I'm saying, Eph. I've known you longer than Mr. Ulwin has. Just remember that we're boys -- b-o-y-s -- boys. Not one of us is quite eighteen yet. If we've gained a little fame for five minutes, we mustn't begin to imagine that we're eight feet high and on a par with men forty years old. So be careful, Eph. If anyone starts to have any fun with you, come back at him a different way."

"How?" whispered Eph.

"Look stupid."

"What?"

"Look stupid."

"I don't see much in that."

"Why, it's the funniest answer possible; and, besides, it isn't fresh or forward."

"How do you make that out?" Eph inquired.

"Why, Eph, boy, if you're half as famous as you may think you are, then folks will know you can't be stupid. So, if you pretend to be, you'll have everyone guessing what you mean by looking that way. On the other hand, if you look stupid, and no one is surprised, then you'll discover that that's just the way the crowd had you sized up in advance."

"I see," nodded Eph, but it was plain that Jack's almost direct command was not wholly pleasing to Somers.

The two comrades now caught up with Ulwin and Hal at the elevator.

"We'll go up to the reading room, first," proposed Lieutenant Ulwin. "That's where the afternoon crowd is usually found."

Anyone who had been looking for "color" or pomp would have been disappointed. The only uniforms in sight were those worn by two bell boys. The officers of the Army and Navy present were all in citizen dress. They looked like a lot of cheerful, prosperous business men.

"Hullo, Ulwin, what are you doing with my friends from Dunhaven?" eagerly called one young man, rising hastily and coming forward. "Benson, I'm glad to see you. And you, Hastings. And you, Somers."

"Didn't know you knew the young gentlemen, McCrea," broke in Ulwin.

"Don't know them? When they made me the laughing-stock of every mess-room crowd in the Navy for months!" retorted McCrea.

Jack, Hal and Eph were shaking hands with the speaker with a good deal of pleasure.

It was Lieutenant McCrea, one-time watch officer on the battleship "Luzon." At one time McCrea had doubted that submarine boats were, in all respects, as wonderful craft as was claimed. The submarine boys had paid him back in most laughable fashion. Lieutenant McCrea, at one time, had felt himself much aggrieved over the wholesome teasing of his brother officers in consequence; but he had long since learned to accept the whole incident as a good and deserved joke.

Now, McCrea stood wringing the hands of the boys as though he had found long-lost friends.

"What are you doing these days?" McCrea wanted to know. "Anything besides testing new boats at Dunhaven?"

"You must greet them as comrades, McCrea," continued Lieutenant Ulwin.

"What? Cadets at Annapolis?"

In this case McCrea wondered at their being there, for cadets would be considered forward who visited an officers' club.

"Benson is a lieutenant, his friends ensigns," replied Ulwin.

"Come, come!" laughed McCrea. "I'm easy -- these boys know that. But don't tell me -- "

"Fact, though," replied Ulwin. "They hold special appointments, for some special duty or other. I'm here, at the direction of the Navy Department, to introduce these young brother officers of ours, and to procure ten-day cards for them."

By this time the news had spread. A score of officers, young or middle-aged, were crowding about. Ulwin had his hands full introducing the submarine boys. Yet they stood the ordeal well. The habit of command, based on discipline, had given these boys plenty of poise and self-possession. Nor were any attempts made, at that time, to have any good-humored fun with them. Half a dozen officers representing foreign navies were present. These, too, came in for introductions. The foreigners were, mainly, military or naval officers attached to foreign embassies at Washington.

"By Jove, Benson, I've had it in mind, for some time, that I wanted to meet you and grasp your hand," murmured Lieutenant Abercrombie, of the British Navy, as he drew Lieutenant Jack to one side. "By Jove, old fellow, I want to meet you soon and have a good old talk all by ourselves."

"That will be most agreeable to me," nodded Jack, pleasantly.

"And your comrades, too," added Abercrombie. "You know, you're already known on the other side. Fact, I assure you. Only the other day I picked up a London magazine and read quite an account of the doings of you three. I was especially interested in an account of how you three discovered a way of leaving a submarine at the bottom and swimming to the surface; then diving and re-entering the craft while she's still on the bottom. But your method is a secret, I suppose?"

"Yes," smiled Jack. "At least, the American Navy alone shares the secret with us."

"Oh, I'm not asking it, you know, old fellow," Lieutenant Abercrombie assured him.

"Is Mr. Benson here?" called a bell-boy, from the doorway.

"Very much so," replied Lieutenant Ulwin, dryly.

"May I give you a message, sir?" asked the bell-boy, coming closer.

After excusing himself, Benson stepped aside with the boy. Yet the latter spoke loudly enough for several to overhear.

"There's a lady, downstairs at the door, would like to see you, sir. She says it is very, very important, sir."

"Did she give any name?" inquired astonished Jack.

"No, sir; she begged you would overlook that, sir, and just step down to the door for a few moments."

"All right; I'll go," nodded Benson. "But it looks queer."

Excusing himself to his host, Ulwin, and to some of the officers with whom he had been chatting, the leader of the submarine boys went quickly to the coat-room for his hat, then descended in the elevator.

"Vairee strange place, zis, for a lady to follow a zhentleman -- to hees club," drawled a French captain.

One or two of the others laughed, imagining that this was some flirtation in which the submarine boy had been engaged. But Eph flared up a bit, looking very red, as he muttered:

"It's only fair to tell you, gentlemen, that we submarine boys don't appreciate jokes at the expense of the finest fellow who ever lived -- Mr. Jack Benson!"

"Good boy" murmured Teal.

Yet, when an hour had slipped by, and Benson had not returned, even his loyal comrades began to wonder a good deal. From that frame of mind they passed on, at the end of another hour, to worry.



Chapter XX

The Girl In The Cab


As Jack reached the door of the United Service Club he found no one at the doorway.

"That's strange," he muttered.

But in another moment he looked down the street. A hundred feet away stood a closed cab. From it a woman leaned, beckoning slightly.

Had she been veiled, Jack would have been instantly suspicious.

But her face showed, and it was a young, fresh, pretty and wholesome looking face.

"I don't know her, but she is very evidently a lady," thought Jack Benson, quickly.

Accordingly, he stepped along the sidewalk, lifting his hat courteously as he neared the vehicle.

"You are Mr. Benson?" inquired the young woman.

"Yes, madam."

"I trust you will pardon my calling here, and sending you a message. But it was very urgent that I see you at once -- how urgent you cannot yet understand."

"I am here, madam," Jack replied; not knowing what else to say.

"I am going to make another strange request of you."

"It is granted in advance, if possible."

"Will you step inside with me, and drive a little way?" inquired the young woman.

Jack glanced quickly at her. Her face was flushed; evidently she was embarrassed.

"Won't you tell me a little more, madam, about your reason for wishing to see me?" he suggested.

"Yes; but not here -- please!" she begged. "I do not want to be seen about here. I shall not detain you long, Mr. Benson. All I ask is that you sit here beside me, and that we drive a little way, while I say a few words to you."

Jack hesitated. He did not like the look of the adventure. Yet, on the other hand, it was hard to see harm or danger in it. The young woman was evidently, as he had at first guessed, a lady.

"Then you do not feel able to tell me, here, what you wish to speak with me about?" he inquired.

"I shall begin as soon as we start on our drive," she promised. "Oh, please do not refuse me. You cannot imagine how much is at stake -- for me!"

Though Jack Benson felt the peculiarity of the request from a stranger, he was unable to see how harm could result from his being kind.

"Very good, then," he agreed. "I will do my best by listening to you."

After he had entered the cab, and had taken the seat, beside her, the young woman turned to look at him keenly.

Jack, for his part, saw that she was rather better dressed than the average. He imagined her to be the daughter of a family in comfortable circumstances.

"You do not know who I am, of course?" she began.

"No, madam."

"But you do know one in whom I am much interested," she continued.

For some reason that he could not explain to himself, Jack Benson began to feel very uncomfortable under the witching battery of her handsome eyes.

"Who is he?" inquired the submarine boy.

"You know him as -- "

She paused, as though stricken with sudden reluctance.

"Well?"

"The name by which you know him is Millard."

Had Jack Benson been lashed at that instant with a whip he could not have been more astounded.

"Who?" he cried. "What? That in fam -- "

He checked himself abruptly.

"It was kind of you to stop as you did," the young woman declared, gratefully. "The man whom you know as Millard is my promised husband."

"I'm sor -- I mean, I'm astonished," sputtered Jack Benson.

Then he turned to take another keen look into her face.

"What do you want to say to me about Millard?" he demanded.

"I ask you -- I beg you -- to aid him to escape from Washington -- from the country. Yet, to do that, all he needs is to get safely out of the District of Columbia. You know that he is here in Washington, or I would not have told you as much."

"Does Millard find it so very difficult to get out of Washington?" queried Jack, grimly.

"If he did not, Mr. Benson, believe me I would never come to the enemy to beseech mercy. Probably I am not telling you anything you do not already know," she went on, rather bitterly. "But every avenue of escape from Washington is blocked by Secret Service men. It is not so difficult to hide in the city, but to get out of it is impossible -- to-day."

"Madam," Jack answered, softly, "it would be my desire to give you every bit of aid and comfort possible. However, what you ask is simply impossible. For one thing, it would be in direct defiance of my -- "

"Oath" he was about to add, but checked him self. On account of their knowing that he was to be sought at the United Service Club it was possible -- even likely -- that the enemy knew of his actual connection with the Navy. Yet, Benson did not propose to supply the other side with any gratis information. So he added:

"Contrary to my duty as an American. I am loyal to the Flag, madam," the boy continued. "Do you know the nature of Millard's offense?"

"No-o-o-o; that is, not exactly."

"Do you wish me to tell you?"

"Why -- he -- he -- told me it was some dispute over international affairs," stammered the young woman.

"Do you feel yourself a loyal American?" asked Jack, looking at her curiously.

"Yes!" she answered, without an instant's hesitation, looking straight into his eyes, almost defiantly.

"And you love this man, Millard?"

"Yes!" Yet her declaration was not so emphatic as it would have been a few moments before.

Jack Benson sighed.

"Would you love a man who had betrayed his country's flag?" he asked, presently, in a very low voice.

"Has Don -- has the man you know as Millard offered to do that?"

It was not suspicion, but incredulity that rang in her voice.

Jack Benson knew, now, that he was dealing with a woman who knew herself to be a patriot -- a lover of her country.

"I don't know that I have any right to say anything," Jack answered, evasively. "Mr. Millard is a civil engineer, isn't he?"

"Yes, and a mechanical engineer, too," the girl admitted, without attempt at concealment "As you also doubtless know, he served, once, with a revolutionary army in Guatemala. It is in some sort of scrape like this that he finds him self now. Some trouble that he has gotten himself into with this government in order to befriend the revolutionists of some Central American republic."

"Did Millard tell you so?" demanded Jack Benson, his eyes now very wide open.

"He let me believe as much," the girl replied, one hand toying with a fold of her dress, while she glanced down. "And that is the truth, is it not?"

"No!" broke, half-angrily, from young Benson. The passion would have rung in his denial, but he remembered that he was talking to this girl about her betrothed husband.

"You spoke of the Flag a moment ago," cried the girl, suddenly, and gazing searchingly into the boy's eyes. "Do you mean to tell me that Don -- that Mr. Millard would be engaged in any work hostile to his own country?"

"Is the one we call Millard an American citizen?" asked Benson.

"Yes."

"Then -- "

Jack came to an abrupt stop after that one word. He would not tell the dreadful news to this spirited young woman. It was not necessary.

But she became insistent

"Mr. Benson," she cried, "this has gone too far not to have a full explanation. Has -- has Mr. Millard done aught to betray the United States? For that matter, how could he?"

"Madam," Benson replied, gravely, "no Central American republic would want charts of our fortified harbors, or notes concerning the fortifications, the harbor mines, and so on, for the very simple reason that no Central American republic would ever be equal to the task of attempting to invade the United States."

"Did Mr. Millard steal such plans -- make such notes?"

She hissed the question sharply, her face now deathly white.

"That is the charge against him," Jack nodded.

"Did he do it?"

"I caught him at it, opposite Fort Craven," young Benson answered.

A low, smothered cry escaped the girl. Her head rested against the side of the carriage as though her brain were reeling. But at length she spoke.

"You -- you would not deceive me," she faltered. "Yet tell me more."

"I can't;" answered Jack, with a shake of his head. "Further than that, I cannot go."

"Oh, I see," she nodded, "and I do not blame you. You feel that, whatever you told me, I would tell him. But I wouldn't!"

Though the girl's face was still fearfully pallid, her eyes, as she turned to gaze into the submarine boy's face, flashed with a new fire.

Then, after a brief pause:

"Whatever he is, or has done, I am an American," she added, quietly.

"This has been a miserable fifteen minutes for me." responded Jack Benson. "I have been torn between the impulse to mind my own business, and the fear that you may be throwing yourself away on a man whom you would promptly learn to despise."

"I shall never give Donald Graves another thought as a lover," the girl rejoined, promptly. "Nor shall I shelter him. I am going to him now!"

"Then you have an appointment with him? You know where to find him?"

"Yes," replied the girl, looking at the submarine boy rather queerly. "Do you care to go with me to meet Donald Graves -- the one you knew as Millard? But I am stupid, or worse. That would be to run you into needless danger -- for such a man as I now know Donald Graves to be would be desperate."

"I am not afraid of him," retorted Jack quietly. "If you fear only for me, I beg you to take me to him!"



Chapter XXI

Daisy Huston Decides For The Flag


"It is a somewhat lonely place, on the outskirts of the city," warned the girl. "Mr. Graves had thought that, if no other chance offered, he might possibly get away by leaving that house and taking to the country roads. For he knows that, if he takes a train at any point, he won't ride five miles before he'll find himself in the clutches of a Secret Service man. Oh, he knows how well the trains and the steamboats will be watched. He dreads, even, that the country roads will be watched."

"I don't know anything about the Secret Service lines that are out," Jack confessed, honestly. "Yet I imagine that every possible precaution has been taken to capture Millard -- or Graves."

"You do not know my name," cried the girl, as though struck by a sudden thought. "Mr. Benson, you have been wrapped in so much mystery, so much deceit, so much lying and treachery that I won't even have you guess whether I am telling you the truth. Here is my card-case.  Take out a card for yourself."

The request was so much like a command that Benson obeyed. On the card, in Old English script, he read:

"Miss Daisy Huston."

"I thank you, Miss Huston," he acknowledged, gravely, handing back her card-case.

"Will you signal the driver to stop?" she requested. They were now driving through the western part of Washington.

When the driver found himself signaled he reined up, then came to the cab door.

"You know where to go?" she said.

"Yes," nodded the man.

"Drive there, then."

The driver whipped up his horses to a better speed, the vehicle bowling along now.

"I very much fear that I am running you into danger," declared Daisy Huston, soberly. "Mr. Benson, if you decide to leave the cab, or to have me take you back to the center of the city, I shall not imagine you to be lacking in courage."

"I cannot be in any greater danger than you are, Miss Huston," Benson ventured, with a smile.

"Oh, it is much different in my case," argued the girl. "Donald Graves would not attack a woman, especially the woman he had professed to love."

"Miss Huston, do you feel like discussing this matter any further?" hazarded the young acting naval lieutenant.

"Yes; as much as you wish."

"I confess to being a bit curious."

"About what?"

"Did Millard -- Graves, I mean, have any great reason to need money? More, I mean, than he could earn by honest work?"

"Yes," admitted Miss Daisy. "My mother is dead. Under her will I inherit a considerable little fortune when I am twenty-five. But it is solely on condition that I have my father's permission to marry the man of my choice. I could remain single until twenty-five, but I am only nineteen, and Mr. Graves complained that it would be an eternity to wait."

"Then your father did not approve Millard? I am going to call him that because the other name is unfamiliar."

"My father feared that Donald was a fortune hunter. He said he would be satisfied if Donald could show that he were rich in his own name."

"So, then, Graves, or Millard, hit upon the plan of stealing our harbor fortification secrets and selling them to another government," said Jack, meditatingly. "Yet I am puzzled to understand how he found the chance. There are no foreigners openly engaged in buying our national secrets."

"I think I can explain all that, though it will be but guess-work," replied Daisy Huston, thoughtfully. "My father was for some years minister to Sweden. He is still well acquainted among foreign diplomats here in Washington. Some of them are often at our house. Donald must have met one there who tempted him, or pointed the way to a fortune. Yes; I am certain that must be the answer."

"Did -- but perhaps you don't like my asking such questions?"

"No; I do not mind -- now," replied Daisy Huston. "I began to feel as though I had been an innocent party to Donald Graves's wrongdoing. When I went to try to see you, this afternoon, I supposed only that Donald had gotten into trouble through some filibustering expedition to Central America. I did not look upon that as so serious, you see. But selling the national secrets is quite another matter," she added, bitterly. "I shall never care for the man again. I have wrenched him from my heart in these last few minutes. So you may ask me any questions that will help to clear up the matter."

"Thank you, Miss Huston. Then did Graves, or Millard, as I call him, express any hope of becoming suddenly well to do?"

"Yes; and now I can understand how he has lied to me. He let me believe that he hoped to profit through mining concessions to Americans that would follow the overthrow of one of the petty despots in Central America."

"Yet Millard has been away from Washington much, has he not?"

"Most of the time during the last four months. He generally managed to get over here for one day out of the seven; sometimes two days at a time."

"I believe the whole matter is becoming rather clear in my mind. I do not mind telling you, Miss Huston, how I first came to know the fellow. He was over at our shipyard in Dunhaven, trying to get employment on the construction of submarine boats. But something in his manner made us suspect him, and he didn't get near the secrets of any of our boats."

There was one other thing, however, that Benson felt he would like to have cleared up. So he inquired:

"How did you know that I was at the United Service Club? Did Millard know? Did he tell you to go there?"

"He guessed where you might be. He asked me to drive to the club first; if you were not there, then I was to drive to the Arlington. Failing to find you at either place, I was to go back to the hotel in the evening. In the event of my finding you at the hotel I was to see you in the ladies' parlor. But, oh! What can you think of me, Mr. Benson, to have come to you on such an errand -- on a mission to save a betrayer of his Flag?"

"You came innocently, Miss Huston; that is all that I can understand. And your whole attitude, since you discovered the truth, has been that of a loyal American girl who would crush her heart, even, for her country's honor."

"It isn't going to be as hard as you think, perhaps," she smiled, bitterly, "to cast the man out of my heart. The man that I now know Donald Graves to be never was in my heart. There is no room, there, for a traitor."

She glanced out of the cab at the scene through which they were passing. Jack Benson looked at the same time.

"I am terribly uneasy," she confessed. "Perhaps, even now, Mr. Benson, you had much better leave this carriage and let me go forward alone. I am a woman, and therefore safe. But I fear -- yes, actually fear for your life when he finds out!"

"Don't be at all uneasy about me, Miss Huston," begged Jack, with cool confidence. "I have had rather a sturdy training in the art of taking care of myself."

Though he did not allow the girl to see the motion, Jack felt stealthily at his right hip pocket. Yes; the loaded revolver was there. Jack did not believe much in the practice of carrying concealed weapons. He had great contempt both for the nerve and the judgment of fool boys who carried revolvers, loaded or otherwise. But just now the situation was different. Jack Benson was an acting lieutenant in the United States Navy. Just before leaving the Navy Department he and his comrades had each been advised to take a proffered weapon and carry it against the chance that they might find Millard -- or Graves -- in Washington, and find themselves under the necessity of taking him prisoner.

"Spies and traitors are taken alive or dead," the official had remarked who had handed them the weapons.

"How much further have we to go?" Jack inquired, as the cab turned down a country lane.

"Only a very short distance, now," replied Daisy Huston.

"Jove, but she's a stunning girl for nerve and principle," thought Lieutenant Jack, admiringly. "She's going, now, to what must be the tragedy of her plans and hopes, yet she has her color back again, and looks as composed as though out only for an airing!"

"There is the house," almost whispered the girl, at last, resting a steady, cool hand on his arm.

Jack looked and saw the place -- a little, oldfashioned house, standing in among trees, some hundred feet from the road. In that swift glance he also noted that there were no ether buildings near.

Daisy Huston did not ask whether the young man at her side proposed to try to arrest the man he sought. She was too discreet to pry into his plans.

Up into the little yard before the house the horses trotted. Then, just as the cab was coming to a stop, the driver cracked his whip-lash twice.

Immediately the door flew open. Millard, as Jack Benson knew him, stepped out jauntily, a smile of delight on his face.

"Good enough, Daisy," he cried, as he strode toward the cab. "I see that you have won Benson over to our side. He shall be my friend, after this. But, Daisy, what -- "

For the girl had sprung lightly out ere Jack Benson could assist her. The girl now stood, drawn to her full height, yet without affecting any theatrical pose. But over her lips hovered a smile of cool disdain that the look in her eyes heightened.

"Don't lie to me any more, Donald Graves," commanded the girl, steadily, "and don't deceive yourself. Both tasks, I know, will be hard for a man so vile that he'd sell his country's Flag!"

Millard stared at her in growing horror. Then anger rushed to his face.

"Daisy!" he gasped. "Have you betrayed me? Have you brought Benson here as an enemy?"

Daisy did not answer her former lover. She continued to gaze at him with an irony of expression that sent the hot blood mounting to his head.

"Can't you speak?" he demanded. "Then, Benson, why don't you talk?"

"Because," replied Jack, "I am waiting for Miss Huston to say to you all, or as little, as she cares to say."

"Speak, then!" commanded Millard, turning imperiously to the girl.

"And my command to you," retorted the girl, "is different. Silence! Never again address me, you traitor to your Flag!"

Millard was swift to realize the fullness of the girl's contempt. He knew that everything between them was over.

"Come, come, then, girl!" he uttered, harshly. "It is time for you to be gone! Step to the cab and get away from here, for I would spare you what is to follow -- my reckoning with Benson!"

He clapped his hands. The door opened, and four men stepped out. Their type was not hard to determine. They were of the scum of humanity -- ready for any desperate deed.



Chapter XXII

The Part Of Abercrombie, R.N.


"Come, girl, you must go!" commanded Millard, harshly.

"I will not," she replied, coldly, "until my escort is ready to go with me."

"He will not go with you," replied Millard, significantly. "And you must not remain. What is to be done here is no thing for a dainty woman to see."

"Mr. Benson," appealed the girl, "will you enter the cab first?"

"If he does, the cab will not leave," sneered Millard.

All this while the four men who had just come from the house were stealthily grouping themselves. Jack watched them alertly. He did not intend to be taken unawares, yet he hesitated to draw his pistol while Miss Huston was there.

"Go, girl!" Millard ordered again.

"I have told you, already, that I shall go only when Mr. Benson gives the word and accompanies me," replied the girl, white but courageous.

"Then we won't waste more time," laughed the wretch, harshly. "Since you will stay, then you must be a witness of what you have brought on my worst foe! Close in, men -- get him!"

As the men sprang to obey, and Jack dodged nimbly back, Daisy Huston uttered a piercing scream. The next thing she did was wholly natural. Under the intense strain of her feelings the girl fainted.

"Take her!" nodded Millard, to the driver, who was plainly one of the desperate lot. "Take her from here as fast as you can."

The driver, ready for his work, snatched up the girl's light form.

"Have a care what you do -- all of you!" cried Jack Benson, warningly, and now, in his hand, the revolver gleamed.

But one of the wretches, darting in at Jack's right, from behind, aimed a blow with a cudgel at the weapon. He struck it from the young lieutenant's hand.

Down to the ground it fell, but Lieutenant Benson was as quick as thought, now.

He bent over, snatching up the weapon, then ducked away from a follow-up blow at his own head, and sprang back.

"You first, then, Millard!" cried the young acting naval officer.

Full of purpose, Lieutenant Jack pressed the trigger. It stuck. No report followed. That blow from the cudgel had jammed the cylinder.

Having dropped the senseless form of Daisy Huston in the cab the driver sprang to the box, lashing the horses, just as Lieutenant Benson discovered the uselessness of his weapon as a firearm.

Then, indeed, young Benson knew that this must be a fight to the very death. Yet he was a naval officer at heart, as much as by special appointment. At a time like this he held life cheaply.

The first man to get within reach was laid flat by a blow with the butt of Jack's revolver.

Instantly young Benson wheeled, to strike at another pressing foe. Instead, he received a glancing though painful blow on his own left shoulder. Ere the assailant could recover, however, Benson leaped at him and would have felled him had not Millard himself leaped in, striking up the young naval officer's arm.

Once more Lieutenant Jack leaped back. His whole body was alert, nerves and muscles responding magnificently. He fairly vibrated defense.

"Close in on him, men -- surround him!" snarled Millard. "You've got to get him! We haven't many minutes left. We don't know at what instant to look for interference."

Jack landed effectively on another of the rascals. Just as he was wheeling, however, to ward off the attack of another, a stick landed against his left knee, partly crippling him.

In moving backward Benson almost stumbled over a stone half the size of his head.

Right there, in the same movement with which he thrust the revolver into one of his pockets, he bent down, snatched up the heavy stone, and held it poised over his head.

"Now, come on! Now, close in!" cried Jack Benson, exulting. "The first man who gets too close has his head split open! Who wants it?"

His usually, good-humored face was transformed by the fiery rage of battle.

Surely there was some of the old Norseman streak left in Jack Benson's make-up.

As he stood there, keenly alert, ready to heave the rock, he looked like a young Thor armed with massive stone hammer.

"Spread! Get in back of him!" yelled Millard, hoarsely. "I'll take the position of attack in front. Down him!"

"Guess which way I'm going to heave this stone!" cried Jack, tauntingly, as he half wheeled, so as to watch those trying to steal a march in his rear.

"Bosh! You can soon stop that, men!" jeered Millard, suddenly. "Fall back and get a fistful of stones. Rain them in on the youngster at a safe distance. One of you will soon hit him and send him down!"

Young Benson gasped inwardly with dismay, though his face did not blanch. Millard's followers drew back to obey.

Yes! These fellows could throw small stones from a much greater distance than the young lieutenant could hurl the large one. They had but to keep up this fire for a few seconds when one of them was certain to hit him in the head, putting him out of the fight.

Jack Benson dropped the big stone, though he stood over it. Like a flash his revolver came out again. Aiming at Millard, the young naval officer made frantic efforts to make the cylinder revolve. But the weapon proved to be hopelessly jammed.

"Now, keep on volleying the youngster with until you have him down and wholly out!" yelled Millard, hoarsely.

The air seemed filled with stones. Jack hopped about as nimbly as possible, dodging all he could. Yet one part of his body after another was hit.

Rat-a-tat-tat! Jack hardly comprehended what this new noise meant when it grew in volume. Then a horseman rode into the yard at a charge.

"One down!" yelled the rider, with savage glee, as he drove his mount squarely against one of the wretches, bowling him over and underfoot.

Hardly seeming to veer, the rider made for another fellow, and barely missed him.

Just a second later, so it seemed, this valiant rider hauled the horse on its haunches, and swung back, heading for another wretch.

Millard leaped at the horseman, a stone in his uplifted fist.

But Jack Benson saw him, and a well-planted blow sent Millard to the ground.

"Bully good of you, Benson, old chap!" called a hearty voice. Then the horseman spurred forward, running down another of Benson's late assailants. The two remaining bolted as fast as they could, go.

"Mr. Abercrombie!" cried Lieutenant Jack.

"Yes, it's I: and jolly glad I got here in good time," laughed the British naval officer, whom this brief rollicking battle had made as gleeful as a boy.

"But how on earth did you happen to turn up?" asked Jack, a feeling of mystery coming over him after he had glanced at Millard and had made sure that the latter would "sleep" for some time to come.

"Why, I was out for my afternoon canter, dear old fellow," bubbled Lieutenant Abercrombie, R.N. "I was coming down the road at a hard trot, don't you know, when a cab rolled by. A young woman -- and a deuced pretty one -- thrust her head out and shrieked at me. What could I do? It was deuced extraordinary, and I had to do something quickly, so I rode alongside the cab and told the driver to hold up. I must have looked unusually menacing, don't you know, for, by Jove, the fellow obeyed me. Then I reached up and yanked him down off the cab. The fellow really started to blackguard me, while the young woman was shouting something at me at the same time I had to silence the fellow, don't you know, so I could understand the young lady. So I struck him over the head with the butt of my riding whip. My word, I must have hit the blackguard hard, for he just curled up and lay down. The young lady sprang out of the cab and begged me to hurry down here. She looked able to take care of herself, so I just left my revolver with her, and, by Jove, here I am -- and deuced glad of it. Upon my word, Benson, dear old fellow, all the luck seemed to be running against you."

"It was," Jack admitted, dryly. "But now I've got the man I came after. I've got to keep him, too," added Lieutenant Benson, gravely.

As he spoke, the submarine boy drew a pair of handcuffs from an inner pocket.

"By Jove, do naval youngsters in this country carry such jewelry?" murmured Lieutenant Abercrombie, R.N.

"They do, I guess, when they're engaged on work like mine at present," smiled Lieutenant Jack, United States Navy.

"Now, then, by Jove, I think I'd better go back to the young lady," suddenly decided Abercrombie, for Millard still showed no signs of recovering his senses. One of the other two men who had been ridden down now recovered enough to begin to crawl away furtively.

"Do you want that chap?" asked Abercrombie.

"I have no facilities for keeping him a prisoner," Jack answered. "For that matter, I guess he's nothing but a hired tough. The Washington police can find and take care of him at their convenience."

"Good enough," nodded the British lieutenant. "And now -- "

"Would you mind if I go to her, instead?" inquired Benson, hastily.

"Not in the least, dear old fellow. And, while you're gone, I'll constitute myself a special 'bobby' to look after this chap of yours in the bracelets."

So Jack hurried off up the road, wondering how Daisy Huston fared with a revolver and a hostile cabman.



Chapter XXIII

"Foreign Trade" Becomes Brisk


The cab horses were browsing quietly by the roadside.

Miss Daisy looked anything but perturbed.

In fact, she had passed all uneasiness of spirit on to the cab driver. That worthy had come back to his senses, but Miss Huston had compelled him to sit on the ground, his back to a tree. She stood a few yards away, watching the surly fellow and holding the pistol as though it were not the first time she had had such a weapon in her hand.

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Mr. Benson!" cried the girl, with true feminine relief. "I was so worried about you. But you're not hurt -- badly. I hurried a horseman on to you. He reached you?"

"Yes, thank you," nodded Lieutenant Benson. "And now, Miss Huston, I must inform you that we have Millard -- your Donald Graves -- a prisoner and manacled. I must first find a way of getting you back into town. Then I must turn Millard over to the authorities."

"Why can't he go back in the same cab with me?" asked Miss Huston, quickly.

"You -- could you endure that?"

"Yes," replied the girl, bravely. "I took you to him. I sent the assistance that enabled you to take him prisoner. Do not fear for me, Mr. Benson."

"By Jove, but you're clear grit, Miss Huston!" Lieutenant Jack cried, admiringly.

"Clear American, I hope," retorted the girl. "Why should men be the only ones who can do or dare for the Flag?"

"Will you let me have the revolver, Miss Huston?"

"Gladly."

"Thank you. Now, if you will get inside he cab again."

"And you?"

"I'll sit with the driver and watch him,"

Jack kept his eye on the surly fellow until Miss Huston was inside the cab.

"Now, fellow, you get up on the box, and handle the reins from the left side," ordered the young naval officer.

"I always drive on the right side o' the box," came the sulky retort.

"Undoubtedly; but you're driving on the left side this afternoon," returned Benson, with a look of significance. "By the way, did I mention the fact, yet, that I have an uncertain and bad temper? Now, climb up into your place, and don't you attempt to start until I'm beside you and give the word!"

A moment later Jack Benson sat beside the driver, holding the revolver in his right hand.

"Now, back to the house," spoke the young naval officer.

Without a word the driver turned his horses about, heading back.

"Here we are!" came, cheerily, from Lieutenant Abercrombie, R.N.

Millard was sitting up, a black scowl on his face as Jack and the others appeared.

"Now, I've got to get this outfit back into Washington, somehow," mused Jack, after noticing that Abercrombie had allowed the other thug to crawl away to safety.

"Why, of course, dear old fellow, you under stand that I'm helping," hinted the British officer.

"That's mighty good of you," murmured Jack. "Then we can do it easily."

Daisy Huston had stepped from the cab. She stood regarding the scowling captive.

"I'm glad I know you, Donald; glad I found you out in time," she said, quietly, gazing hard at him.

"I thought you a friend," Millard retorted, bitterly. "Great Heavens, Daisy, if you had been on my side through thick and thin, in good report and ill, I could have defied all these idiots in Washington. What an ally you would have been! But you chose to be an enemy."

"An enemy to my country's enemies, yes," replied the girl, steadily.

"Do you hate me, Daisy?"

"I don't know," the girl answered, thoughtfully. "Do you hate me, now, Donald Graves?"

"I wish I knew," uttered the man. "But it's hard to turn love like mine into hate at a moment's notice. Daisy, the nights are coming when you'll wake up with a frightened start, and sob as you remember how you turned me over to -- "

"To the officers of the country that you have done your best to betray," broke in the girl, firmly. "No, no, Donald! Do not imagine that I shall shed any tears for you, seen or unseen. Mr. Benson, I am ready, if you wish to place -- your -- your -- prisoner in the cab beside me."

"It seems like a beastly outrage to do it," muttered Jack, full of misgivings.

"Not at all," declared the girl, steadily. "I am glad to see this man on his way to the bar of justice."

Jack assisted Daisy Huston, with the utmost deference, to a seat inside the vehicle. Then he turned to motion to handcuffed Millard -- or Graves -- that he was to take the seat beside the woman he had hoped to make his wife.

"I'll ride close alongside, to make sure there's no unpleasant conduct toward Miss Huston," volunteered Mr. Abercrombie.

Jack Benson again climbed to the cab box.

"You know I have the pistol," muttered Jack, showing the driver the weapon. "There's no need to ride through the town with the weapon in my hand. But, if you try to cut up any tantrums, you may be sure you'll find your own wrists inside of handcuffs."

"I know when I ain't got no show at all," growled the sullen driver.

"Drive ahead, then -- into Washington, and straight to police headquarters."

Lieutenant Abercrombie, R.N., jogged his own mount steadily alongside, so that he could at all times command a view of the interior.

Millard -- Donald Graves -- would have opened some conversation with Daisy Huston, but the disdainful girl cut him short.

As the cab rolled into the busier streets of Washington Lieutenant Abercrombie drew a little further away from the cab, in order not to attract attention, though he still remained actively on guard.

The prisoner's manacled hands did not show to the people passing on the sidewalks.

So, altogether, no passersby thought to turn to look after the cab.

Just as the little procession turned a street corner to drive direct to the door of police headquarters, Abercrombie waved a hand carelessly to three pedestrians on the sidewalk.

"Abercrombie!" cried Lieutenant Ulwin. "And there's Benson on the box of that hack!"

"Come right along into headquarters," whispered Abercrombie. "Don't make any noise."

Wondering until they were fairly agape, Ulwin, Hal and Eph drew up at the cab door as Jack, after only a brief nod to them, opened the door and handed out Miss Daisy Huston.

Lieutenant Abercrombie, having given his horse to a boy down the street to hold, now came forward, raising his hat, to take charge of the young lady.

"Come along, Millard," called Jack Benson, quietly, and the prisoner got out, while the British officer stepped down the street with his fair companion to find another carriage in which she could return home.

Inside Jack marched his prisoner up to the railing in one of the rooms. The young naval officer at once produced his credentials and displayed them to the police official in charge.

"Now, with your permission, sir," Jack went on, courteously, "I will use your telephone, and inform the Navy Department of the prisoner who awaits their action here."

Five minutes later this had been done. Benson turned to Lieutenant Abercrombie, saying:

"I must apologize for not having thought to return your revolver as soon as we entered."

"I would beg you to keep the weapon, dear old fellow, if it would be of any use to you," replied the British officer.

And now Hal and Eph found chance to explain that they, worried by Jack Benson's disappearance, had at last started down to headquarters to see if they could learn of any mishap to him, or of any other explanation for his long absence.

"Well, it's all over now," muttered Hal. "Millard -- or Graves -- or whatever other name the fellow may be using at this moment -- is safe in a cell downstairs."

"We thought, once before, that we had him bottled up safely," chuckled Lieutenant Jack. "Mr. Abercrombie, how am I ever going to express my thanks to you?"

"I should feel extremely insulted, dear old fellow, if you thought it necessary to thank me," retorted the Briton, heartily.

"It will be dark, soon," interposed Lieutenant Ulwin. "I suggest that the best thing any of us can do is to turn toward the club. I feel certain that the chef will have a famous dinner there to-night."

"We haven't any evening clothes, either citizen or uniform, in Washington," interposed Jack Benson, who knew something of the formalities of the service during the dinner hour.

"Come, just the same," begged Ulwin. "The members don't expect too much of fellows who are traveling."

Jack was glad of the walk, because it helped to take the stiffness out of the knee that had been struck.

"You let the cab driver go, did you!" asked Eph, as the submarine boys walked along together.

"Yes," nodded Jack. "I had no orders concerning anyone like him. He's only some worthless character hired for the job. He didn't have any hand in the bigger job of collecting and selling harbor defense plans, you may be sure."

As the party re-entered the club they found a large attendance. Nor was it many moments before a be-moustached German officer approached the group.

"Oh, Herr Ulwin," he asked, "can you oblige me by excusing Herr Benson for a moment or two? And will you come with me, Herr Benson, to meet a friend who wishes to shake your hand?"

Jack slipped away with the German officer, who conducted him to another room.

"I think you have met my friend before," explained the German, and wheeled the submarine boy straight up in front of Herr Professor Radberg.

"You see," smiled the professor, "we meet again."

"It is a great pleasure, surely," declared Jack, as he shook hands. The officer stepped a few paces away.

"And now, when, my dear young friend, are you going to give me your word that you and your comrades will enter the German torpedo service? I have somewhat better terms to offer you than when we last met. I have since been authorized to promise you that you shall enter the German service as commissioned officers, and that you shall all three be in line for promotion as merit earns it. So, then, it is all settled, is it not!"

Herr Professor Radberg rubbed his hands with a self-satisfied air.

"Yes," Lieutenant Jack admitted, "it is all settled. But not the way that you would wish, Herr Professor Radberg. There may be soldiers of fortune who follow any flag, for hire. But we submarine boys would not enter your German naval service if you created all three of us high admirals at the outset."

"Admirals?" cried Herr Professor Radberg, protestingly. "Oh, but that, my dear young friend, would be quite impossible."

"You are wasting your time with us, sir," Jack continued, firmly. "We may, one of these days, be asked to enter the American service permanently. We would not enter any other country's service, no matter what the bait. Do not give the matter any further thought, please, for we won't."

The German officer had been standing a few paces away, twirling his moustache and frowning. Now, he came forward.

"Herr Benson," he broke in, "I fear that you are so young that you do not fully understand the honor and dignity of being officers in the German service."

"Very likely we do not, Captain," Jack returned, with a bow. "And it is absolutely certain that we shall never find out from experience."

Lieutenant Jack excused himself, turning to seek his friends. As Benson entered the reading room once more he came upon Eph and another whose face was decidedly familiar. It was the Chevalier d'Ouray.

"Just in time, Jack," nodded Eph. "Tell the Chev. for me, please as he doesn't seem to understand my talk, that we wouldn't even give the slightest consideration to his idea that we should enter the French naval service in the submarine division."

"It is quite hopeless, Chevalier," laughed Jack Benson, shaking his head. "The honor is quite enough to turn our heads, but we can serve only the United States."

The Chevalier d'Ouray made a low bow, then turned away, for others were approaching.

"Where is Hal?" asked Jack.

"Crickety! Look at him over there, talking to that little Japanese," muttered Eph, inclining his head toward a corner.

Hal and a Japanese were talking earnestly. At any rate, the little brown man was. Hal was listening, occasionally shaking his head. Then Hastings happened to espy his chums. He turned to the Japanese, to take his leave, but the little brown man followed him across the floor, still talking in low tones.

"Captain Nakasura has been trying to interest me in the idea that we three go over to Japan, under a three years' contract, to act as instructors and advisers in submarine work," Hal told his comrades.

"And I have high hope that you will see matter same as I do," smiled the Japanese attache persistently.

"We shan't," Jack declared, shaking his head, emphatically. "Captain, you are the third, representing also the third nation, that has just approached us on this matter. We shall serve no other country than our own."

"But my government," urged the Japanese officer, "will make you most handsome offer."

"Do you remember the day when we were leaving Dunhaven, and you tried to overtake us in a gasoline launch?" asked Jack, with a smile.

"Yes; very well," admitted Nakasura.

"Do you remember that we hoisted the signal, N.D.? That meant 'nothing doing,' Captain. Our answer is the same, and will be, to-morrow and the next year."

"Ah, here you are!" cried Lieutenant Abercrombie, as he hurried up and Captain Nakasura vanished beyond middle distance. "Benson, dear old fellow, I want just a word with you before dinner is served," continued the Briton, thrusting his arm through Jack's and drawing him away after a nod of apology to Hal and Eph. "Benson, I've had something on my mind all day; something I have had instructions to broach to you. I have been waiting for the right moment. Now, I must breathe just a word or two, and then let you think it over during dinner, don't you know?"

"See here," smiled Jack, standing back, sudden suspicion in his eyes. "Don't tell me you've been instructed to see whether I'll enter the British submarine service."

"Just that, dear old chap!" beamed Abercrombie, enthusiastically. "But how could you guess? Fact, though! And not only you, but Hastings and Somers as well, don't you know!"

"You're the fourth to spring this on us tonight," answered Jack Benson, soberly. "And the answer will have to be the same for all of you."

"The same for all of us, dear chap?" demanded Abercrombie. "How can that be?"

"The answer in every case is the same," retorted Jack. "If our own government doesn't want us, no other government can have us. We stand by our own Flag."

"Eh? What is this?" muttered Lieutenant Ulwin, coming unexpectedly upon the pair. "Foreign government competing for you lads, Benson? This won't do!"

"Which is what I have just had the honor of telling Mr. Abercrombie," smiled Jack, earnestly.



Chapter XXIV

Their Lives Deeded To The Flag


Secretary Sanders, Secretary of the Navy, looked up at the three young men who stood in line at the right-hand side of his desk.

It was two days later; two days during which Jack, Hal and Eph had had little to do except roam about Washington and see all the sights of the National Capital. This they had varied by dropping in at the United Service Club.

"Gentlemen," remarked the Secretary of the Navy, "you have not yet been relieved of your detail to the gunboat 'Sudbury.'"

"It's coming now," thought each of the three boys to himself, with a great wave of dismay. "We are to be no longer of the Navy."

"I will give instructions at once," continued Secretary Sanders, "to have orders issued relieving you from that duty."

"Yes; it has come," muttered Jack, drearily, to himself. "Our service with the Navy is over."

"Gentlemen," and now, for a few seconds, the voice of the Secretary seemed far away indeed, "I am sensible of all you have done for your country, and above all, of the zeal you have shown. Besides, I have in mind the fact that you have made yourselves among the most expert of all handlers of submarine torpedo boats. If it can be arranged, I wish to keep all three of you actively in the United States Navy."

Jack Benson looked up with a gasp. His comrades were not less astounded.

"I am aware," Mr. Sanders went on, "that we could not expect you to enlist as mere apprentices. In your own particular field of submarine work you are amply fitted to hold officers' commissions. Yet, under the law, you cannot be granted commissions until you are twenty-one years of age. None of you are quite eighteen.

"Therefore, it has occurred to me that you can be appointed, specially, with rank, command and pay, until you are twenty-one. The President agrees with me in what I have to offer. You, Mr. Benson, are offered a special appointment as lieutenant, junior grade, in the United States Navy. You, Mr. Hastings, and you, Mr. Somers, are offered special appointments as ensigns. You will all have the privileges of your ranks except the actual commissions. Yet you will be actual officers, and entitled to full respect. Moreover, the President promises that, when you are twenty-one years of age, you shall have regular commissions promptly. In case the President is not re-elected to his office, he agrees to urge upon his successor in the White House the fulfilment of the promise. So, if you accept the special appointments, now, you are absolutely certain of commissions as soon as you reach the age of twenty-one. Perhaps it is only just to add that we are aware that all three of you have already been offered commissions in foreign navies, and that you have refused. Both the President and myself appreciate your loyalty to your own Flag. Now, what do you young gentlemen say to accepting special appointments to run until you are each twenty-one?"

"Mr. Secretary, it's the brightest, the one great dream with us all," Jack Benson replied, hoarsely. "There is just one thing that could hold us back. We really feel in honor bound to Mr. Farnum and Mr. Pollard to stand by their interests, for they have been our best friends."

"What do you say to that, Mr. Farnum?" inquired the Secretary.

From behind a screen stepped Jacob Farnum, the Dunhaven shipbuilder.

"Why, see here, boys," began Farnum, a broad smile on his face, "I received a long wire from Mr. Sanders yesterday. Dave Pollard and I talked this thing over, and we decided that the Pollard boat is now an assured success. You have put the boats where we can now build and run them without you. You are more needed in the Navy. Now, Dave and I both urge you to go where we know your hearts are -- into the Navy. And you will go with all our best wishes. The government needs you, now, to handle the boats that we build up at Dunhaven, and to train war-crews for those boats. There is only one objection to your entering the Navy, boys. You will have to pass upon our boats. We know you will do that honestly and fearlessly; yet there are many who would sneer at having boats passed on for the government by young officers who hold stock in our concern. Now, the amount of stock that each of you holds has been growing steadily with each new success that you have won for us, which if you enter the Navy you should not own. So Dave and I offer you ten thousand dollars each for the shares that you hold. It is a fair valuation."

"I know it is, if you offer it, Mr. Farnum," Jack Benson replied, with feeling.

"Then you'll accept, and take your very heart's-wish -- the Navy -- all of you?" asked Mr. Farnum.

"I accept both your offer, Mr. Farnum, and, the greater offer of the Secretary of the Navy," replied Jack, his eyes becoming misty.

"I accept," murmured Hal.

"So do I," from Eph.

"Then, sir," declared Jacob Farnum, turning to the Secretary of the Navy, "the Flag is richer by three magnificent young followers!"

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Here we must leave the submarine boys for the present, for these events happened hardly later than yesterday, and there are no new adventures yet to chronicle.

Donald Graves -- Millard -- received a severe sentence in the penitentiary. He is still serving the sentence, of course. Gray, his accomplice, who attempted to spirit the drawings outside of the United States, is now likewise serving a term.

The trial was a swift, nearly secret one. Daisy Huston was not dragged into the case at all. In one respect the trial failed. Neither culprit could be forced to tell for which foreign government the dastardly work had been attempted. The "Spitfire" returned to Dunhaven, and was later sold to the government, with several other boats. Williamson became the new Pollard captain.

Several foreign governments were deeply disappointed over not being able to secure the services of the submarine boys.

But Jack, Hal and Eph could be happy nowhere except under their own Flag.

They are now accepted most cordially by all their brother officers, young and old, in the United States Navy.

For the most part, so far, the duties of our young officers have been aboard the different boats purchased from the Pollard Company. Yet, for the sake of practice and change, they have been, at times, detailed aboard other classes of craft in the Navy.

We shall now encounter our young acting naval officers in one of their new fields of special work, in the next volume of this series, which is published under the title: "The Submarine Boys And the Smugglers; Or, Breaking Up the New Jersey Customs Frauds." Here we shall find our talented lads engaged in doing some of their finest work for Uncle Sam's Government, and under circumstances that will delight every reader.

<eob>

Princess Polly's Gay Winter

By

Amy Brooks



Chapter I

Merry Times Promised


Little Rose Atherton sat on the lower step of the three broad ones that led down from the piazza, and she wondered if there were, in all the world, a lovelier spot than Avondale.

"And we live in the finest part of Avondale," she said, continuing her thoughts aloud. "Tho' wherever Uncle John is, seems better than anywhere else."

She had spent the bright, happy summer at the shore, and surely Uncle John's fine residence, "The Cliffs," had been a delightful summer home.

Then Uncle John had one morning told a bit of wonderful news.

"I've something to tell you, my little girl," he said, drawing Rose to him.

"This is our summer home," he continued, "and a fine summer place it is, but Rose, little girl, we're to spend the coming Winter at Avondale."

It had been very exciting!

Before closing "The Cliffs," those treasures that Uncle John held dearest were carefully packed to be sent to the new home, and then, in the big, luxurious car, they had motored to Avondale.

"Good-bye," Rose had said, as she looked back toward "The Cliffs," and then, after throwing a kiss toward the house, she nestled back in the car, and tried, for the twentieth time, to "guess" how the new home would look.

It had proved to be more grand, more beautiful than she had dreamed. "And so near sweet Princess Polly," she said, "just the next house but one."

She sprang from the low step, and ran down to the sidewalk to see if Princess Polly was yet in sight. "I think it is a little early," she said, "for Polly said she'd come over at nine, and it isn't nine yet."

The dainty Angora came down the walk to meet her, her tail like a great plume, her soft coat as fluffy as thistle down. Proudly she walked as if she knew her beauty.

"Oh, you darling puss!" cried Rose. "You make this new home seem just as if we'd always lived here."

"That's right, Miss Rose," said the housekeeper, as she looked from the window.

"A cat does make a place seem homelike. She's not stared about, nor acted wild as most cats do. She made herself at home, and seemed at home the first day the captain brought her to you. Do you remember, Miss Rose, she sprang from the basket, sat down on the rug, and began to wash her face?"

"I know she did, and that proves that she's a wonderful cat. She couldn't act like a common cat. Could you, dear?"

The cat rubbed lovingly against Rose.

"We're going to choose a name for her to-day, and Princess Polly is coming over to help me. Oh, there she comes now!" Rose ran down the path to meet Polly, the white cat trotting along after her.

"I wanted to bring Sir Mortimer over to get acquainted with her, but he's just dear, in all but one thing. He isn't always polite to other cats, and sometimes he's really horrid, and growls so dreadfully that you'd think he hadn't any manners," said Polly.

"I guess it's just as well," Rose said, "for we'll be pretty busy choosing a name."

Polly had written a list of fine names, and together they read them, the white cat sitting and eagerly watching them for a time, and then playing on the lawn with a ball that was her own especial toy. At last after reading the list of imposing names again and again, they decided that, after all, Beauty best suited the lovely creature.

"To think that you are to live here at Avondale again!" Polly said, when at last the name had been chosen.

"Yes, and to think that there's only one house between yours and mine!" said Rose.

"You'll be happier in this handsome house with your Uncle John, than you ever were when you lived here at Avondale before at the little wee cottage with your Aunt Judith."

"Oh, yes," Rose said quickly, "because now I know that Aunt Judith loves me, but then, I thought she didn't. With Uncle John, -- why every moment since I've lived at his house, I've known that he loved me."

A moment she sat thinking, then she spoke again.

"When I lived here at Avondale before, I lived all the time at the cottage, but now I'll live here, with dear Uncle John, and go down to see Aunt Judith, oh, sometimes."

Then she turned to look at her playmate.

"Polly, Dear Polly!" she cried. "You look more like a princess than when we first called you 'Princess Polly.' Now, who ever thinks of calling you Polly Sherwood, your real, truly name?"

"Who cares which they call me, so long as they love me?" cried Polly with a merry laugh.

They were in the garden at the rear of the house, but between trees and shrubbery they could see a bit of the avenue.

Something moving attracted their attention.

"Look!" cried Rose. "What's that?" Polly did look.

Something like a huge wheel, all spokes and hub, but no tire, was whirling down the avenue.

"It's Gyp!" said Polly.

"What? That?" said Rose.

"Yes, that's Gyp, and he's going down the avenue whirling first on his hands, then on his feet," Polly said.

"Oh, I wish he wasn't in this town," cried Rose, "because no one ever can guess what horrid thing he'll do next. And he won't stay over by the woods where he lives. He keeps coming over to this part of Avondale, and I wonder someone doesn't stop him."

"Who could stop Gyp?" Polly asked.

And who, indeed, could stop him? He was one of a family that was more than half Gypsy, and Gyp was, surely, the wildest of the clan.

He would steal, yet so crafty was he that no one ever caught him. He was full of mischief, and nothing delighted him more than the assurance that he had really frightened someone.

As he usually felt very gay when he had done some especially annoying bit of mischief, it was safe to say that he had spent a busy morning somewhere, and now was turning handsprings to give vent to his hilarious feelings.

"Oh, what do you s'pose he's been doing?" Polly asked.

"I don't know," Rose said slowly, "but I remember that he always acted just like that when he'd been very naughty."

"Rob Lindsey said yesterday that somebody ought to watch Gyp, and whenever he seems to feel gay, just look around the neighborhood, and learn what he has been doing," said Rose.

"You'd have to watch him all the time, then," Polly replied, "for he always acts as if he felt full of fun, and mischief."

"Then whoever watched Gyp could do nothing else. He wouldn't have a minute for -- oh look!" Rose sprang up on to a low ledge that the gardener had left showing because of its natural beauty. Flowers grew at its base, and the little rock, or ledge, rose just enough to show its crest above the blossoms. Something bright and fair was racing down the street, as if pursuing Gyp.

It shouted lustily. "You Gyp! You mean old, -- oh, I don't know what!"

"Why, that's Gwen Harcourt!" said Polly, "and she's chasing Gyp!"

Like a small whirlwind composed of muslin, lace, and ribbons, Gwen tore down the avenue, shouting, and screaming as she ran.

She had snatched a handful of gravel just as she started to chase him, and she hurled the small, round stones after his flying figure.

Not one of them hit him, and as he ran, he looked over his shoulder to grin like an imp, as he shouted:

"Oh, what a shot! Ye couldn't hit the side of the house!"

That so maddened Gwen, that she forgot to run, and in the middle of the street, stood stamping her foot, and shrieking.

Of course Gyp was delighted! If he had not frightened her, he had, at least, the joy of seeing how angry Gwen could be. He vaulted over a low wall, and carelessly whistling, went at high speed across the lawn, toward the river, crossed the bridge, and, as usual, hid in the forest beyond.

Gwen stood, where he had left her, watching him as he hurried away, and finally disappeared.

"Horrid thing!" she cried. "How I wish I knew of something I could do to plague him!"

Gwen was quickly angered, but her anger was never long-lived.

She turned toward home.

"Let him run, if he wants to. Who cares? I don't."

Already she was humming a merry tune.

"I read a story yesterday 'bout a house that had a secret closet in it. 'Twas a fine story, and I guess I'll tell it to the first girl I meet," she said.

It happened that Rose and Polly were walking down the avenue, on the way to Sherwood Hall, just as Gwen Harcourt gave up chasing Gyp.

"Hello!" she cried, "I wondered when you'd come to Avondale to live. How long have you been here?"

"Two weeks," said Rose.

"Why didn't you let me know? I'd have been over to see you long before this," Gwen replied.

Polly looked at Rose. She knew that Rose was not at all fond of Gwen, and wondered what reply she would make.

Rose did not have to answer, for Gwen continued:

"Sit down on this wall, and I'll tell you a story. I'll come over to your house some day this week, but now listen, while we sit here. It's a story I read yesterday, 'bout a house that had a secret closet, and ours has one, do you hear?" She leaned forward and pointed her ringer, first at Polly, then at Rose.

"Our house has a secret closet. Don't you both wish yours had?"

"Why, Gwen Harcourt! What could we do with secret closets?" said Rose.

"The girl in the story I read was locked into the closet by mistake, and she couldn't get out!" said Gwen, looking quite as excited as if she were telling something pleasant. Rose moved uneasily, and Polly shivered.

"Didn't they ever find her?" Polly asked.

"I guess not," said Gwen, "and the funny thing is that the story stopped right there, so you see I'll never have any idea whether she ever got out or not."

"Oh, I like pleasant stories," Rose said, as she slipped from the wall. In an instant Polly stood beside her, and the two turned toward home, but Gwen had no idea of losing her audience so soon.

"Wait a minute," she cried, "and I'll tell you 'bout the girl that fell into the ditch, and had to be pulled out by her hair!"

"Oh, don't!" cried Polly, and clapping her hands over her ears, she turned, and ran at top speed, followed by Rose.

They soon outran Gwen, and were glad to rest.

"Did you ever hear such horrid stories?" Polly asked.

"Never!" cried Rose, "unless it was other stories that she told at other times. There's the one that she made us listen to when we were over to Lena Lindsey's one day. The one about the ghost that rode down the main street every night at twelve."

"Oh, I remember," said Polly. "That was the time that Rob Lindsey said the shivers ran up and down his spine until his back was all humps! He said the shivers had become chronic! We laughed at Rob, but even the funny things he said couldn't drive away the thoughts of the story that Gwen Harcourt had told."

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

The bright, sunny days sped as swiftly at Avondale, as they had at the shore.

Hints of pleasures that already were being planned for the coming Winter were floating as freely as if the wind carried them, and all over Avondale, wherever small girls and boys were at play, one might hear scraps of conversation that told of anticipated pleasures.

Some of the gossip reached Aunt Judith's cottage, and she resolved to do a bit of entertaining, if not on the grand scale in which her neighbors indulged, at least in a manner that her little friends would enjoy.

She laughed softly as she moved about the tiny rooms, and thought of the quaint, merry party that would at least be original.

"The cottage is small, and so it will have to be a little party, but we'll call it 'small and select,'" she said.

A light tap at the door, made her turn, and she hastened to open the screen door, that Rose might enter.

"The fine house, and fine friends don't make you forget your Aunt Judith, dear," she said.

"Oh, I'll never forget you," Rose said, "and I'll come to see you now I'm to live so near. To-day I'll sit beside you while you sew. I'll sit in the little chair that was always mine."

"It is yours now, dear, and, whenever you come, I'll 'play,' as you and Polly say, I'll 'play' that you are once more living here at the cottage."

There was news to be told. Uncle John was to have a fine conservatory built, and later it would be stocked with beautiful flowering plants.

Lena Lindsey was to give a fine party some time during the Winter, and Leslie Grafton, and her brother Harry had already hinted that there would be gaiety at their home.

Mrs. Sherwood always gave some sort of party for Princess Polly, and surely everyone remembered her beautiful party of the Winter before.

All these things she told Aunt Judith.

"And Uncle John says he will not permit his neighbors to do all the entertaining, and when he says that he laughs," said Rose.

Aunt Judith stopped rocking and sat very straight.

"And I shall entertain in a small way myself," she said.

"Oh, Aunt Judith!" cried Rose, her surprise making her eyes round, and bright.

"The wee party that I shall give will be in honor of my little niece, Rose."

Rose laid her warm hand on Aunt Judith's arm.

"How good you are," she said. "And I'll come over the day of the party, and help you get ready. I'll love to. 'Twill be half the fun. Oh, Aunt Judith, please tell me what the dear little party is to be like."

"Like a party that I once enjoyed when I was little," Aunt Judith said.

"I remember it as perfectly as if it had occurred yesterday. To repeat it now will be a quaint delight. I'll not tell you all about it yet, but when my plans are made, you shall come over here to the cottage, and I'll tell you every detail. I believe the tiny party will do me good. I shall feel once more like the little lass that I was when I received the invitation, and then a week later, dressed in my best, went to my friend's house. There were twelve guests, and I shall have just twelve at my party."



Chapter II

The Sea Nymph


Little Sprite Seaford sat in the first car of the long train, her eyes bright with excitement, a tear on her cheek, and her red lips quivering.

One little hand nervously clutched her handkerchief, while the other grasped the handles of her very new suitcase.

She had wound her pretty arms tightly around her mother's neck, kissed her, oh, so many times, and then, lest her courage fail her, had turned and fled from the house, where on the beach, she clung to her father's hand, and silently walked toward the station.

She felt that if she tried to talk she would surely cry, but why was the sturdy captain so silent? Did he feel, as his little daughter did, that safety lay in silence? Did he fear to speak lest the tears might come? It had been decided that Sprite should accept Mr. Sherwood's invitation, and spend the Winter at Avondale, enjoying the early Winter months at Sherwood Hall, and the latter part of the season as the guest of Uncle John Atherton and his little niece, Rose.

She had enjoyed the planning of her modest little wardrobe, she had talked of the delight of having Rose and Princess Polly for her playmates all Winter.

She had promised to be a faithful little pupil at school, and she had dreamed all night, and talked all day of the delightful Winter that she was to enjoy.

Now, seated in the car, ready to take her first journey from home, she looked about her with frightened eyes. Captain Seaford stood beside her. He had bought a box of candy, and a book, trusting that they might help to cheer her.

He looked down at the little daughter who was so dear to him.

"I'd make the trip with ye, Sprite, but yer ma, I'm thinking, will need me, 'bout the time she knows yer train has started," he said.

"Oh, she will. You must go back to her," cried Sprite.

The conductor entered and stated that all who were intending to leave the car must leave at once, or remain on board. Captain Seaford stooped to kiss the little upturned face.

"Oh, father, dear! If you and mother hadn't worked so hard to get me ready for the long visit, I'd give it up now. I'd rather go back with you."

"Tut, tut, Sprite! Be a brave lassie, and try to make the trip bravely. Ye need the good schooling and the merry playmates. The Winter at the shore is always dull. Cheer up, now. We're to have a letter, remember, as soon as ye reach Avondale."

"Ay, ay, sir!" he said, as the conductor beckoned, impatiently, and with another kiss, and a hasty "Good-bye," he left the car.

Sprite knew that he would stand on the platform, and she turned toward the window.

Through blinding tears, she saw his stalwart form, and she tried to smile, for his sake.

Before she could chase away the tears, the train had started, she saw through her tear-dimmed lashes a blurred landscape, and then, -- why she was actually riding away from her seashore home! For a time she sat, as if in a dream, and then the conductor came along. Little Sprite looked up into his pleasant face, and wondered why he paused.

"Let me see your ticket, my dear," he said, and she blushed at her forgetfulness, and drew it from her pocket.

He punched it, and then, in a gentle, fatherly way, he said:

"Your father, Captain Seaford, is a firm friend of mine. He asked me to look out for you, and see that you got off the train at Avondale. He said this was your first bit of travelling alone, but that your friends would be waiting for you when you arrived."

"They will, oh, they will!" she eagerly cried, "and thinking of that makes me feel happier. I've never been away alone before."

"I've a little girl at home who is much braver to talk about going away from home, than she is when the time comes to start. But don't worry, little Miss Seaford," he said, with a laugh, "for I'll be your friend all the way to Avondale."

"Oh, thank you," she said, and he thought that he had never seen a lovelier face. She opened the new book, hoping that the story and the pictures might make her forget her homesickness. It was evident that she considered a good book a good friend.

The story held her attention, the picture charmed her, and the box of candy was an added comfort. She nestled close to the window, her long golden hair fell over her shoulders, and framed her face, and the old conductor smiled when he passed down the aisle, and looked at the dear little figure.

"The book has made her forget to worry," he said, softly.

A little later, when he paused beside her seat, she looked up to smile at him.

"I keep right on reading," she said, "because if I stop to think, I remember that all the time I'm going farther away from home."

"Then whenever you look up from the page, just remember that you are getting nearer, and nearer to Avondale, where you can write your first letter home," he said in an effort to cheer her.

"Oh, yes," said Sprite, "and I'll do that before I go to sleep to-night, and post it early to-morrow morning." Then, for a long time, she read the fascinating story.

Just as she closed the book she realized that the train was slowing down.

The conductor was coming toward her. What was the brakeman saying?

"The next station will be Avondale!" he shouted, and little Sprite's heart beat faster.

The conductor stood at her seat now. "I'll take your suit case," he said. "Come with me."

How her little heart beat!

Would they be at the station? They had promised to be there when the train arrived.

She could not see from where she stood in the aisle.

Ah, now the train had actually stopped! She was out on the platform! She was going down the steps. The kindly conductor was saying something about wishing her a pleasant visit. The train was starting off.

Oh, was she utterly alone?

"Sprite! Oh, you've come!" cried a sweet, familiar voice, and Princess Polly caught both her hands.

"I was so afraid that something would happen, and you wouldn't come," she cried.

"And I was wondering what I'd do if I didn't see you when I left the car. Oh, wouldn't I have been frightened?" said Sprite, with a nervous little laugh.

"Oh, how could you think I'd miss coming to meet you? Mamma said the last moment, as I ran down the steps:

"'I do hope you will find Sprite at the station,' and I did," Polly said. "Now, come over to the carriage, and we'll fly to Sherwood Hall."

"This is my suit case, and, oh, there's my trunk," Sprite said.

"Oh, the coachman will take care of those. We'll get seated so as to reach home in just no time. I can't wait to take you to mamma."

The color brightened in Sprite's dimpled cheeks.

She was determined not to be homesick, and the ride along the fine streets, and then up the long avenue, showed such grand residences, such spacious piazzas, such velvet lawns and gorgeous masses of flowers, that the sea captain's little daughter began to wonder if she were in some new country, or at Avondale, where her new friends actually lived.

"Here we are!" cried Polly, as the horse slackened his pace at the broad gateway, "and this is Sherwood Hall, your new home for the Winter."

"For part of the Winter!" called a merry voice, and Uncle John Atherton with Rose beside him in his big motor, laughed gaily as Sprite turned to learn who greeted her.

For a moment the carriage and the motor stood side by side, while the three small girls chatted gaily, then, believing that Mrs. Sherwood and Polly should greet their guest, uninterrupted by neighbor or friend, Uncle John bowled away down the avenue, they responded to Rose's waving handkerchief, and then rode up the driveway.

"Oh, what a lovely, lovely house!" cried Sprite, "and what a dear place to live in. I know I'm to be happy here!"

"Indeed you are!" cried Polly, "and here's mamma."

"Dear little girl," Mrs. Sherwood said, as Sprite stepped from the carriage, and ran up the steps. "I'm glad to see you, and I shall be glad indeed to keep you as long as Captain Atherton will permit. He was over here last evening, and he said that he would let us keep you up to the first half of the Winter, as we agreed, but after that he would have you at his home with Rose, if he had to steal you. He laughed, but he meant it, so see how very welcome you are at Avondale."

"Oh, it is sweet to have so many people love me," Sprite said, gratefully, and her eyes were as bright as stars. She was tired with the long car ride, and with Princess Polly, she sped to her room, there to make her little self fresh, and fair for dinner.

"We're to share this room, and these two pretty beds are yours and mine," said Polly.

"We could have had separate rooms, but I wanted you with me, and beside, mamma said if you were with me, you couldn't be lonesome."

"Oh, I'd rather be with you," said little Sprite, "and what a lovely room it is!"

She saw every dainty bit of color, every charming detail of the furnishings, she saw the river as she looked from the windows, and the vines peeping in at the windows, and she wondered how it had happened that she now possessed such dear friends, who vied with each other in making her their little guest.

She opened her suit case, and took from it a pale blue frock, with a ribbon of the same tint for her hair.

The frock was of soft mull, and its coloring was like that of a pale aqua marine.

She combed out her long, waving hair, and quickly tied it with the blue ribbon, then, her hand tightly clasped in Polly's, descended the stairs.

Arthur Sherwood entered the hall just in time to see the two pretty figures on the stairway.

"Well, well, and so the little sea nymph has come to live at Sherwood Hall for a time. My dear little Sprite, I am truly glad to see you."

He took the slender hand that she offered him, and the three chatted gaily until dinner was served.

The fine dinner, exquisitely served, was a rare treat for Sprite, and the pleasant evening that followed made her at once feel that she was, already, a part of the family.

In her room, after the happy evening, Sprite wrote a loving letter to the dear father and mother at the home by the sea.

She addressed it, and placed the stamp upon it, and then gave it a place on the dresser where she would surely see it in the morning, and thus remember to post it.

Princess Polly would liked to have kept awake to talk, but Sprite was very tired, and soon her answers became so drowsy that Polly knew that she needed sleep and rest. Little Sprite had been the first to drop to sleep, but, accustomed to early rising, she was the first to wake. She slipped from her bed, glanced at Polly, saw that she had not yet awakened, and quietly began to dress. She had learned, the evening before, that there was a mail box just across the street, and she now picked up the letter, and made her way down to the lower hall. The door stood wide open, only the screen door was fastened.

The maid, a few moments before, had opened the door that the fresh air might pass through the hall. Sprite slipped out into the garden, her letter in her hand.

She ran a short distance, then as the sunlight touched the glowing blossoms, she paused and looked about her.

Oh, what a fairy world it was! Her home at the shore had been placed on a broad stretch of sand, and only a few of the residences at Cliffmore boasted a flower, or tree on its grounds.

Now, with the garden gay with geraniums, tall gladioli, dahlias, and scarlet salvia, she looked in amazement and delight at the riot of color.

"Oh, how beautiful it is here!" she said.

Suddenly she remembered her precious letter.

She ran across the street, and slipped it in the box.

"There you go, and you'll tell the two dearest people in the world that I got here safely, and that everyone was dear to me. You'll tell them that I love them too."

Her heart was lighter, because now she knew that the letter that the dear ones at home were looking for, would soon be on its way.

She hurried back to the garden, where she sat for a long time watching the bees as they hovered over the flowers.

She would not go back to her room for fear of waking Polly, and she knew that she should not wander about the vacant lower rooms, so she decided to wait in the garden, until Princess Polly should come down.

She clasped her hands about her knee, and sat lost in a day dream. Her long rippling hair fell over her shoulders, and she made a lovely picture as she sat thinking of her home at the shore.

"The cliffs are white in the bright sunlight by this time," she said, softly, lest someone might hear her, "and the big gulls are flying over the water, or dropping to float on the crest of the waves.

"It is beautiful at home, and grand here at Avondale.

"I wonder if anyone knows if one is really finer than the other. They're so different."

Then again she sat dreaming. Sir Mortimer came around the corner of the house, and went straight to Sprite for the caress everyone offered him. He listened to her sweet voice as she told him what a fine cat he was, he arched his back, and purred his loudest.

After a time he lay down on the grass beside her, taking his morning sunbath.

Princess Polly, in the meantime, had awakened and missed Sprite. She dressed hastily.

As she passed the window a soft voice talking to Sir Mortimer made her pause and look out. She leaned from the window.

"Oh, there you are!" she cried. "I missed you, and I couldn't guess where you were. I'll come right down to the garden." She flew down the stairs, and out into the sunlight.

Sprite ran to meet her, and with their arms about each other, they paced up and down the broad piazza.

Sir Mortimer blinked at them as he sat in the sunlight, as if he approved of their merry chatter. Possibly he thought it fine that there were to be two little girls at Sherwood Hall to pet him.

"The garden is so lovely," Sprite said, as they paused to look out across the lawn.

"Come!" cried Polly. "I'll show you all the prettiest places."

The big cat followed them, trotting along the gravel walk, pausing whenever they did, as if all that Polly was showing was new to him.

And when they had admired the rippling brook that ran through the garden, the tall white lilies standing in queenly grace beside the stone wall, the terraces crowned with rose bushes, and the gorgeous beds of geraniums, they ran back to the piazza, and seated themselves in the hammock that swung in the breeze.

"Do you remember any of the pretty songs you used to sing last Summer when we were out on the beach, or sitting on the ledge?" Polly asked.

"There's one I always like to sing when I'm in a dory," Sprite said.

"Then let's rock this hammock, and play it's a dory, and while we're swinging, you sing," Polly said.

With a voice in which a thrill of happiness made wondrous music, little Sprite sang:

"Bright is the sky above us, Blue is the sea below. Seagulls are hovering 'round us Fluttering to and fro.

Faith is the sky above us, The sea is the earth below. Gulls are the friends who love us, Following where'er we go.

Sunshine above, around us, White caps floating by, None in the world is happier Than you, my love, and I."



Chapter III

Gwen


Little Sprite Seaford felt so completely "at home," that it seemed to her as if she had always lived at Avondale. There were times when she felt homesick. At early morning, before Polly was awake, she would lie with wide open eyes, gazing around the lovely room, and missing the dear voices that always greeted her so cheerily. At twilight, when the shadows grew deeper, there would be a longing for the dear ones at home, and her loving little heart would ache, and she would have to struggle to keep back the tears.

She knew, however, that she must be a bright, cheerful little guest. Had not dear father and mother said so?

Throughout the sunny days she was the life of the merry playmates who lived so near that they were always together. Polly and Rose she had played with at the shore in the Summer, and at the children's party that Mrs. Sherwood had given, she had met the boys and girls who had come from Avondale for that evening.

They had all liked the "little Sea Nymph," as they had called her, and now were glad to renew the acquaintance.

There was one small girl who, thus far, had shown no interest in Polly's guest, and that was Gwen Harcourt.

She had seen Sprite with Polly, and her playmates, but she had watched them from a distance.

From her own piazza she could look across to Sherwood Hall, and see the children at play.

In a few days she had tired of watching the merry friends, and she longed to join them. She had heard Lena Lindsey say that Sprite was charming.

Leslie Grafton, only the day before, had said that one reason why she enjoyed playing with Sprite was because she was so different from any girl that she knew.

What was this "difference" that Leslie spoke of?

Harry Grafton had declared that little Sprite was a trump.

"What's a trump?" said Gwen, as she sat swinging her feet, and looking up and down the avenue.

"What's a trump?"

She was perched on the top of the stone post at the entrance to the driveway, and watching intently for a glimpse of little Sprite.

She had been curious about the new little girl ever since the first day that she arrived at Avondale. Now, she was determined to know her.

"If she'd go by while I'm sitting here I'd make her come into my garden. I'd like to have her all to myself the first time I talk to her," she said softly.

Of course Gwen wished to meet Sprite when she was quite alone. Anyone who had ever known Gwen would know why.

She knew that all of her playmates were aware that she told very large stories, and that none of them were true.

If she had Sprite, quite by herself, she could tell what she chose. Luck favored her, for she had sat on the great post but a moment longer, when a soft voice singing made her look up.

Sprite, her hands filled with flowers, was coming toward her.

She was looking down at her blossoms, and did not notice the child on the post.

"Bright, glist'ning summer sea, Bring thou a ship to me, Sailing so gallantly over the main. Down deep within its hold Will there be bags of gold, Or sparkling gems untold, All, all for me? Now my heart cries to thee; Bring not from o'er the sea Bright glitt'ring gems for me, nor bags of gold. I'd rather have a heart, Mine from all else apart, From him I'd never part, Love's more than gold."

Little Sprite Seaford had learned the song in her home by the sea. Its words were tender, its melody graceful and sweet, but Gwen Harcourt cared little for music. Her only thought was to startle Sprite. With this delightful thought in her mind, she waited until Sprite was about to pass the post, when she slipped to the ground directly in front of her, causing her to "jump," and drop half of her flowers.

"Oh, how you frightened me!" she cried, as Gwen peeped impudently right into her face.

"Mustn't be a 'fraidie cat'!" she cried, then -- "Here! I'll pick up your flowers."

With haste she snatched the flowers from the sidewalk, and thrusting them into Sprite's hand, she said:

"This is where I live. Come in. I want to know you. My name is Gwen Harcourt. What's yours?"

"I am Sprite Seaford," was the gentle answer.

"My whole name is Gwendolen Armitage Harcourt. Rather grand, isn't it?" Gwen asked, her hands on her hips, and her feet wide apart.

"Mine is just Sprite Seaford," she said, quietly.

"Don't you wish you had a middle name?" said Gwen. "It sounds fine."

"I don't think I care," said Sprite.

Gwen was rather surprised that Sprite seemed little interested.

"Come over here," she said, "and I'll show you something I guess you never saw before."

Without waiting to learn if Sprite cared to go, Gwen grasped her arm, and literally tugged her inside the gateway.

"See these rose bushes?" she asked.

"Well, they're out of blossom now, but they had much as, oh, I guess a hundred roses on them all at one time!"

Then seeing Sprite's look of surprise, she decided to enlarge her story.

"I guess there must have been a thousand, now I think of it," she said. "Papa paid twenty dollars a piece for them, and maybe it was more than that. I'm not quite sure."

Sprite made no comment.

"And I planted one of the bushes, and I'll tell you something real funny about it," Gwen said. "I planted it upside down just to see what it would do, and what do you s'pose? After it had been there 'bout a month I dug it up, and there were roses on it! It had blossomed down in the dirt! They were bigger than the ones that had been planted the right way, and they might have been even bigger if I hadn't dug them up so soon."

Sprite's truthful eyes were looking straight into Gwen's bold blue ones. "Are you sure that happened?" she asked.

"Well, what do you s'pose?" Gwen asked pertly, and then, without waiting for a reply she caught Sprite's hand and hurried with her into the great hall.

"I brought you in here to show you the pictures," she said, pointing to the family portraits that adorned the walls.

Sprite looked in admiration at the ladies in their quaint gowns of stiff brocade, and at the men in their lace frills, and satin waistcoats.

"The pictures are lovely," she said, "and are they portraits of people that really, truly lived once?"

"Oh, yes," cried Gwen, "and I'll tell you all about them.

"This lady with the pink gown was my great aunt Nora, and that man in the yellow waistcoat was my great uncle Nathan.

"That lady in green velvet was my great aunt Nina, and that young girl beside her was her daughter, Arline.

"That little old lady in velvet and lace was my great grandmother, and the next picture was my own grandma, and I've forgotten who that next one is, but the next lady's name was Jemima, and the one in yellow silk was Elvira, and the one in pink muslin was Honoriah, and the next one, -- oh, let me think. What was her name? Oh, I know, it was Anastasia."

"Why, their names grow worse, and worse the farther you go down the hall!" cried Sprite.

"Why no they don't," said Gwen, "for over on this wall, the first picture, this one of the lady with the dog is called Lucretia, and that next one's name was Abagail."

"Well, their gowns are lovely," said Sprite, "but didn't they use to have just horrid names?"

"My mamma says those names are 'quaint,'" Gwen replied, "but come and see this portrait of a little girl. Guess who that is?"

"Oh, how could I?" said Sprite, "I've never known your people."

Gwen moved along until she stood close beside her, then she looked straight into Sprite Seaford's eyes, and nodding as she spoke, and shaking her forefinger, she said in a whisper:

"That's a portrait of me!"

"Why -- ee!" exclaimed Sprite.

"That is a picture of me!" declared Gwen. "Do you dare to say it doesn't look like me?"

Gwen's eyes were flashing, but the sea captain's little daughter was no coward.

"Of course I dare," she said, "for your eyes are blue, and your hair is light, while the little girl in the picture has brown eyes, and brown curling hair."

"How do you know that my hair hasn't been that color, some time or other?" Gwen asked sharply.

"I don't s'pose I do know," Sprite said simply, "but I don't believe folks have brown hair and have it turn light yellow, and I don't believe brown eyes turn blue, so I don't see how that little girl in the picture is you."

Gwen was breathing fast. She was very angry, but she dared not say harsh words yet.

She wanted this little Miss Seaford to like her, and to be willing to play with her, so she only repeated: "I say that that little girl in the picture is me!"

Sprite turned toward the door.

"Princess Polly may be looking for me," she said, "so I'll go, now."

As she stepped out into the sunshine she remembered something that she should have said, and she turned.

"Thank you for letting me see the portraits," she said. "I'm glad you showed them to me."

"Well, I'm not," Gwen said, rudely. "I wish I hadn't, 'cause you don't b'lieve that pretty portrait is me."

Sprite looked at her with wondering eyes. She was thinking that it was strange that a little girl who wore lovely frocks, and lived in a handsome house was willing to be as rude as any little vagrant who roamed the beach at Cliffmore, gathering sea weed.

"Our house is just an old ship's hull turned upside down, and fixed up for a house, but mother never let me speak like that to anyone, and besides, I wouldn't want to," she thought.

She walked toward the avenue, Gwen close beside her.

"Good-bye," Sprite said, with a pleasant smile.

"I'll not say 'good-bye!'" cried Gwen. "All I'll say is: 'That portrait is a picture of me!"

Her voice had risen to a shriek, and she stamped her foot.

Sprite, now wholly disgusted, turned and ran.

Mrs. Harcourt, from an upper window, saw Sprite running away from the house, just as Gwen's angry voice made itself heard.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed, "What a pity that of all the children that Gwen knows, not one really understands her."

The lady, to whom she spoke, looked up into her handsome face, and wondered how any intelligent woman could be so blind regarding her own child.

"She's so very high strung," continued Mrs. Harcourt, "that she is easily excited, and she's so very sensitive that her playmates are constantly hurting her."

"Why do you not urge her to bear with her little friends patiently, and thus help matters to glide more smoothly?"

"Ah, you, dear friend, like all the rest, fail to understand how fine, how extremely sensitive my little Gwen is," Mrs. Harcourt responded.

At this point Gwen rushed up the stairs, stamping on every stair, and dashed into the room.

"I'm glad she's gone!" she cried, flinging herself down on a chair near the window, a frown making her look as unpleasant as possible.

"Who was that child?" her mother asked, as she bent over her, kissing her flushed face, and brushing a yellow curl back from her forehead.

"She's come to Avondale to stay all Winter with Princess Polly, and with Rose Atherton. I wanted to know her, I mean I thought I did, but now I don't. I brought her in to see the portraits in our hall, and just for fun I told her that the picture of the little brown eyed girl was me.

"She wouldn't believe it, and that made me mad. Of course it really wasn't a portrait of me, but if I said it was, she ought to believe it?"

"My precious darling!" cried Mrs. Harcourt, "the children never seem to be able to understand your wonderful imagination. The child was absurd to go off leaving you so unhappy. I'll ask Mrs. Sherwood what sort of child she is."

Gwen, having been petted and assured that her mother thought her perfect, ran from the room, and down to the garden where she sought something with which to amuse herself.

The cook, looking from the rear window, frowned darkly.

Gwen did not see her, because, with her back toward the house, she was trying to see if it would be possible to tie a knot in the cat's tail.

The old cat objected, and struck at her, missing however, because Gwen jumped back.

"Ah, ye little varmint!" cried the cook, "if they's no person handy fer yez ter pester, thin yez fall back on the owld cat, poor crayture."

A few moments she watched Gwen in silence, then again she spoke.

"There she goes tryin' to climb up onto the fountain basin. Sure I'll hov ter shpake ter her, and I don't want ter, but she risks anything."

Throwing up the window she shouted:

"Hi! Miss Gwen! Coom down off'n there, 'fore ye do be gittin' a big fall!"

Gwen turned and made an outrageous face, thus giving proof of her sweetness.

"Coom doon!" shouted the cook, but Gwen only giggled and remained exactly where she was.



Chapter IV

What Happened At School


Little Sprite Seaford thought Avondale the brightest place that any child ever lived in, and if the sky was blue, or if clouds hid the sun, she smiled and still insisted that it was a cheery place.

She had not forgotten the charm of her home at the shore, but she remembered that she always felt very gay when the sunlight glistened on the waves.

She remembered that when the sky was overcast, the waves were dark and sullen, and the great gulls flew far over the sea, her laugh lost its gaiety, and she forgot to sing her merry songs.

Here at Avondale were trees bright with leaves of red and yellow, gardens glowing with gorgeous fall flowers, and Sprite thought Avondale looked as if it were one huge garden, through which avenues had been cut, and houses, surrounded by spacious lawns, had been built.

School had opened a week earlier than usual, and Sprite already felt "at home."

She was a favorite with the boys and girls, and, to her great delight, she found that she had progressed in her studies, under her mother's guidance, so that, although a trifle younger than Princess Polly, she would be a member of the same class.

Polly, and Rose, and Sprite made a lovely trio, and older people meeting them as they tripped along together, marvelled that three such beautiful children, happened to be intimate neighbors.

Gwen Harcourt had not entered school on the first day, but one morning she appeared with the news that she should attend school all the year if she chose, but that she could leave at any time if she wished.

"Oh, but won't your mamma make you go to school?" a small girl asked.

"My mamma never makes me do anything!" declared Gwen sharply. "I guess that's so!" Rob Lindsey said, softly.

"What did you say?" Gwen asked.

"I don't dare to tell," declared Rob, in a teasing voice.

"You needn't!" cried Gwen, and she rudely turned her back toward Rob, and commenced to talk to Leslie Grafton.

She talked so fast that she hardly knew what she was saying, but she wished Rob Lindsey to think that she had quite forgotten that he was there.

The bell rang, and while the others turned to hasten toward the school house, Gwen walked along as if merely out for a stroll, and she entered the schoolroom after all the others were seated. The new teacher thought it a happening, but the pupils knew that Gwen had done it to learn if the teacher would rebuke her.

As her tardiness passed unnoticed, Gwen at once decided to do something more striking.

She was bright, and quick to learn, but she cared little for study, and she would have been placed in a much lower class, but for her mother's great influence.

Mrs. Harcourt had listened very patiently while it had been made clear to her that her small daughter was not fitted for the class in which her little friends were placed.

She was a charming woman, and she had begged, even insisted that Gwen be placed in the class with Princess Polly, Rose Atherton, and Sprite Seaford, and thus given the opportunity to prove that she could "keep up" with her class.

The new teacher was amused, and believing that Gwen's stay in the class would be of short duration, she yielded.

Gwen never studied, and on her first day, she decided that, as she thought herself very smart, she could, by listening to what others were reciting, do very well without "bothering with books."

That was what she said, and the first question in Geography that she answered, made Rob Lindsey call her a "star pupil."

"What is the capital of Brazil?" Gwen stared for a moment, then she tossed her head as she said, pertly:

"Oh, anyone knows that!"

"Next!" said the teacher.

Gwen was surprised.

She had expected to be coaxed.

A few moments later she heard a small girl talking of the great Amazon river. She caught the name, and later when asked to name the largest river in Africa, she sprang to her feet, and glibly shouted:

"The Amazon!"

"Well, why do you laugh?" she asked, turning angrily to stare at the laughing class.

She was offended, when told to sit down, and decided to tell her mother that she had not received enough attention.

"I guess I'll say 'snubbed,' because that will make mamma sure to take my part," she softly whispered.

She changed her mind, she often did that, and thought that she would not tell at home that she had been displeased.

She chose to attend school a week longer, or perhaps a number of weeks longer, because Miss Kenyon, just before closing for the afternoon, stated that on Friday of each week an hour would be reserved for recitations, and for the reading of compositions.

Gwen thought she saw a chance to shine, and she meant to do it.

She had heard a conversation, not intended for her ears, when a lady calling at her home had inquired for the little daughter of the house.

"Oh, Gwen is really a wonderful child," Mrs. Harcourt had said, "and while she has a positive talent for reciting fine poetry, her compositions are so original that they are really startling!"

"Oh, really!" the lady had replied, in a manner that showed that she was bored.

Gwen had leaned over the baluster in the upper hall, and drank in every word of praise that had been uttered.

The following Friday the pupils arrived with compositions that they had prepared.

As is usual, in any such school event, some were really good, others were neither very good, nor very bad, but all others were forgotten when Gwen Harcourt commenced to read.

If Gwen Harcourt was vain, conceited, too much of a baby for a child of her age, it was largely the fault of her silly mother, whose beauty, and power to charm were great, but whose mind was exceedingly shallow.

She loved Gwen deeply, even too deeply to see any faults, and so in her blind love, she of course, could never correct these defects that she could not see, and that made the pretty child exceedingly unattractive.

Her composition was a good example of what a silly child, with an even sillier mother could do, in the way of original work, for surely the essay was original.

Gwen pranced up onto the platform, made a graceful little bow, and then, nodding to the class she said: "This really, truly happened! E'hem!

"The Ostrich.

"The ostrich that I'm to tell about was in the Zoo in a big city where I went once, and he must have been the biggest ostrich that anyone ever saw.

"He was as big as a horse, and so he ought to have been called a hosstrich.

"His feathers were all the colors that folks wear on their hats, -- " She paused to note what impression she was making, and a doubting small boy, murmured;

"Oo -- o -- o!"

Gwen frowned, and commenced to read again.

"The ostrich didn't look much like the big white owl in a cage near him, because the owl had bigger eyes."

A few of the pupils giggled, and one in the front row muttered.

"I don't suppose there was any difference in their legs!"

"The ostrich is graceful, -- "

She paused again, because at this absurd statement Dick Minton laughed aloud.

"Oh, graceful!" whispered Dick.

"Richard!" said Miss Kenyon, her voice deeply reproving.

"Well, the idea!" said Dick. "Graceful!"

"Gwen, tell me where you obtained these strange ideas about the ostrich," Miss Kenyon said.

"Did you read some book about birds, or did someone tell you these things that you have written?"

"These are my own ideas," Gwen answered, proudly.

"I didn't have to read or be told what to write. Mamma says I'm a genius, and she read this composition, and she said it was fine, so I don't care what you say about it!"

"You may be seated," said the teacher, but Gwen, not heeding what she said, rushed from the school-house, intent upon telling her mother how very badly she had been treated.

Miss Kenyon told the pupils that they had been rude to laugh, or make comments when another pupil was taking any part in the exercises.

They knew that, but they also knew that Gwen's composition had been "funny."

Gwen rushed home with her composition in her hand.

Of course Mrs. Harcourt praised and comforted her.

"Absurd!" she cried. "Did she wish you to consult a dictionary? Any ordinary child could do that, but to evolve such odd ideas! Why that is genius! She is dull if she doesn't know great creative genius when she sees it!"

"And must I go to school again to-morrow?" Gwen asked.

"No, indeed!" Mrs. Harcourt said, "I shall send you, hereafter, to private school, where your talents will be appreciated."

There was another pupil who was far more uncomfortable at school than Gwen had ever been, and that was Gyp.

Placed in a class with children of six or seven, the awkward boy felt ill at ease, and out of place. Yet, while they were years younger than he, they had already spent more hours in the class room than he ever had, and pages that they read with ease, he struggled over. He was a true gypsy, and he loved his freedom, and the fresh air.

Now, as he sat at his desk, book in hand, he thought of his long tramps over field and meadow, through forest and valley, and in his heart he hated school, and the people who forced him to attend.

"What's the use?" he muttered, under his breath.

"I can catch woodchucks, and birds and squirrels," he said, softly, "and once I caught a fox, but what kin I do here? Nothing but hold a ol' book!" A sharp command to "stop muttering, and sit still," served to increase his wrath.

He knew that it was not the teacher who was responsible for his presence at school, but he thought that she wished him to be there, because she insisted that he sit still, and she would not let him leave the room.

"It was the p'liceman what brung me here, but I'll bet 'twas her axed him to," he whispered, thus showing how angry were his thoughts, and how greatly he needed the training that the teacher stood ready to give.

His mother had not dared to keep him at home, although she needed his help.

Gyp could not understand why she had agreed to let him go to a place where he could neither earn nor steal food for the family. He felt that she had not stood by him.

He dared not play truant, because he so feared the policeman who had said that he must attend school.

Poor Gyp! Ignorant, and born of ignorant parents, he believed, as they did, that if he did not go to school, he would be sent to jail! Jail was the only thing that Gyp thought worse than school. He considered himself a prisoner in school, but after four he was free, so that jail was worse only because one could not get out of jail at all!

"If it's school or jail, I'll go to school!" he said.

For weeks he appeared each morning and afternoon, sullen, and unhappy. Then something occured that made him change his mind, and his eyes grow bright, and his heart grow lighter.

Out of all Avondale, Princess Polly was the only person who spoke kindly to him. Wild, careless Gyp fairly worshipped the blue eyed, golden haired little girl who always gave him a pleasant word, and a smile.

One morning, after a heavy storm, the avenues were in fair condition, until the pupils reached a place where they must cross to the opposite side of the street to enter the school yard.

Gyp was not afraid of muddying his shoes, because they were so shabby that a little mud could not make them look worse. He sat on the wall and laughed as he saw the girls try to cross the puddle without wetting their feet.

"Oh, look at the ducks! No, geese!" he cried, adding: "Don't be 'fraid. Water won't hurt ye!"

After the other girls had reached the sidewalk, Princess Polly came tripping along.

She had intended to walk to school with Rose and Sprite, but Sprite, not quite ready, had asked Polly to go along, and she would soon be ready, and would overtake her.

Gyp saw her coming, and stopped laughing.

"Jiminy!" he ejaculated. "Somebody ought ter do suthin'!"

A second later he cried:

"Stop! Oh, stop just a minute, will ye? I'll fix that puddle!"

Polly did stop.

Snatching a piece of board that chanced to be lying on the ground just over the wall, he flew to where Polly was standing, placed his tiny plank over the puddle, and felt the greatest pride when he saw her walk across, her dainty shoes without a spot upon them.

"Oh, Gyp, you were nice to do that for me! Thank you, so much!" she said.

He hardly knew what to reply, but muttering something about being "no bother at all," he ran around to the other side of the school-house that she might not see his confusion. One thought filled his mind. He would go to school! Yes, he would go to school every day, so that morning and afternoon he might be where he could see her, and do any little favor, or offer any aid, that she might need.

Another thought soon followed. He would work at his studies. He would not be at the foot of the class.

He must work for promotion! He must catch up with pupils of his own age, for then he would be nearer Princess Polly, and thus able to do any little favor, or any slight service that might please her.



Chapter V

A Breath Of The Sea


It was with Polly and Rose that Sprite was happiest. She liked Lena and Leslie, and all the others.

The boys were her trusted friends, and she looked forward to a gay winter with these new friends. One sunny morning Uncle John Atherton, with Rose in the motor beside him, drove over to Sherwood Hall to call for Polly and Sprite.

"We're going for a long ride, Rose, so tell Polly and Sprite to take their coats."

They were soon ready, and running down the walk, their coats on their arms.

"Where are we going?" they cried, as they reached the sidewalk. Without waiting for an answer they clambered into the car.

"Where are we going?" they asked again. "Oh, let's all three sit on one seat!"

Uncle John turned to look at the three eager faces.

"Well, well! What a lucky man I am!" he cried. "Three fine young ladies all out for a ride with me. Are you ready?"

"All ready!" cried the merry chorus, "but where are we going?"

"Now that's my secret," Uncle John said, with a laugh, "but I will say that some business took me to a very charming place this morning, and I thought I'd like company on the way. I trust you're willing to go?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" cried three laughing voices.

"Then we'll start at once," said Uncle John, as if he had been waiting in order to be re-assured.

Over the road they flew, talking and laughing gaily.

"Rose, do you know where we're going?" Polly asked.

"Oh, her Uncle John would tell her," said Sprite.

"He didn't" declared Rose, then; "did you, Uncle John?" she cried.

"I certainly did not tell Rose," he said, "and after another half hour has passed, you three little friends must commence to look about you, and see if you see anything that looks at all familiar."

"Tell us when the half hour is up," said Polly, "and we'll begin looking."

They were soon running along country roads, where men were busy in the fields, and where early fall wild flowers bordered the roads.

Then in a brief space, they began to miss the wild flowers, and to notice bold bits of ledge, the roads became more sandy, and as they swung around a bend, they caught a glimpse of the sea.

"Cliffmore! Oh, it's Cliffmore!" cried Sprite her hands tightly clasped, and her eyes bright as stars.

"Isn't it Cliffmore, Mr. Atherton?" she asked, her little hand patting his shoulder nervously, as she waited his reply.

He stopped the car, and turned to gaze up into the lovely, eager face.

Sprite, standing, her long golden hair blowing back from her face, looked for all the world like a sea fairy. Shading her eyes with her hand, she looked out across the sea that she loved so well.

Then she turned to find his kind brown eyes looking up at her, as if he were about to speak.

"Dear little girl, I have indeed brought you to Cliffmore. I was obliged to come here on a little business trip to look after some of my property, and I took you for sweet company, and because I thought we'd give two very dear people who live at the 'Syren's Cave,' a great surprise."

"Oh, I hope father isn't out on the water," cried Sprite. "Mother will be there, but I want to see them both!"

"I looked out for that," was the cheery reply, "and I wrote to tell Captain Seaford that I should call upon him to-day. I did not say that I should bring some callers with me."

"Oh, what fun!" cried Polly.

"Won't they be surprised?" said Rose.

Uncle John turned from the road, and out onto the beach.

The tide was low, and they bowled along over the hard white sand, little Sprite sitting with her hands tightly clasped, and her eyes riveted upon the distant speck that she knew to be her home, while Rose on one side, and Polly on the other, closely watched her pretty, eager face.

Captain Seaford, sitting just outside the door, was endeavoring to mend a net, but constant watching for the coming of Captain Atherton made the task of mending progress slowly.

"I must spunk up a little," he said, "for I want to use this net," but in spite of his resolve, he was soon watching, as before, for the coming of his friend.

At last he arose from the low stool on which he had been sitting, throwing the net down in a heap on the sand.

Mrs. Seaford, seated indoors, was busy, her needle flying in and out, darning one of the captain's socks.

"I can't keep my mind on my work," he said. "I tie a knot, and then look up to see if John Atherton is in sight. I never acted like that before. I'm always glad to see him, but for some strange reason, I can't wait patiently for him to arrive."

"I'm doing the same thing," his wife said. "I can't keep my mind on this mending. I take three stitches and then look out of the window. Isn't it strange?"

The honking of a horn made them hasten to the door.

They saw the big car, they dimly saw Captain Atherton, Polly, and Rose, but with startling clearness they saw the one thing on earth that they held most dear, -- little Sprite.

She sprang from the car and ran to them, and what a greeting she received!

Captain Seaford declared that it was the sunlight that made his eyes water, but gentle Mrs. Seaford made no excuse for her tear-wet lashes.

When the first excitement was over, they were invited to come in and rest in the quaint living-room of the Seafords' home.

"I thought when I read your letter, Captain Seaford, that you and your wife were missing little Sprite even more than you had dreamed possible. I have watched Sprite closely, and sometimes I have thought that she was homesick. If we make the trip once a fortnight, we shall all be happier."

"Including yourself, John Atherton," said Captain Seaford, "for I know you as well as you know yourself. You are never quite content, unless planning pleasure for others. Oh, I know it, and it's no use to deny what I say."

"As Captain Atherton is a truthful man, he's not likely to deny it," said Mrs. Seaford, "and now if you will all enjoy a shore dinner, I'll ask you to be my guests."

"I know of nothing more tempting," Captain Atherton said, and then, because he believed that Mrs. Seaford would enjoy an hour when she could have Sprite quite by herself, he took Rose and Princess Polly over to "The Cliffs," where they might amuse themselves, while he inspected the work that was being done.

The time passed swiftly, and when Polly and Rose had seen all the places about the house where they had played during the summer, and Uncle John had satisfied himself that repairs that were being made wholly pleased him, they found that it was about the time that Mrs. Seaford had set for their return.

"Come, ladies," he said, and they ran down the driveway, laughing and talking, and soon in the big car, were spinning down the beach.

As they drew near to the "Syren's Cave," Captain Seaford at the door, sounded a long, sweet note on the horn. Polly and Rose waved their handkerchiefs, and Sprite ran out to greet them.

It was a sunny day, with a fresh, cool breeze blowing from the East, and when they were seated around the table, the big tureen filled with hot chowder seemed just what their keen appetites craved.

Boiled fish, garnished with cress followed the chowder, and simple pudding, served with cream, furnished the dessert.

It surely was not an elaborate dinner, but to the guests it seemed the finest treat that they had ever enjoyed.

The long ride in the fresh breeze had made them eager for the noon meal, and the sea food, daintily cooked, was a feast.

They lingered at the table, and Mrs. Seaford, and the three little friends listened, and laughed at the merry stories that the two sea captains told.

They were all in the big car when Captain Atherton said:

"Oh, now I think of it; there's a package, and a basket in this car that I meant to leave here, if you'll kindly store them for me."

Captain Seaford, never guessing what the parcel, or big basket contained, answered heartily:

"Of course I'll store them for you, dear friend, as long as you like," and he hastened to take them, carrying them into the house.

"Good-byes" had been said, when John Atherton turned to say:

"Oh, will you please open the parcel, and the basket. They're too tightly wrapped, I think."

"Ah, I know now that 'tis for myself you wish me to store the heavy parcel, and the loaded basket. The heart within thy brave breast is bigger, and warmer than that of any man I ever knew."

It was as Captain Seaford had said.

When, with his wife beside him, he opened the basket, he found it filled with luscious fruit, beneath which lay a huge parcel of sugar.

In the big bundle that the sturdy captain had found it a task to tug to the house, was another large bag of sugar, a bag of flour, a parcel containing beans, a giant squash, and tea and coffee.

"Could he possibly know that at just this time, these gifts are especially welcome?" Mrs. Seaford asked.

"I can't imagine how he could find that out, but surely they could not have come at a better time," was the earnest reply.

He turned to hide the tears that had sprung to his honest eyes, when, for the first time, he saw a large firkin, set just inside the door, and, as if to keep it company, a large sack leaned against it. The firkin, as the captain had called it, proved to be a huge tub of fine butter, and the sack was filled with potatoes.

A card was pinned to the sack.

"These few articles I leave instead of my card. John."

"Ah, John Atherton, faithful friend, may every blessing be thine," said Mrs. Seaford, with trembling lips, to which Captain Seaford, gently breathed, "Amen."

On the inside of the cover of the butter tub was tacked this note:

"A load of coal for winter comfort will arrive this afternoon. I couldn't bring it in the auto. John."

"And see him make a joke by saying that he couldn't bring it in the auto!" said Captain Seaford, "and thus try to make light of his generosity. He doesn't blind us to his great goodness, though. He's one man of a thousand!"

In the auto the three playmates were gaily talking, singing snatches of blithe little songs, as they sped along the beach, on the way to Avondale.

"I've loved to be with you before this trip," said Sprite, "but sometimes I've longed to see home, but now that I'm to go there every fortnight I'll be gay, and happy all the time. Oh, Mr. Atherton, I thank you for promising that!"

"And in return, little Sprite, I'll ask a favor," he said. "Call me 'Uncle John,' just as Rose does, and Polly does the same."

"Oh, I will, I will!" she cried. "I've always wanted to."

"You will feel more at home with an uncle so near," he said, gently.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Already the boys and girls of Avondale were talking of the opening of school. Of all the eager ones, Sprite Seaford was the most excited. Her mother's careful training had fitted her for a class among girls of her own age, but she did not know that.

She hoped that she might be in the class with Princess Polly, and Rose, but wherever her place in school might be, she was eager for the "first day" to arrive.

One morning Polly and Sprite were on the piazza, before breakfast, and after pacing up and down for a while, they went down the steps, and around behind the house to search for Sir Mortimer.

"He's sometimes in under the bushes taking a nap," said Polly, and they crouched to look under the shrubbery. An ear-piercing screech made them spring to their feet, and there, flying down the road, was Gyp, tearing along as if in fright, but what could so have startled wild, careless Gyp?

He did not stop running, nor did he slacken his pace, but looking straight ahead, as if not daring to look back, to learn if he were followed, he raced down the street, fear plainly showing in every movement of his thin wiry legs.

"What could have frightened him?" Polly asked. Sprite could not guess.

Now, slowly going over his beat a patrolman passed, walking along as if haste were a thing unheard of.

"That's what made him run!" cried Princess Polly.

"What? The policeman!" cried Sprite. "Why he isn't chasing him."

"Of course he isn't," Polly replied, "but Gyp is so afraid of any one of the policemen in this town, that he runs screaming just like that the minute he sees one."

Together they watched, until Gyp was out of sight.

"They say folks here in Avondale are going to make Gyp go to school," said Polly, "but I shouldn't think they could do it, and if they could, just think how he'd act!"

"I can't think," said Sprite, her eyes dancing, "but I know I'll like to watch him the first day."

"We couldn't watch him if we wanted to because he wouldn't be in our room," Polly said.

"Well, then he'll be above us, because he's bigger than we are," said Sprite. Polly laughed as she said;

"Oh, no he won't. He's never been to school but a few months, as big as he is. He'll be in some class below us."

"Why, then he'll be with little children," said Sprite, "and won't he look funny when he's such a big boy?"

"Well, that's where he'll have to be, if they can make him go!"



Chapter VI

A Delightful Call


One Saturday morning, Rose skipped along the sidewalk on the way to Aunt Judith's cottage. Her cheeks were very pink, and her eyes were bright.

Uncle John was to take her with him in the big automobile that afternoon, and they were to call, he said, on a very dear friend of his.

"Do I know her?" Rose had asked.

"You will, when you see her," was the laughing reply.

"Is it some one I've seen?" she asked, her face alight with interest.

"Yes, and no," Uncle John said.

"And that is all I'll tell you," he continued, "because I'd like you to recognize her at once, without any hint from me."

"And I'll enjoy the forenoon with Aunt Judith," she said as she opened the little gate.

Aunt Judith, sitting by the window saw her coming, and hastened to the door.

"I've been watching a half hour to see you push open the gate, and come in," she said.

"Oh, Aunt Judith! I'm not late," Rose said, "for look! I said I'd come over here at nine, and it's just nine by your clock."

"Dear child, you are very prompt, and the only reason that I sat watching is because I wanted to see you the moment you came in sight. Now take off your things," she said, "and then we'll sit down, and talk over the plans for our party."

Rose was delighted. What little girl wouldn't be?

"First of all, dear, I had a great surprise this morning. A very great surprise, and your Uncle John Atherton gave it to me."

"Oh, Uncle John is always doing something nice, for somebody!" cried Rose.

"I never knew how good, how kind he could be," Aunt Judith said, brushing away a happy tear. "He came here one evening, and said he'd come to cheer me, and he certainly succeeded. We talked a little while, and in his pleasant way he questioned me, trying to learn if I was feeling prosperous. I didn't like to tell him, but he made me, and Rose, my cellar is stocked with all the wood and coal that I could use this Winter. There are winter vegetables, apples, two big hams, a barrel of flour, -- Rose! I never felt so rich in all my life! Think of it! Winter coming, and my cellar full!"

"Oh, Aunt Judith! Do you wonder that I love him?"

"Who could help it?" was the eager question, "And that's not all, for with the idea that he hadn't done enough, this morning when I opened my back door a neat looking little maid stood there.

"I'm sent here, m'am, by your relative, Mr. Atherton, who says I'm to work for you until you get tired of me, which he says m'am, he hopes won't be soon."

"I was tired this morning and when I found a little maid engaged to do my work for me, I couldn't speak for a moment, because I was so full of thanks, that they almost choked me."

"Now, you can stay in the dear little sitting-room, while the work in the kitchen is being done for you. No wonder you feel rich," cried Rose.

"And now," said Aunt Judith, "we'll talk about the party."

"Wait just a minute, 'til I get my little stool. There! Now I'll listen, and I'm wild to hear."

"I wish this party to be as nearly as possible like the one that I enjoyed when I was little. First of all, I shall make some draperies for these windows of flowered chintz. I found a whole piece up in my store room the other day, and its gay flowered pattern looked very like the curtains in the home I so well remember. There are fine old hand-made rugs in the store room. I've never cared for them, but now I know that they will look right with the flowered chintz curtains. Now come and see what I have here in this little cupboard."

"There! Won't these look bright and pretty on my mantel?" she asked.

"Oh, lovely! Lovely!" cried Rose. "Where did you get them, and what are they called?"

"They are called candelabra, and are really ornamental candlesticks. These clear, finely cut pendants of glass will catch and reflect light. We'll play old-fashioned games, we'll have an old-fashioned treat, and we'll wear real old-time costumes. It will not be a grand party, but I believe the children will enjoy it, for it will, at least, be different from any party that they have ever attended."

Aunt Judith worked all the morning, stitching the hems for the chintz curtains, and Rose pulled out the bastings, threaded needles, and in many ways helped to make the pretty things for the little front parlor.

"If it wasn't for school I could come again Monday and help you," Rose said.

"I shall easily do all that is needed," Aunt Judith replied, "for now I have a little maid, I have more time for myself, and she said she would be pleased to help me decorate for the party. I think she really wishes to have a part in the preparations."

"You have beautiful old china," said Rose, "and the boys and girls will like the nice things served on such pretty plates."

"Now, go into the next room, and see what I left hanging over a chair. You may try it on, and then come out here, and let me see you," Aunt Judith said.

"What fun!" cried Rose, and she laughed gaily as she ran to "try on" the quaint costume.

"Oh, the beautiful dress!" she said when she saw the dainty frock that Aunt Judith had chosen for her. She quickly removed her own dress, and soon she was looking at her reflection in the mirror. She took the hand mirror, that she might see the back of the costume.

The little maid peeped in. She, too, had been trying on the quaint dress that Aunt Judith intended her to wear.

And when at last the little clock chimed the hour at which she had promised to leave the cottage that she might be at home to lunch with Uncle John, she said "goodbye," and ran down the path, her mind filled with thoughts of the promised party, and of the delight of her playmates when they should be entertained by Aunt Judith, and for the first time, be a part of an old-fashioned party.

Uncle John was on the broad piazza waiting for her, and together they went in to lunch. Later, in the big automobile, they rode in a different direction from any that Rose had ever travelled over, and she looked up at Uncle John, as if she were wondering if he had forgotten that there was a call to be made before they turn homeward.

He turned to the right, and then, after a short ride, drove up a long private avenue bordered with odd, foreign-looking trees. Although the foliage was gone, one could see by the form of the trunk and branches that they were not the trees usually seen at Avondale. The house, a stately homestead, stood well back from the street, and the porch, with its colonial pillars, gave grandeur to the entrance. And when they were seated in the handsome parlor, Rose looked about her, and wondered who it might be that Uncle John had brought her to see.

A slight sound, a rustling of silken drapery, and a young woman, lovely as a vision, entered, offered her hand to Captain Atherton, and then turning, she looked at the little girl whose brown eyes told of admiration.

"And this, John, is Rose? Little Rose Atherton?"

"This truly is my little Rose. And now, Rose, this is Miss Iris Vandmere, and I wish you two to be the best of friends. Tell me, do you remember if you have ever met her, or seen her before to-day?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" cried Rose. "She is the lovely lady in the locket picture, I know she is!"

"I am, indeed, the girl in the locket miniature, and now, as you have seen me before coming here, don't look upon me as a stranger. I want you to learn to like me, dear."

There was pleading in the sweet voice, and Rose took the slender white hand in hers.

"I won't have to learn to like you, because I love you now. Anyone would love you, you are so sweet, so bright to look at," Rose said, and Iris bent her lovely head, and kissed the upturned face.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

"Oh, Uncle John! There never was, there never will be anyone so dear, so lovely," sighed Rose, when they were once more in the automobile. "See how sweet she looks, waving her hand to us! When will you take me to her again?"

"Rose, little girl, you have pleased me to-day, and you shall often go with me to the beautiful old house, to see the beautiful girl who lives there. As I said this afternoon, I wish you to be the best of friends."

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Of course the news of Aunt Judith's party flew through the neighborhood, and many were the questions that Rose was asked to answer.

To each, she shook her curly head, and made the same reply.

"Aunt Judith intends it to be quaint, and everything will be old-fashioned, and we are all to wear real old-time costumes, but that is all I will tell you, because Aunt Judith wishes it to seem quaint, and a bit of a surprise when you come. It won't be any surprise at all if I tell you all about it now."

"Don't you tell it, Rose, not even to me," said Princess Polly.

"Nor me!" cried Sprite.

"If she's kind enough to plan a party for us children, we ought to let her have it just as she wishes it to be."

Gyp sat upon the wall, listening to all that was being said. He was full of mischief, and often he had annoyed Aunt Judith with his pranks.

"She's agoin' ter make a party fer 'em!" he said to himself.

He still sat on the wall, swinging his skinny legs when those who had stood talking of the event had walked together down the street. Polly and Sprite had lagged behind to talk with Rose until a maid had called to Polly that Mrs. Sherwood wished them to come in.

Rose turned toward home, and was humming as she walked along, when she heard her name called softly.

She looked up and down the street. Then she saw Gyp.

"Do you know who called me?" she asked.

"Yep!" he answered, pertly.

"Well, who did?" queried Rose.

"I did," he said, watching her closely. "I axed yer is she going ter have a big party?"

"She can't. It would be too costly, and the cottage is too small, but she is generous and kind to give us any party at all, and oh, Gyp!" she cried, moving nearer to him, "I do wish you wouldn't tease her."

Gyp wriggled.

"She said she hated me!" he said.

"Well, she might have been angry, but she likes boys. I've heard her say so," Rose replied.

"I ain't just a boy. I'm a Gypsy boy. That's different."

"Princess Polly is always kind to her, and I know it would please her if you stopped teasing Aunt Judith," Rose said.

That was just the thing to have said!

Gyp was determined to win Polly's approval at all costs. He sprang from the low wall, and rushed off to the old shanty that his family called "home."

There he found an old basket, and rushing off into the heart of the woods, he returned with a quantity of fine shellbarks that he had gathered and hoarded. Two days before the party was to occur he obtained a flour bag, no one knew how, emptied the basket of nuts into it, filling it about three-quarters full.

Long and hard he labored over the note that he tied to the bag. Sneaking to the back door of the cottage, he dropped the bag on the upper step, gave a tremendous knock, and then raced off to the woods.

Aunt Judith was more than half afraid to open the big bag, but finally, gathering courage, she cut the string, and then peeped in.

The laboriously written note fell to the floor. She picked it up, and for a moment, stared at it in great surprise.

"Ter Missis Ant Joodith Im sory ive evir plagd yer an them nutts is 4 yor party coss I want yer ter no I meen whut i say. Arftur this I wil tri hard ter be yor frend,

"Gyp."

"Well, of all things!" she cried, when at last she had made sense out of the fearfully spelled note.

"Poor, wild Gyp! Who ever dreamed that he had a heart or a conscience! Indeed he shall be my friend if that will keep him from annoying me, and perhaps I can find a way to befriend him.

"Everyone is ready to lift a hand against him, so that there is nothing to tempt him to be really good, nor to encourage him to try.

"Strange little Arab! I wonder what prompted him to give his store of nuts to me, and really that fearfully spelled note has a bit of sincerity in it. I must tell John Atherton about it. I'll keep the note, and show it to him."

Often she paused to take the note from its retreat behind the clock, read it, and replace it. She looked from the window whenever she passed it, but not a glimpse of Gyp did she obtain.

She could not imagine what had caused the little imp to leave his gift of nuts at her door, or yet more wonderful, what had prompted him to write his friendly little note. Its outrageous spelling was droll, but its kindly spirit was evident. He had attended school because he was compelled to, but he had paid but little attention to his books.

The note had kept him busy for fully a half hour, and he considered it a fine specimen of letter writing when it was completed.

He thought that few boys could have done better, and he felt that in writing it, he had literally "covered himself with glory."



Chapter VII

Aunt Judith's Party


The flowered chintz draperies hung at the windows, the pink roses, and green leaves on its shiny surface looked fairly gaudy. The candles danced and flickered in the candelabra, evergreen framed every picture on the walls.

Aunt Judith's quaint sofa and chairs had always been covered with crimson repp, and the color seemed brighter in the evening light.

The old hand-made rugs looked quaint upon the floor, and the logs in the grate burned gaily, as if anticipating the arrival of the little guests.

Of all the fine, quaint things in the room, Aunt Judith was surely the finest, and the quaintest. Her gown was of old-time print, a white ground upon which bouquets of pansies, purple and yellow, had been finely printed. Her black eyes were bright with excitement, and in her glossy black hair, she had placed an old silver comb.

Her sleeves were elbow length, and she wore long black silk mitts. She had made her toilette with great care, and she now stood on the hearth rug, nervously opening and shutting a small folding fan.

The little maid peeped in.

"Please ma'am, I hear 'em comin'," she said.

"Wait 'til they ring, and then answer the bell," said Aunt Judith.

The little maid looked very pretty, and she was delighted to be "in costume," for the occasion. Her skirt, of heavy cotton, was white, with wide pink stripes. Her waist was blue with a large white kerchief, and on her flaxen head was a white cap with a frill that made her rosy little face quite pleasing.

Greta liked her new place. She liked her new mistress, too, and the work at the little cottage was light.

Aunt Judith was a worker, and together they kept the pretty rooms in perfect order.

The bell rang sharply, Greta opened the door, and the quaintest little figures that ever were seen came tripping into the hall.

It was not to be a ceremonious affair, so Greta took their wraps at the door, and they entered the little parlor to greet Aunt Judith.

Princess Polly in crisp print, with yellow primroses on a white ground, a pale green kerchief, and yellow ribbons in her hair, was fair, and lovely to look upon.

Rob Lindsey in brown homespun with a yellow vest, walked beside her, looking very like a lad of the olden time.

Lena Lindsey, in a green and white striped gown, a wreath of white roses and green leaves in her hair, with Leslie Grafton in scarlet linen with white lace frills at her neck, and in her sleeves, were two quaint lassies, and Harry Grafton in gray linen with huge white collar, and gaily flowered tie, made a trio that delighted Aunt Judith.

She had asked Rose to come as a guest, instead of standing with her to receive.

She had wished to see dear little Rose Atherton among her other guests, simply because she thus could see her more in the same way that she saw the other children, and she wanted to judge if she looked like that other little Rose Atherton who once had worn that same gown.

Uncle John knew that it was to be a children's party, but he decided to accept Aunt Judith's invitation to be present, and enjoy their pleasure with her.

Shouts of laughter greeted his costume! Knee breeches of yellow linen, a waistcoat of white linen damask, with lace frills on his bosom and at his wrists, together with a coat of flowered striped material, made him look like some old portrait suddenly alive.

Rose close beside him, in the pretty frock that Aunt Judith had loaned her, clung to his right arm as they entered together, little Sprite Seaford on his left.

Her gown was one that her great grand aunt had once worn, and it was most becoming. Uncle John Atherton had especially asked her to go to the party with Rose and himself. Her yellow hair was braided in two long braids and crowned with a muslin cap. Her frock was blue, with white blossoms upon it, and from its belt hung a steel bead bag that held her handkerchief.

Gwen was not invited.

Aunt Judith detested her rude ways, and she would not choose a guest who might spoil a pleasant evening by her bad behavior.

A young friend of Uncle John's arrived a bit late, and surely his costume was the most unusual of any of the guests. Captain Atherton had seen the little suit in an antique shop in England. He had purchased it, believing that some such occasion as the present might occur, when the droll coat and trousers, the little waistcoat, and the comical cap would be just the thing for a slender lad to wear. Walter Langdon was indeed a quaint figure, as, with Captain Atherton, he went forward to greet Aunt Judith, and be introduced to the other guests.

His coat, a funny little "swallow tail," was of yellow green, his trousers matched it, his waistcoat, or vest, was striped, lilac and white, and his cap, green like the suit, had a long tassel hanging down on one side. His fair hair, in a soft bang, showed below the edge of his cap, and his eyes, wide open and merry, appeared to be just ready for a gay laugh.

He knew that he looked absolutely comical, and he thought it great fun to appear at the party in a costume that provoked laughter. He proved to be a bright, cheery boy, full of fun, and wit, and soon the other boys and girls felt as if they had always known him.

Uncle John wore a costume that had belonged to his great, great uncle, and he looked very handsome in it. He made them all laugh by saying that he wished that his ancestor had been just a wee bit larger, because then the suit would have been somewhat easier, instead of such a close fit.

But while he seemed pleased with all of his new friends, it was Rose Atherton whom Walter liked best of all.

"And now," said Aunt Judith, "I've tried to make this party a truly old-fashioned one, and what do you say to playing some very old-fashioned games?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" they cried. "What shall we play first?"

"Blind Man's Buff," cried Uncle John, "and I'll blind first. Here, Rose! Tie this handkerchief over my eyes!"

Rose tied the handkerchief, and then the fun began.

"He's peeking!" cried Walter, "so he can be sure to catch Rose."

"I'm not peeking. Honest Injun!" declared Uncle John, exactly as he had heard the boys say it.

"Catch me!" cried Leslie, at the same time dodging him, and he grasped empty air.

"And me!" cried Lena, just behind him, springing past him as he turned.

Sprite made no sound as she tried to pass him, but was just a bit too slow, and he caught her.

"Ah, I know who I've found!" he cried, "because no other little girl but Sprite has such long, silken braids."

He lifted the handkerchief, and laughed to see her blushing cheeks.

It was now Sprite's turn. Slowly she advanced, her pretty hands outstretched, and oddly enough she at once caught Lena Lindsey. Her little face was puzzled, and earnest, as she felt of the hair, the cap, and the gown. Then, in an instant, she passed her slender fingers over the chin.

She laughed merrily.

"It's Lena!" she cried gaily, "for it is Lena who has a deep dimple in her chin!"

Each took his turn at being blindfolded, and then "Post office" was announced.

Polly received a great batch of letters, and it was Rob, of course, who "mailed" them. Polly sent five "letters" to Rose, Rose had ten for Uncle John, Uncle John had two for Aunt Judith, who protested that she was "not a child."

"Neither am I," he said.

Aunt Judith chose little Sprite, then Sprite chose Harry Grafton. Harry had five letters for Polly, and Polly had one for Walter, who declared that he found two!

"Copenhagen" was the next, and "Pillow" was the next.

Princess Polly, Rose and Sprite were the most favored of all the little lassies, and it would have been hard to say which of the three was the most popular.

They were now a bit tired, and while they were resting, Aunt Judith told a long story of a most exciting sleighing party that she once experienced, when the horses became frightened, and went plunging over the snow covered fields, having left the roadway far behind.

Then Uncle John matched it with a vivid tale of an encounter with a vessel manned by ocean outlaws. The children held their breath, and they felt very warm and cosey and secure, as they sat watching the dancing flames, and listening to tales of adventure.

"Now let us all enjoy a simple, old-time treat," said Aunt Judith. She tapped a tiny silver bell, and the pretty maid in her striped gown and kerchief appeared with a tray on which were little sandwiches cut in fancy shapes, and filled with chicken, others filled with lettuce, and yet others with chopped nuts. Gyp did not dream that nuts were ever served thus.

There were plates of dainty cakes, and tiny wine glasses filled to the brim with delicious raspberry shrub. How the children enjoyed the simple treat!

The sandwiches and cakes disappeared like magic, and the wee wine glasses were filled again and again with the spiced raspberry juice.

Greta piled her tray with an extra supply, and returned to the parlor, where the children were chattering like sparrows while they enjoyed the treat.

"I think this is a lovely party," said Princess Polly.

"So do I!" cried the others, as if with one voice.

"I think these are the nicest boys and girls I ever met," said Walter, adding, "especially the girls."

His merry gray eyes were laughing, and Uncle John said, as he looked at the eager, boyish face:

"You shall come often to my home here at Avondale, and become even better acquainted with my young friends, and neighbors."

"I'd like to, sir," Walter replied, "for I want them to be my friends."

"We will! We will!" cried an eager chorus.

It was later than they dreamed when the clock chimed the hour, and they took leave of Aunt Judith telling her how quaint and delightful the party had been, and how truly they had enjoyed the evening. Captain Atherton took the entire party under his protection, and they walked home together, talking all the way of the kindness of Aunt Judith in planning the pleasure for them.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Very early next morning an impish figure sat astride the old wooden pump that stood near the door of the cottage.

He seemed to have no interest in anything save that door, and he sat very still, his eyes riveted upon it.

The old pump had not been used in years, but it served for a fine pedestal for Gyp.

At last he heard the key turn in the lock, and he was all attention.

The little maid opened it, and took in the milk jar.

"Where's her?" he demanded. "I want ter see her!"

Greta nodded, and ran in to call Aunt Judith.

"There's the queerest looking boy sitting out on top of the old wooden pump, and he says he wants to see you," said Greta.

Half guessing who it was, for what other boy would make an early morning call, and choose so odd a seat while he waited, Aunt Judith went to the door, and looked out.

"Did you wish to see me?" she asked with a pleasant smile, but Gyp had apparently forgotten what he had intended to say.

"The nuts were fine," Aunt Judith said, "and I want to thank you for them."

"That's what I came fer. I wanted ter know if them nuts was any good?"

"They were very nice indeed, and Gyp, I'll give you something that will show you just what I did with them. Wait a moment."

Gyp waited, wondering if he had quite understood her. Who had ever given him anything?

Aunt Judith came to the door with a plate of sandwiches.

"There, Gyp," she said, "those sandwiches on that side of the plate are chicken but these on this side are filled with some of your nuts."

"Oh, who ever heard of bread stuffed with nuts!" he cried. "They're great!" he cried a moment later, "but I don't want the plate. We take what we eat in our hands at home."

He suited the action to the words, for although the sandwiches were small, he managed to grasp one with both hands, demonstrating that it could be done.

"That was a kind little note that you sent with the bag of nuts," Aunt Judith said, "and since you've promised to be my friend, Gyp, I promise to be yours."

"All right!" cried Gyp, "when does it begin?'

"What?" she asked in surprise.

"Why, us bein' friends," said Gyp.

"Now, Gyp, my boy. Now!" said Aunt Judith. "Come in and we'll talk it over."

"Oo-o-o! Not now!" cried Gyp, "but to-night, if I darest ter, I'll dress up, and come."

He slid down from the tall old wooden pump, gave three wild hops, and then raced off across the field toward the old shed-like building that he called home.

She watched his flying figure from the doorway, and as he disappeared behind a clump of bushes, she turned, and closed the door.

"Strange, wild little fellow!" she said. "I wonder if he'll come!" And when night came, she found herself listening for the sound of a quick step.

At last it came, and quickly Aunt Judith opened the door. Gyp walked in very meekly, and sat on the edge of a chair seat, his old hat in his hands. His hair was painfully smooth, and he wore a bright striped shirt, an old red tie, and while his suit could hardly be called "dressy," it certainly showed that the boy had brushed it, and that he had tried to improve his appearance.

At school he had learned that he must remove his hat when he entered a room, a fact that had greatly surprised him, but he had remembered it.

Aunt Judith felt that she must work carefully, lest Gyp be seized with fear, and bolt for the door, and freedom.

Gently she told him how, by doing his best, he would find friends who would deal kindly with him. That he might have friends if he chose, and that he could, by good behavior, force them to respect him.

"I will be your friend," she said, "and Gyp, let me prove it. Rose tells me that you find your lessons hard to master. Bring them to me evenings, and I will help you with them. You may come Wednesday, and Saturday evenings, and perhaps you can win promotion, so as to climb steadily up to a class of your own age."

"Do you think I could?" he asked. "Would they let me?"

"Make them do it, Gyp. You're smart enough. Come! What do you say? Let's try," Aunt Judith said.

"I'll do it," he said, "and if you help me, maybe I can get out of that class. They laugh at me, and it makes me mad to be called 'baby.'"

"Come over here with your books Saturday evening, and we'll see what we two can do," was the earnest reply.



Chapter VIII

Gyp's Ambition


Gyp sauntered along on the way to school, a thoughtful expression making his face less reckless than usual.

"Looks 's if 'twould pay ter be decent," he said, half aloud.

He was very quiet, and the teacher questioned if he were planning mischief. The little pupils watched him, and wondered when his restlessness would begin.

His teacher wondered, too, but Gyp kept his eyes on his book, and appeared not to know that he was being watched.

For the first time since he had been forced to attend school, he had a perfect spelling lesson.

He stumbled over every long word in the reading lesson, however, and the problems in arithmetic puzzled him completely.

If the arithmetic had seemed easier he might not have appealed so promptly to Aunt Judith for aid, but the young teacher was unable to make it clear to him, and when evening came, he raced across the fields, his book under his arm, and tapped at her door.

"Ah, you've come, Gyp!" she said, smiling at him encouragingly, "I hoped you would."

"You said Wednesday and Saturday, an' this is only Tuesday, but I can't get my lesson for termorrer 'less someone helps me," he said.

"There is no reason why you may not stay to-night," Aunt Judith said, kindly, "and now tell me what it was that made the arithmetic so hard today."

"She asked me if I had ten pears, and I wanted to keep one for myself, and divide the others between two of my friends, how many would I give each, and I told her I'd keep more than one for myself, and I didn't know two anybodies I'd want to give the others to, and then they all laughed. I don't see why."

Aunt Judith was trying not to laugh as heartily as the little pupils whose merriment had so annoyed Gyp.

"And the next thing she asked was about dividing pears, too. Don't folks divide anything but pears? They don't in the arithmetic!"

"Oh, Gyp, Gyp!" cried Aunt Judith, and the puzzled boy laughed with her, because he could not help it.

He did not mind her laughter. Indeed, he already felt better acquainted with her, because they had laughed together. The laughter of the little pupils had maddened him, but that was different.

"They laughed at me, but you laugh with me," he said, with quick understanding.

"And I'll work with you, Gyp," was the pleasant answer, and the boy at once opened his book.

When Gyp took his cap and started for home, after two hours spent at the cottage, he had a better understanding of figures, and their use, and the actual worth of arithmetic, than he had obtained, thus far, in his daily attendance at school.

"Why, Gyp," Aunt Judith had said, in reply to his statement that he "didn't see any use for arithmetic," "you mustn't grow to manhood with no knowledge of arithmetic, or knowledge of figures, or how to reckon. When you go to work you will need this knowledge. There are few things that you can do that will not be easier, or better done, and perhaps be better paid for if you are 'quick at figures.' You must not always live like a gypsy. You must learn all you can while you are at school, and then you must work, and earn, and try to be a good, and useful man. You can, I know, if you try."

Gyp thought of Aunt Judith's words as he lay on his rude bed that night.

"She said I needn't always live like a gypsy," he murmured. "She said I could learn, and then some time I could earn."

He lay a long time, wide awake, repeating Aunt Judith's words of cheer, and each time that he whispered them, he grew braver, and more determined.

"They've always said, 'Oh, he's only a gypsy,' but I'll learn, and I'll earn, and I'll do something. I don't know what, but I'll do something, see 'f I don't!"

There was no one to dispute his statement, and he dropped to sleep, and dreamed of doing great deeds.

Ever since he could remember, he had heard the boys of Avondale speak as if he were a gypsy, and as if that fact explained every bit of mischief that he did. He had always felt that, being a gypsy, there was no chance for him in any walk of life, and that, therefore, there was simply no use to try.

Now a new light had dawned, and with it came hope, cheer, determination, to succeed.

"I'll do it," he murmured in his sleep.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Soon it was whispered that Gyp was working hard at school for promotion, and when he took his place in a class higher, he held his head high, and bravely worked at his lessons. Aunt Judith stood by him, and Wednesday and Saturday evenings, rain or shine, he spent at her little home, working with all his might to improve.

In the middle of the term, because of extra work that he had done under her instruction, he was again promoted.

He was steadily "catching up" with the boys of his own age. Those boys had now ceased to laugh at Gyp. He was winning their respect.

Sprite Seaford was another pupil who was working faithfully. She knew that her dear father and mother had made a great sacrifice when they had decided to live through the Fall, the Winter and, the Spring in the old house on the shore, without the little daughter, whose face was like sunshine, whose voice was music in the home.

There were times when Sprite was homesick, but those were the rare occasions when she chanced to be alone. Just now she was very happy. The weather was mild. All snow had vanished beneath the warm rays of the sun, and she ran out to know if it were really as warm as it looked. The tall evergreen trees and hedges shone dark against the sky, and Sprite stood looking at them. She had taken part in a little play on the week before, and some of the lines now flitted through her mind, and she lifted her pretty arms in graceful gesture. With the dark trees and low shrubbery behind her, she recited the lines with appropriate gesture, and telling effect.

Six small girls had taken part in the little play, and each had been chosen by Miss Kenyon, because of her talent for speaking. Sprite, with her long, golden hair, and her slender figure, had been cast for the fairy queen, whose delight it was to grant the wishes of all good children.

Now she stepped out into an open space, the beautiful garden making a lovely background for her figure. Gracefully she stood as she recited a verse that had been a part of the fairy play.

"If you're striving to excel, And your very best you do, You shall be rewarded well; I will make your wish come true."

A dark figure crouched behind a clump of underbrush that the gardener had thought too pretty to cut down.

Through snow and ice the red leaves had clung to the little scrub oak, and now that a mild day had come, the leaves looked very bright as the sun lay on them.

The figure hiding there was Gyp, and his eyes grew brighter as he heard the little verse.

He stirred uneasily.

Sprite, believing herself to be alone, repeated the verse with even greater spirit than before, and as she spoke the last line, Gyp sprang to his feet.

"I will make your wish come true," said Sprite, whereat Gyp sprang from his hiding-place, crying:

"Oh, will yer? Will yer? Are ye a fairy? Kin yer grant my wish?"

All the superstition of his race showed in his eager face.

Sprite seemed neither afraid nor startled, nor was she annoyed at the interruption. For, a second she looked in gentle surprise at the boy's dark, eager face.

Then a look of pity made her eyes very soft.

"Oh, Gyp!" she cried, "what is the wish you want granted? I'm not a fairy, so of course I can't grant it, but, -- Oh, Gyp! I'm awfully sorry. Tell me what the wish is! Sometimes it helps to tell."

Pityingly, and more like a little woman than like the child that she was, she spoke to comfort him.

For a moment he felt abashed that he had so plainly shown the longing in his heart, then as she asked again, he cried:

"I want to be someone. I want a chance to be something besides Gyp, the gypsy boy."

"Oh, then that's almost granted now!" she cried in quick relief, "because I heard the teacher say, the other day:

"'That boy will get there! That boy will be someone worth while, and I mean to help him.'"

"Did she say that?" cried Gyp, his eyes showing how little he dreamed that the work that he was doing was being noticed.

"She truly did," said Sprite, "so while I couldn't grant your wish, I could tell you that it would come true, and I'm glad of that."

"So'm I," agreed Gyp, "but don't yer tell any of the others that I thought yer was a fairy, will yer?"

She promised faithfully, and when he had thanked her for what she had told him, and for the promise that she had just made, he turned and, as usual, ran off to the woods.

Sprite stood watching him as he ran, like the wind across the fields, and even as she looked he turned, paused a moment, and waved his hand to the little waiting figure.

Quickly she lifted hers, and returned his salute.

He stood just a second, waved his hand again, and then plunged into the thicket.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

When he entered the old shack that he called "home," he found his mother stirring a steaming mass that nearly filled the huge iron kettle that stood on the rusty stove.

His small brothers and sisters formed a half circle around her, watching every movement that helped to prepare the dinner. They were all much younger than Gyp, and only one, a girl, was yet of school age.

"They'll be comin' after yer ter make me let ye go ter school same's Gyp," the woman was saying, as the boy opened the door, "but I need ye ter home this Winter ter help me, sure's my name is Gifford."

"Is yer name Gifford?" Gyp asked in surprise.

"Of course 'tis, Gyp. Why d'ye ask? Ain't ye never heard that before?" she asked, sharply.

"Never heard us folks called anything but gypsies," he replied.

"Well, how could ye? Don't no one never come here," his mother said, with fearful disregard of grammar.

"Then why isn't my name Gifford, too?" he persisted.

"Wal, 'tis. Ye was named John, John Gifford, but ye couldn't seem ter say that in yer baby days, so ye left off the 'John,' and called, 'Gifford,' 'Gyp,' an' 'Gyp' it has been ever since. Don't they call ye that at school? I told the ol' feller what come ter say ye must 'tend school that that was yer name."

Gyp did not reply.

He thought best to be silent, and picking up one of his books, he studied until dinner was ready.

No time was wasted in serving. A very small low table was dragged to the center of the floor, the kettle was placed upon it, and then, a hungry circle, they swarmed around it.

The soup was very hot, but each was provided with a long slice of bread, and these they dipped into the soup, blowing it for a moment, and then eating it ravenously.

Gyp ate, as the others did. What else could he do? He had caught glimpses, now and then, of a better way of living, and in his heart he thought;

"I will not always live like a gypsy."

His teacher had called him "Gyp" as others did.

The next day, he appeared very early at school, and astonished her by asking shyly if she would call him, by his name, "John."

"Certainly, if you wish it," she said.

"I thought you liked to be called Gyp, and would feel more at home if I called you that."

"That's just it!" he cried, in quick anger, "I would 'feel at home' with that old name, but I don't want to 'feel at home.' I'll not always live like a gypsy, and I want a decent name, like other boys!"

"That's right, Gyp, no John!" she said, and both smiled to see how difficult it was to remember the new name.

"You can be so good and useful that every man, woman and child in Avondale will be forced to respect the name of John Gifford. I will speak of this to the pupils, and now that they all see how hard you are trying to gain knowledge, I think they will be willing to call you by the name that is really yours. Remember this, however. Don't be offended if sometimes we forget, and call you 'Gyp.' It may mean only that we remember the boy who, while still thus addressed, made persistent effort to improve."

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

There was great excitement one Wednesday morning when dainty invitations were received by all the boys and girls who usually played together, requesting the pleasure of their company two weeks from that night, at the home of John Atherton.

"Festivities to commence at eight," was inscribed in gold letters at the bottom of the page.

"Oh, Rose, I ought not to ask," said Princess Polly, "and I won't ask what the festivities are to be, but I'll ask you if you know?'

"Not the least thing," Rose replied, "and when I asked Uncle John, he only laughed, and said that was his little secret, so we'll have to wait 'til the night of the party to know what he has planned. The only thing that he has told me is that on the night of the party, Sprite is to remain at our house and that will be the first night of her visit with us."

"I know that," Princess Polly said, "because he told papa that the time for Sprite to be with him was close at hand, and papa said that he knew that we had had our share of her visit, but she has been so sweet, so dear, that we'd never be ready to let her go."

"That's just the reason we want her, for truly, Princess Polly, next to you, Sprite is the sweetest girl I know. There's no girl quite so dear as you, Polly, but surely Sprite comes the very next," Rose said.



Chapter IX

A Jolly Time


Gwen Harcourt felt that in leaving school at Avondale, and entering a small private school in the next town she was really doing something quite fine.

To be sure, the little school was not much of a school. Rather it should have been called a private class, and the little pupils met at the home of a young woman who was far from well equipped for the task of directing their studies, or training their minds.

She had acquired a fair education, but so little governing power had she that the pupils did about as they chose, and that Gwen considered the most charming fact regarding the class.

She thought it very smart to go over to the station, walk up and down the platform waiting for the train, and then, seated in the car, offer her ticket to the conductor when he came down the aisle.

"The Avondale girls and boys just walk to school, but I have to take a train!" she said to herself one morning, as she hurried toward the station.

One might have thought it a convenience to live at a distance from the school. The next town was a mile from Avondale, and Gwen thought it very daring to take the trip alone.

"It makes me sick to listen when Gwen Harcourt is talking about going to school," said Rob. "She thinks it a great thing to ride a mile! If she had to ride twenty-five miles, she'd feel so big that Avondale would not be big enough to hold her."

Rob Lindsey had met Gwen near the station, and she had looked at him as sharply as if she had not seen him for a year.

"Do you still go to school at Avondale?" she asked.

"Why, yes," Rob said. "Did you think we commenced to stay at home when you left?"

"Well, I wouldn't go back there for anything!" declared Gwen. "My mamma calls me a very wonderful child, and when she told my new teacher that, she said to mamma; 'I know she's an unusual child. I can see that at a glance.'"

"Perhaps she'd call me wonderful if I engaged her to do so. I might tell her to just look at me and say if she'd give me a prize."

Lena laughed at Rob's disgust.

"I wonder if she will think any parties that are given at Avondale are too near to be interesting?" she said.

"I wouldn't risk inviting her if I didn't want her to accept," Rob replied as he picked up his books and turned toward the door.

"Oh, say, Lena!" he cried, "I just happened to think of Captain Atherton's party. Do you suppose Gwen is invited?"

"Why, Rob! What a question! Captain Atherton wouldn't slight any child in this neighborhood. Of course Gwen will be invited," Lena said.

"Then she'll be there," cried Rob. "She couldn't stay away."

Lena was a little late in preparing for school, and as she ran down the walk, she saw Leslie Grafton just ahead of her, hurrying down the avenue.

"Leslie!" she cried, and Leslie turned a laughing face toward her.

"Come on!" she cried, "I can't wait. Catch up with me, Lena. I want to ask you something."

Lena was swift footed, and soon they were running along together.

They were just in time to avoid being late, and as they entered, Leslie whispered:

"I'll ask the question at recess."

It happened that at recess, everyone was ready to ask the same question.

"Does anyone know what the 'festivities' are to be at Captain Atherton's party?"

That was the question that each asked the other, but while all asked the question, no one could answer it, and Harry Grafton laughed as he said;

"We'll have to wait 'til the evening of the party, and we might as well wait patiently."

"Rose won't tell us," Lena said, reaching to give one of Rose's brown curls just a little "tweak."

"At first when you asked me, I said I didn't know," said Rose, "but now I'll have to say that I know all of Uncle John's plans for the party, but I won't tell."

"And Sprite knows something about it, for see! She's laughing now," said Rob.

"Like Rose I know, but won't tell," Sprite said.

"I won't tease then," said Princess Polly, "because they ought not to tell, and I don't really want them to. I'd like to know now, but I'd rather have it a surprise when the evening comes."

"Polly is right, as usual," said Rob Lindsey, to which Harry Grafton replied in a teasing voice:

"Does anyone believe that Rob would say that anything that Polly does is anything but right?"

"Quit teasing," cried Rob, "or I'll return the favor."

Harry at once became silent, and the others laughed, for it was well known that he admired Rose, and that he did not like to be teased.

On the evening of the party the little guests arrived promptly. "Festivities to commence at eight," the invitations had said, and there was not a boy or girl who cared to miss any of the pleasures offered.

Captain Atherton's new home was a blaze of light, and every room was decorated with a wealth of greenery, and glowing blossoms.

Mimic butterflies hovered among the flowers, and soft music sounded through the halls. Silvery bells were vying with the triangle in producing tinkling tones that chimed in sweet accord with the melody that the strings were playing.

At one end of the spacious parlor a tiny grove of palms and tall shrubs looked as if transplanted from out of doors.

Captain Atherton, tall and handsome, greeted his little friends gaily, and when all had arrived, he led them toward the grove.

"Wait here a moment," he said, "and see what happens. This is an enchanted grove, and a sweet enchantress is in hiding here.

"Come forth, oh lady fair, Dear spirit of the air, We long to see thy face, Thy form of airy grace. Some things we long to know Thou well can'st tell, I trow."

For a moment not a sound save the soft music was heard. Then, -- a rustling as of silken draperies, or like wind among the leaves, and the branches parted, and Iris Vandmere, radiant, smiling, extended her pretty hands in greeting. Clad in softest silk gauze in lilac, and ivory white, she suggested the blossom for which she was named. Like a fair iris bloom she appeared, diamonds on her neck and in her hair representing dewdrops.

"Dearest friends, I heard you call, I have come to greet you all. I am now your fairy queen, And, beneath these branches green, I will grant, to each of you That your dearest wish come true."

"Oh-o-o-o!" came like a sigh of delight from the excited children as they gazed at the lovely figure.

Each had a wish, and wisely she answered, for Iris was as quick witted as she was beautiful.

"I wish I could make everyone happy," said Princess Polly.

"Be as loving and kind as I am told you now are, and your wish will come true," said Queen Iris.

"I'd like to do something very nice for father and mother that would be a sweet surprise," said Sprite. "I wish I knew what to do."

"Your wish is granted," said Iris. She wrote a few words on a slip of pink paper.

"Look at this to-morrow morning and you will know just what to do," she said as she placed the tiny folded paper in Sprite's hand.

In the same sweet manner Iris contrived to grant the wishes of all.

Gwen held back.

"Have you no wish?" Iris asked kindly, and Gwen hesitated, then she said;

"Yes. I want to be admired all the time and everywhere."

Iris looked searchingly at the pretty, but pert face. Then she said;

"Be kind, be good, be sweet, be true, and all the world shall smile on you."

"Oh, I don't mean that way!" said Gwen in disgust.

"If you do as I tell you, you will be beautiful," said Iris.

"Why, I'm beautiful now! My mamma says so!" cried Gwen. The children stared in amazement at the child who could make such a silly speech.

For a second no one spoke. To relieve the situation, Captain Atherton spoke.

"I think Queen Iris has granted your wishes most wisely. Now, let me present to you the little Goddess of Plenty."

He drew aside a brocade hanging and disclosed a huge half blown rose.

Its large petals commenced to open, and from its center sprang Rose Atherton, a "horn of plenty" in her hands, filled with bonbons. Laughing gaily, she lifted her hands filled with bonbons and tossed them into the center of the room.

Many of them were caught, so that few fell to the floor. Wrapped in tinsel, they shone like stars as they caught the light, and the boys and girls vied with each other, laughing as they tried to see which would be lucky, and secure the largest number.

When the gilded horn was empty, Rose ran to where a giant scallop shell was standing. It was formed of papier-mache, and decorated to look like the texture of a shell.

"Guess what's in this!" she said, looking over her shoulder to laugh at them.

"Oh, is it Sprite?" Princess Polly asked eagerly. "You were in the big rose. Is Sprite in the beautiful shell?"

Rose lightly touched the top edge of the shell.

It opened wide, and there, sure enough sat Sprite all clad in soft flesh pink gauze and coral, coral everywhere.

Strings of coral beads held her golden hair in place, hung from her neck and arms, encircled her slender waist.

She extended her arms, and then as the musicians played a little prelude, she commenced to sing.

"I've lovely gifts for my dearest friends I've something for each of you, I've coral beads for the girls so fair, I've scarfpins, dear boys, for you. And always we will remember this, That a gift has a value true, But better far, than the finest gift Is the love that we give to you."

"Oh, Sprite, dear Sprite!" they cried, as they thronged around her to accept the beautiful coral. The girls gaily clasped the necklaces, and quite as eagerly, the boys accepted the pretty scarf pins.

"Now, we'll have some magic!" Captain Atherton said, "and let us all be seated here at this end of the parlor."

Quickly they turned to do as he said, and to their surprise, they found that while Iris, and Rose, and Sprite had been entertaining them, the housekeeper had arranged the seats in rows, as if at a private theatre.

They were soon seated, the musicians began to play some merry music, and then two slender nimble fellows, all silk tights, and spangles, ran in and began to balance great gilded balls on the tips of tiny wands.

Then they spun plates on those same slender wands, they brought a huge globe, and walked upon it, rolling it, by treading it, quite across that end of the room. They did clever tricks that made the children laugh, and at last, they rolled themselves up like balls, and rolled right out of the room!

The children cheered, and generously applauded, whereupon the two performers came back and repeated the last part of their act.

The housekeeper now appeared, gowned in black silk, with a fine white muslin cap, and apron.

"Will all these little friends, led by Captain Atherton, and Miss Vandmere, march out to the dining-room for refreshments?" she asked, and the eager little friends waited for no urging. A spread had been prepared especially suitable for a cold, wintry night, and how they did enjoy it!

Hot chicken boullion, wee, hot chicken pies in the dearest little round nappies, ice cream in lovely shapes, and hot chocolate with whipped cream. Oh, but nothing could have been chosen that would have been so delicious for a treat to be enjoyed on a frosty evening!

"Let us crack this huge nut," said Captain Atherton, and suiting the action to the word, he hit the big nut that lay upon a salver in the center of the table.

With a "crack" like a toy pistol it opened, proving itself to be filled with nuts of the usual size.

Then what fun they had trying to open their nuts! Some were chocolate nuts, with nut meats inside, while others were real nut shells filled with bonbons.

After the good things had been enjoyed, they hastened back to the large drawing-room, where they danced to the merry music.

It was an evening of fun and frolic, and when, in the midst of their fun, they noticed that bright, handsome Uncle John Atherton was dancing with Miss Iris Vandmere, they slyly formed a laughing ring around them and danced, and sang to their hearts' content.

It had been a bright, merry evening, and when the boys and girls told Captain Atherton how he had delighted them, he said, heartily:

"I have been very happy this evening, and if it is possible that you have been even half as happy as I have been, I shall feel well repaid for having given this party."

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Lessons were rather neglected next morning, for who could enjoy such an evening of rare delight, and so soon forget to think of its many pleasures? More than once the teacher had to speak rather sharply because she realized that their minds were upon something that had nothing to do with their lessons.

Many were the notes that were written, and exchanged, and when, at last, school was out, they walked along the avenue, their arms about each other's waists, and all the way they talked about the party of the night before.

"Oh, Sprite! You did your part well!" said Harry Grafton.

"And you looked just like a sea fairy!" said Lena Lindsey.

"I mean always to keep my lovely necklace," said Princess Polly, "and let's every one of us keep the pretty coral gifts to help us to remember the fine party that we so enjoyed."

"We'd never forget it," said Leslie, "but we'll all want to keep the dainty corals."

"And wasn't Miss Vandmere beautiful when she came to grant our wishes?" Rose asked. "Already I love her."

"Already?" Rob said, and his voice bespoke a question.

"Why, yes," Rose said, "already."

"That sounds odd, and queer," objected Gwen. "Why don't you tell us just what you mean?" but Rose chose not to reply.

She only laughed and shook her head.



Chapter X

A Holiday Party


Sprite could not wait to dress on the morning after the party. Softly she crept across the floor to the chair over which she had hung her frock.

From the folds of its girdle she drew the tinted paper, and opening it she read: "Captain Atherton is to offer a prize to the boy or girl who has highest rank at Christmas time. Try for it, and I believe that you will obtain it. Will not that delight your dear father and mother?"

"I will try!" she whispered, "and oh, if it is possible, I'll get it, just to repay them for letting me have this lovely Winter. I wonder if it is to be a medal!"

It was her first morning at the home of John Atherton, and as she looked around the pretty chamber, she knew that she could be very happy there.

She had enjoyed her stay at Sherwood Hall.

Now commenced another visit with dear Rose Atherton as her companion, and Sprite wondered why such great good fortune had been given her.

Once she had been a dear little lass by the sea, with two loving parents, but no playmates. Now, she had Princess Polly, and Rose, beside ever so many little schoolmates, and she was being cared for by Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood, and Captain Atherton, who had asked her to call him, "Uncle John."

"I'm having so much pleasure," she whispered, "that I want to send some down to the 'Mermaid's Cave.' I'll begin to-day to work for the prize!"

She seemed unusually quiet at breakfast, and Uncle John wondered if she were tired from the excitement of the night before, or if she were a bit homesick.

Gently he questioned her, and she laughed so gaily that at once his fears were allayed.

"I'm not tired, and not a bit homesick," she said, "but I've been thinking that I mustn't waste one single minute before Christmas. I mean to win that prize, and to do that I'll have to work very hard."

"Why, Sprite!" cried Rose, "you've been working hard ever since school opened."

"I have," she said quietly, "but I'll have to work harder still, and I'm willing to, if I have to work day and evening."

"Oh, Uncle John!" cried Rose, "she won't have to do that. Her lessons are almost perfect now. A little more study, and she will easily be at the head of the class."

It was announced that day at school that Captain John Atherton had offered a prize for the best average, and Sprite gasped when the teacher said;

"The prize is well worth working for. It is a large prize for any boy or girl to win. It is fifty dollars in gold! Now work for it! You will all gain by trying, for while but one can win the prize, every scholar who works for it, has higher scholarship, and has acquired more knowledge than if he had not entered the competition."

The pupils were greatly interested, and it was evident that many intended to strive for the prize. Harry Grafton, on the way home from school, turned quickly to look at Rob as he asked;

"What's Gwen Harcourt doing these days?"

"I've no idea," Rob answered in a careless manner, and if he had spoken his thoughts, he would have said that he did not greatly care.

"Well, she's not going to school, and what is queerer than that, she isn't coming over here to tell us all about it," Harry said.

There were other matters of greater interest to be talked of, and the two boys soon forgot Gwen.

Gwen Harcourt never allowed herself to be long forgotten, and one bright afternoon, she decided to run off by herself and have a little fun of the kind that she liked best.

She stopped first at Aunt Judith's cottage.

She could not have told why she chose first to call there. Aunt Judith and the little maid had gone down to the parsonage for a call, and Gwen knocked until she was tired, then paused on the step, trying to decide where next she would call.

"Stupid that everyone is in school, and won't be out for an hour!" she said.

Then her eyes brightened.

"I know where I'll go!" she cried.

She turned from the avenue into a pretty street, and ran along until she reached a house that set a little farther back than the others.

"There's a lady who lives here who looks pleasant, and I've always meant to see the inside of her house," thought Gwen. "I can stay a little while there, and be just in time to meet the other girls when they come out of school."

She rang the bell.

No one came to the door. After waiting a few moments she rang again.

Again she waited, listening for approaching footsteps. Then she stooped, and tried to peep through the keyhole. She turned, a crafty light in her eyes, and she nodded until her curls danced as she softly said;

"What if the door isn't locked? And what if I should walk right in, and sit down? What would happen?"

She looked elfish as she asked the questions, a smile parting her lips.

Carefully she turned the knob and then, a gentle push opened the door, and on tiptoe, she entered, making her way along the hall to a room where the sunlight streamed across the floor.

The hall had been dark, and coming suddenly upon the broad band of sunlight, Gwen was almost blinded, and for a few seconds, she did not see other objects in the room. A chair stood near the door, and she climbed upon it, squirming around, and sitting down as if it were exactly what she had come intending to do.

She wondered why the house was so still.

She also wondered where the pleasant faced lady was. She felt strangely nervous, and a bit afraid.

She could not have told why she felt afraid to move, and so sat absolutely still. Her eyes roved from one object to another, first looking at the pictures on the wall, then the ornaments upon the mantel, then the lamp upon the table just before her, then, -- 

Between the lamp, and a tall vase that stood near it, a pair of eyes were looking sharply at her.

Gwen clutched the arms of her chair, caught her breath in terror, and then screamed.

"Strange that I can't read without being interrupted by a child who knows no better than to poke her impudent little nose in here, uninvited!"

The voice low and angry made her tremble with fear, and she slid from the chair, raced out through the hall, ran down the street, never once looked behind her.

"I won't ever go anywhere again, unless somebody asks me to," she said to herself. Who that ever had known Gwen would believe that she could refrain from doing just the same thing, the first time that her curiosity prompted her? She had been frightened, and, for the moment, would have promised anything.

The man, a studious, quiet man, with an unpleasant disposition, had been annoyed when Gwen had interrupted his reading.

Knowing little of children, he had not dreamed that he would frighten her, and when she ran out, he simply turned another page, and continued reading.

He had wished her to fully realize that she was an intruder, and when she turned and ran, he felt that she understood.

The first person that she met was the private teacher who, for the past few weeks had been endeavoring to have at least a few hours each day devoted study.

Gwen had refused to look at a lesson book in the forenoon, and when afternoon had arrived, she had left the house to escape instruction.

"Miss Gwen, I've been looking everywhere for you, and your mamma is really quite nervous, because you've been gone so long. Where have you been?" the young woman asked.

"I don't have to tell you," Gwen replied rudely, "but I will because I want to. I made some calls, and the last one was funny, and queer too. I was frightened some, and I ran out of the house where a cross man just shouted at me!"

"Was he a neighbor?" the teacher asked, looking curiously at Gwen.

"Of course not," cried Gwen. "What fun would it be to call on neighbors? I'd rather go to houses where I don't know the people, just for the sake of seeing what they look like, and how their houses look."

The young teacher was not surprised. That very morning, soon after breakfast, upon returning to her room, she had found Gwen on her knees searching her trunk. Gwen had neither blushed, nor looked abashed.

"I wanted to know how many dresses you brought with you," she had said coolly, "and I don't see but one in the closet, two in this trunk, and one you have on. Is that all you have?"

Mrs. Harcourt passing the door, looked in to smile at Gwen.

"You mustn't mind if my little daughter examines your belongings in your trunks or bureau drawers. She's only deeply interested in you," she said.

The young governess felt like saying that she did not enjoy the sort of interest that made a child feel free to handle and examine the property of others, but she said nothing.

She knew that Mrs. Harcourt considered Gwen faultless.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Weeks had passed since the little pupils had commenced to strive to win the prize. Now there was great excitement. At the end of the afternoon session the name of the winner was to be announced, and in the evening the Holiday party at Sherwood Hall was to be enjoyed.

Of all the boys and girls at school, Sprite Seaford was surely the most restless.

At one time her cheeks would be hot, and soon after the color would leave them.

She had worked very, very hard to win the prize.

Oh, whose was it to be?

She clasped, and unclasped her nervous hands.

And when at last the teacher went to the board just back of her desk and wrote:

"Sprite Seaford, Prize winner," Sprite leaned back in her seat, pale, and almost breathless. For a moment not a sound broke the silence.

Sprite stared at the written words as if half stunned with surprise.

"Three cheers for Sprite Seaford!" shouted Rob Lindsey, forgetting that he was in school, and the teacher laughed outright.

"Give them, every one of you," she cried, and they gave them with a will.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Evening had come, starlight, moonlight in the great garden at Sherwood Hall, and a blaze of light indoors, where little feet kept time to sweet music, and sweeter voices laughed and talked in merry mood.

Princess Polly in white with silver spangles, a silver bandeau holding her powdered curls in place, looked like a little lady of the time of Watteau.

Faces and forms were different in character, but the costumes were similar, because Mrs. Sherwood had asked both boys and girls to come clad in white, with powdered hair.

It was a Holiday party, and the white costumes suggested the snowy season.

The walls were hung with holly and mistletoe, and the wreaths and garlands were tied with scarlet ribbons, while portieres and hangings were of scarlet brocade.

Rosy cheeks and red lips looked well with the powdered hair, and bright eyes twinkled beneath snowy bangs.

A slender figure dressed in the gaudy colors of a court jester, skipped here and there between the dancers making comical jokes, while he tossed, and nimbly caught a bright colored ball.

Still they danced to merry measures, and from behind a damask curtain came a slender girl in hues as bright as that of the jester.

A basket of beautiful flowers hung from her arm, and these she offered to the little guests.

The boys placed them in their buttonholes, and the girls tucked the roses and lilies in their girdles.

Hark! A flourish of silvery trumpets announced the arrival of some great personage!

Another long, sweet note, and there strode into the room a tall figure in crimson velvet and white fur, with snowy beard, and kindly face, across whose breast gold letters bespoke his name:

"King Christmas."

A great pack was on his back, which when opened, gave forth beautiful gifts for all.

There were bangles for the girls, there were rings, or silver pencils for the boys, and a kindly word he spoke to each as he presented the gift.

"Now here's a little purse of fifty gold dollars for the little lass who won it by faithful study, and the giver permits me to present it. Come, little lass, and take it, for now it belongs to you."

Sprite ran to him, as he stood waiting.

"Oh, I know you, King Christmas! You are good, kind Uncle John! I know your pleasant voice that I've learned to love so well!" she said.

"Even as I love you, dear child," he cried, placing a strong arm around her slender little form, while with the other hand he tore off the beard that so disguised him.

"I am King Christmas," he said, laughing gaily as he pointed proudly to the golden letters on his breast.

"Also Baron Goodfellow!" said Mr. Sherwood. "That name fits you just as well."

"Prince Give Give wouldn't be half bad," said Rob Lindsey, "for he's wild to give somebody something, all the time."

"Everyone in this house to-night is dear," said Sprite.

"Including you, Sprite Seaford," said Rose, and little Sprite felt that she had never been so happy.

There were merry games, and then refreshments, and then more games in which the elders joined, and when "good nights" were said, the guests turned homeward with happy hearts.

The moonlight shimmered on the snow, and glittered on the pendant icicles, and the keen, frosty air proved it to be true Holiday weather.

Jingling sleigh bells, tooting auto horns, voices talking, and laughing at the same time told of a gay evening that all had enjoyed.

They would dream of the party that night, and talk of it on the morrow.

There was one thing that no one thought of until some time after the party, and it was Leslie who spoke of it, to Rose and Princess Polly.

"Only think!" she said, "Mrs. Harcourt has had three different teachers for Gwen this Winter, because Gwen has acted so that the first and second left, and Gwen said yesterday that the one they have now is to leave next Monday."

"Why does she act so horrid?" said Rose.

"I'll tell you one nice thing about Gwen," said Princess Polly, "and that is that she didn't do one single thing at my party that wasn't nice."

"Why, truly she didn't!" cried Rose and Sprite together.



Chapter XI

Uncle John Makes A Promise


Rain or shine, every Wednesday and Saturday evening found Gyp at the table in the sitting-room at Aunt Judith's cottage, bending over his books.

Aunt Judith, busy with a bit of needlework, looked often at the boy as he bent eagerly over his book, and marvelled that this was the same boy who less than a year ago was a trial to every owner of a garden or orchard.

A puzzled frown puckered his forehead one evening as he worked.

"What is it?" she asked. "Can I help you?"

"Maybe I'll have to let you, but I think I can do it. I'd like to work it out if I can, and I'll try hard before I give up."

For a time he worked in silence, covering his slate with figures.

The clock ticked loudly on the mantel, and seemed to be trying to outdo Gyp's busy pencil.

"Scratch! Scratch!" went the pencil, and "Tick! Tick!" chirped the little clock, and then the boy looked up, his eyes bright with excitement.

"I've done it, Mrs. Aunt Judith!" he cried, "I've done it, and it's right! You said it was better for me to do everything that I could do, by studying and working, instead of being helped."

"It is better, because you will fully understand what you have done, and you will be more likely to remember it.

"But tell me," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "why do you call me Mrs. Aunt Judith?"

He looked frankly up into her face as he answered.

"You aren't my Aunt Judith, tho' I wish you were, so I think I ought to call you something beside the name, so I say Mrs. with it."

"Dear boy, you meant to be respectful," she said, "but you are such a good, hard working boy now that you shall call me 'Aunt Judith' just as the other children do."

He hesitated, and she understood.

"They shall not wonder why you do. I'll tell them that I asked you to," she said.

Without a word he picked up his books, took his old cap, and crossed the room.

Wondering that he did not speak she followed him.

At the door he turned, and looking up at her with eyes in which tears glistened he said:

"I'm going to work with all my might, and I mean to be a decent man, and then I'll do something for you, -- Aunt Judith."

"Gyp, come back and let me thank you!" she cried when, after her surprise, she caught her breath, but a fit of his old shyness had come over him, and having said what was in his heart, he had at once raced off across the fields, and soon was out of sight or hearing in the dark woods.

Aunt Judith told Captain Atherton all about Gyp's ambition, of his hard work at school, and the evenings spent at the cottage.

"He is determined to get on, and he says that he will not always live like a gypsy.

"He declares that he will be a decent man," she said, "but will not people be so prejudiced that they will not care to employ him?" she asked.

"No!" cried the captain, "for I will set aside any notions that they may have by employing him myself.

"I will trust him, and this very week I'll tell him so!"

It happened that he met the boy on his way from school.

"How go the lessons, boy?" he asked kindly.

For some reason Gyp was not afraid.

"This is Friday, and I've had every lesson perfect this week. I'm going over to tell Aunt Judith. She'll be glad!"

"Don't you tell the folks at home?" queried Captain Atherton.

"They don't care much," Gyp said with downcast eyes. Then, as if to excuse their lack of interest, he said:

"I guess they don't understand why I'm bound to study."

"I understand, my boy, just why you are working so hard, and I'm proud of you! Come, and tell me about the weeks like this, when things go smoothly, and come just as quickly if things, instead, go roughly. Let me help you over the hard places, Gyp, for when you are out of school I'll employ you. Now, work hard at school, knowing that when you have completed the course you're to be employed by me."

"Oh, sir, I'll work for you with all my strength," cried the grateful boy. "You believe in me, you trust me, and I'll be true!"

"I know you will, Gyp," said Captain Atherton, almost as greatly moved as Gyp himself.

When he reached the cottage, he was almost breathless, so swiftly had he run.

He dropped upon a chair near the door, and told first of the week's work at school, and then of the promise that Captain Atherton had made.

Neither Aunt Judith nor the genial captain knew how close was the tie that bound Gyp to be faithful to them. They had befriended him, and for that he was grateful. They believed in him, and that gave him courage to make persistent effort, but deep in his heart lay the memory of the first kind, caressing words that had ever been said to him.

"She sometimes says 'Dear boy' to me, and he said, 'My boy,'" he would often whisper to himself.

Gyp was now very happy. He was doing good work at school, he had won the respect of teacher and pupils.

Now Aunt Judith was interested in him, Captain Atherton believed in him, and oh, pleasant promise, the kindly captain would prove his faith by employing him!

"Folks in Avondale will have to think I'm something more decent than a gypsy!" he said.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

The days were growing longer, the warm sun had chased away the last bit of ice, and now the fields were green, and the trees and shrubs were showing fine foliage.

In the gardens the early blossoms made soft color that told how soon the summer would appear.

Princess Polly sat waiting for Rose, and Sprite.

The soft breeze stirred the leaves, making them rustle as if they were whispering to each other the great news that summer would soon reach Avondale.

Polly turned to look toward the avenue. They were not in sight.

"I might walk over to call for them," she thought.

Then she remembered that she had promised to wait at a spot where they had often met, and from which they were now to set out for a walk.

"Why don't they come?" she said aloud.

A long time she sat waiting for her playmates to appear. At last a shout made her turn.

"Did you think we were never coming?" cried Rose.

"Oh, she must have thought just that," said Sprite, "so tell her what it was that kept us."

"Polly has been waiting so long, we'll start for our walk, and I'll tell the news as we go along," said Rose.

"Then let's hurry," said Polly, "because I'm wild to know what it was."

The three little friends tramped along the path that was always their favorite for a walk, and when they had reached a spot where a brook was spanned by a tiny bridge, they sat down to rest. It was then that Rose turned toward Polly.

"I'm not going to ask you to guess who was at our house, or why I could not meet you at two, as I promised, because you never could guess that, so I'll tell you. It was, -- Great Aunt Rose!"

"Oh, Rose, why did she come?" Polly gasped. "Not to take you back with her!"

"That's just what I said, when I heard that she was in the parlor," said Sprite.

"Well, when I saw her carriage coming up the avenue," Rose said, "the shivers went up and down my back, but Uncle John, when he got up to go in to see her, stooped and whispered in my ear: 'Don't be frightened, little girl, for remember that you now belong to me, and I shall not easily give you up. Now, come in with me, dear. You know I can not refuse to let her see you.'

"So he took my hand, and we went in together.

"Great Aunt Rose sat stiff and prim in the center of the sofa.

"'How do you do, Aunt Rose?' I said, but she kept looking at me without speaking.

"'Doesn't Rose look as if the air at Avondale had done her a world of good?' Uncle John asked.

"'Really, John, I'm not sure,' Aunt Rose said, looking at me through her glasses, just as if I were a queer bug, or butterfly such as she'd never seen before. Uncle John looked vexed.

"'You certainly see that her cheeks are rosy, and she is rounder than when she first came to me,' he said.

"That's what I was thinking of,' she said, 'and when she was at our home, she was more delicate in her appearance. More slender, and pale, as an Atherton should be.

"'No "Rose Atherton" ever was what country people call "buxom"! I'm not countrified!' I said, half expecting to be scolded, but Uncle John put his arm around me, and drew me closer as he said:

"'Indeed you are not, unless fresh color, and dimples, mean countrified, when I should think the term a compliment.' Then he turned to Great Aunt Rose.

"'I have endeavored, ever since I have had little Rose under my care, to keep her much in the open air, and she has gained strength from sunshine and breeze,' he said.

"'I knew it! I knew it!' she said, springing from the sofa, and looking dreadfully excited, 'and that is the reason for my call. You'll have her tanned with the sun, and her complexion ruined by the wind, and she'll look like anything but an Atherton by the time she's a young lady!

"'You must let her return to the old Atherton house with me, and in its quiet, refining influence she will regain the delicate appearance that was so charming.

"'Rose, will you come with me?'

"She put out her hand as if she meant to take me, whether I wanted to go with her or not, and for the moment I forgot that Uncle John was big enough, and brave enough, to keep me with him.

"I screamed, and ran from the room, and oh, I know it was rude, and I'm afraid unkind, but I didn't stop to think, and just kept on running until I found Sprite waiting for me at the gate."

"And she clasped my hand," said Sprite, continuing the story, "and she never told me a word of all this, but, instead, she said: 'Come quick! Oh, come quick!' and together we raced along until we met you, Polly.

"Wasn't it funny? Rose knew why we were running, but I didn't. I ran because she told me to, and I had to, to keep up with her!"

Princess Polly looked thoughtful. "You don't really believe she could make you live with her again, do you?" she asked.

"Oh, Rose, you haven't but just begun to live at Avondale!"

"Uncle John said she'd not easily get me away from him," Rose said, "and it may be that I needn't have been so frightened, but I feel better out here, and I'll stay out until I know that she must have gone home. Come! We won't let it spoil our fun. We'll have a fine long walk, and when I get back, Great Aunt Rose will have surely gone."

One part of the road over which they walked was bordered on either side by white birches. Yet a bit farther willows took the place of birches, and there they left the road to cross the meadows, coming out into the bright sunlight.

The three little playmates had walked rapidly, and now began to slacken their pace, and when they reached a clump of trees, they sat down to enjoy the cool shade, and to talk for a while.

"You'll be happier, Rose, if we talk of something else," said Polly, "so I'll tell you that Sir Mortimer is strutting around our garden this morning with a new collar that I bought for him, and the big pink satin bow upon it is very becoming."

"And I'll tell a bit of news. I sent my prize right straight to the 'Mermaid's Cave,'" said Sprite, "and pa put it in the Cliffmore bank for me."

"Why, Sprite Seaford!" cried Rose. "How did you dare to send fifty dollars in gold?"

"Because," said Sprite, "I didn't send it by mail. I gave it to one of the very best men in this world, and that is Uncle John, to take it to pa for me, and he did. He rode over to Cliffmore last Saturday. That's a week ago, and don't you know it was a stormy day? Well, that's why we didn't go with him."

Sprite nodded her head wisely as she spoke, and the sunbeams danced on her rippling hair.

"And I'll tell you something I've thought of," she said. "It was Friday after school that I asked him about sending it, and he said we'd all take the trip to Cliffmore. And when Saturday came it was so stormy we couldn't go. I didn't say a thing, but I must have looked disappointed, for he said: 'Cheer up, little Sprite, for your prize shall reach Cliffmore to-day. I'm going over there, and I'll take it with me.'

"Now I believe he wouldn't have gone so far on such a day for himself. I think he went for me."

"It would be just like Uncle John to do that," Rose said. "He's always doing something to make people happy."

As if to prove that his little niece spoke truly, he now appeared on the road in his big motor car, laughing when he espied the three playmates, and gaily calling:

"Has anyone seen a small girl straying around this part of Avondale? Girl with brown curls, and rosy cheeks, answers to the name of Rose?"

"You needn't laugh, Uncle John, for truly I was afraid Great Aunt Rose would try to make you say that I must spend, at least, a part of my time with her, and oh, I didn't want to."

"Do I look as if anyone could make me give up what I considered mine?"

"No, no!" they cried in chorus.

"Then climb into my car, you three little tramps, and I'll take you for a ride."



Chapter XII

Aunt Rose's Call


A week's vacation!

All of the pupils were delighted, but Princess Polly was especially happy, because with Rose, and Sprite, the week would be a week of pleasure, no lessons, and all play.

"What shall we do on Monday?" she asked, as they skipped along the sidewalk.

It was Monday morning, and she did not wish to have a moment wasted.

"Come over to my house, and we'll sit in the big hammock and talk, and perhaps something will happen that will just tell us what to do."

The gay-colored hammock had been hung on the sunny side of the house, and the three little friends sat swinging and talking, and soon they had planned enough doings to occupy a month, instead of a week.

They were talking of Lena, and Leslie, when Sprite asked:

"When have you seen Gwen Harcourt?"

"They haven't seen me for ever so long!" cried an answering voice, and Gwen appeared around the corner, laughing saucily, because she had been listening, and had heard Sprite's question.

Of course she had some very large stories to tell regarding the private school that she was attending, and her classmates there.

"I wouldn't care to go to any other school," she said, "and I love to take the train every morning. I'd stay at home some days if I was near school and walked, but I like to ride on the trains so I never miss a day.

"Guess what I did just now," she said, laughing as if to imply that what she had done was an absolutely clever joke.

"What did you do?" Polly asked, not because she really cared, but rather from curiosity as to what especially abominable thing it had pleased Gwen to do.

Gwen never waited to be urged.

Seating herself on the piazza, railing, she swung her legs as she recounted the morning's happenings, making the list as long as possible.

"Just before I came over here I went into the room upstairs that mamma calls the 'Picture Gallery,' and I looked around for a while just to see which I liked the best.

"It seemed to me that the one that was on the first line, was looking right at me, and I almost thought the pink feathers on her hat bobbed just a little.

"The longer I looked at her the more it seemed to me that she really was looking at me, and once I thought she smiled. I had a lovely new knife that my cousin Jack had given me. I went close to the picture, and more than ever it seemed as if she smiled at me, and I thought if I had her out of the frame she'd be lovelier than any doll I own.

"It didn't take me more than ten minutes to whip out my little knife, and cut her right out from the background, but say! After I'd cut her out, she didn't look nearly as pretty as I had thought she would. Just look at her!

"The paint looks real dauby when you get close up to her."

"Why, Gwen Harcourt!" cried Princess Polly; "you truly did cut her from the picture!"

"Of course I did. Did you really s'pose I'd tell you I did if I didn't?"

"You might have been joking when you said it," said Polly.

"Well, I wasn't joking," Gwen replied, "and now I don't know where to put this, now I have it."

"What did you mean to do, when you first thought of cutting the picture out?" questioned Rose.

"Oh, I thought I'd keep her in the dolls' house, but she looks bigger in my hand than she did in the frame. I don't believe she'd go into the doll's house, and I don't b'lieve I want her to, for really I don't care for her. Do either of you want her?"

She extended her arm, holding the picture at arm's length, while she looked from one to the other.

"We don't want her," said Polly, "and oh, this time, Gwen, your mamma will surely be angry!"

"Pooh! See 'f she is. I guess I'll run home and see what she says," chirped Gwen, and gaily humming, she ran down the walk, and hurried home.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Mrs. Harcourt had been entertaining guests for a few days, and it happened that soon after Gwen had left the house, the mischief had been discovered.

"Oh, can it be possible that there have been thieves prowling about the house in the night?" cried Mrs. Harcourt. "It really makes me feel quite ill to think of it."

At that moment, Gwen came flying into the house, and up the stairway.

"Somebody take this old picture and stick it back in the hole it came from. I thought it would make a nice big doll, but I guess I don't want her!"

"Oh, what a naughty thing for a child to do!" cried one of the ladies. "That fine picture is absolutely ruined."

"Naughty!" cried Mrs. Harcourt, "no, indeed! As you say, the picture is ruined, but Gwen has proved her love for Art, and her artistic nature. She felt so attracted to the picture that she was actually obliged to take it with her when she went out. She surely loves Art. As I have always said: 'Gwen is a most unusual child. She shows great force of character, and I can overlook the mistake she made in cutting the canvas, because the act showed me another fine trait, -- the love of Art. I do wonder if she will be an artist?"

The guests were disgusted. They wondered how any mother could be so foolish as to think a piece of costly mischief showed either love of art or talent, instead of wilful wrong-doing.

"Gwen is a pretty child," said one woman, "and some one who had sense enough to correct her and make her behave, could train her to be a pleasing young girl, when she is a few years older, but her mother could never do that!"

"No, indeed," the other replied. "Mrs. Harcourt is spoiling her little daughter as fast as she can. I had promised to stay a week," she continued, "but I think I will make some excuse and leave here day after to-morrow. I am very fond of Mrs. Harcourt, but the child is so unpleasant that I can not remain."

The two friends were in the room that they had shared during their visit. In another room Mrs. Harcourt was changing Gwen's frock, and ribbons, to make her yet more attractive when she should appear at lunch. A less beautiful costume, and a bit of training in ordinary rules of courtesy, would have been far more beneficial. Mrs. Harcourt felt that Gwen must, at all times, be daintily dressed, but she permitted her to do or say whatever she chose, and at times when she was hopelessly rude, the silly mother thought her charming.

In the big hammock the three playmates still were swinging.

"Come!" said Polly, "let's walk around the garden, and when we come to the terrace, we'll sit down, and listen to the story that Rose promised to tell."

"No, the story that Sprite was to tell!" cried Rose.

"No, the story that Princess Polly found in the red book yesterday," Sprite said, laughing because the others did.

"We'll run a race!" cried Polly, "and the one that gets there last will be the one to tell the story."

The others agreed, and Polly counted:

"One! Two! Three!"

They were off like the wind, past the fountain, the gates, the big clump of rose bushes, and it happened that Rose and Sprite were the first to reach the terrace.

"All right!" cried Princess Polly, "I'll tell the story of the 'Big, Brave Knight.'"

"Does it begin with: 'Once upon a time'?" Sprite asked, eagerly.

"Oh, yes," Polly said. "Once upon a time there lived a knight who was big, and brave, and he loved a princess who was so beautiful that it was like looking at the sun to look at her face, because her beauty was so dazzling.

"She wasn't very happy, for who'd be happy when an old witch had enchanted her?"

"Oh, oo!" purred little Sprite, "I love a story that tells about folks that are enchanted."

"So do I," agreed Rose. "Now go on, Polly. How was she enchanted?"

"Oh, I wish I had the book right here, so I could read every word of it to you, but I let Leslie Grafton take it home to read, so I'll tell it as well as I can.

"Where did I stop? Oh, I know. I'd just told you that the lovely princess was enchanted. Lora was her name, and she lived in a fine castle way up on a great, high mountain. The picture showed the castle, and it looked as if the side of the mountain was all ledges.

"On sunny days, she wandered around the castle gardens, picking the flowers, or feeding her pets, and when storm clouds hung over the mountain, she strolled through the great halls, playing her guitar, and sweetly singing.

"Often she leaned on the wall that bordered the gardens, and for hours she would gaze at the far distant plains.

"'Across those plains will come the prince who will set you free,' the old witch had said, and then she had laughed, and under her breath had muttered: 'That is, if he has the bravery to ride his charger up this steep mountain side.'"

"Did a prince come?" questioned Sprite.

"And was he fine, and brave?" Rose asked.

Princess Polly laughed at their eager questions.

"The book says:

"'Many princes came, but when they saw the ledge going straight up to the castle, they turned back, saying:

"'"No man could keep in the saddle, and no horse could climb such a huge crag as that. Both would fall and be dashed to pieces."'

"One day, when the sun was bright and the air was very clear, the princess became restless, and tired of roaming through hall, and garden, and she ran to the wall, once more to look off across the plain.

"A long time she stood watching, when, far, far over where the sky and land seemed to meet, she saw something flashing in the sunlight.

"At first it appeared to stand still, but after a little while, she saw that it was coming nearer.

"Brighter and brighter flashed the spot that she had been watching, and a moment later, she saw that it was a spear held aloft, in the hand of a man in armor.

"On, on he came, and soon she saw that his armor was of silver, and that the plumes on his helmet were white.

"Nearer and nearer he rode, and now, as he reached the foot of the cliff, the Princess Lora saw that he was handsome, for his visor was up, and even from that height she could see that his eyes were dark, and fine. He had seen her portrait that a great artist had painted, and he had vowed that he would win her.

"Bravely he urged his white steed up the side of the cliff, and the charger, placing his hoofs in the crevices, climbed steadily higher until, at last, the brave knight stood at the castle gate, blowing his bugle to demand admittance.

"At the sound of the bugle, the iron gates flew open, he rode boldly into the courtyard, and up to the door. He had shown himself to be so brave that no one dared oppose him, and after staying a month at the castle, he rode away, carrying the lovely Princess Lora as his bride, and they lived happy ever after."

"There!" cried Polly, "I've told that almost word for word."

"That was a lovely story," said Rose, "and I always like them when they commence, 'Once upon a time,' and end with, 'They lived happy ever after.'"

"So do I," said Sprite, "and just think of the lovely times we'll have this Summer, when we're all at the Cliffs, at Cliffmore, that is, if you're coming down to the shore. Oh, are you?"

"Uncle John says we'll enjoy the earlier part of the Summer here, and then go over to his lovely house at Cliffmore for the rest of the Summer."

"Why, that's just what my papa said, last evening," said Princess Polly, "and I do believe they've planned it together."

"I'll go home just as soon as school closes," said Sprite, "and I'll be company for ma, I'll gather lovely shells for you to keep, I'll read to pa evenings, but most of all, I'll be watching the long white road that leads from the pier.

"Oh, let's play this hammock is the boat to Cliff more!" she cried, "and we'll call the different landings."

"All right!" cried Rose, "and do you hear that funny creak?" she asked. "Well, that is the steamer just starting off."

They swung a while, and then Sprite shouted the name of the first stopping-place.

"Seaman's Port!" she cried. "This is where they always roll off lots of barrels."

"What's in them?" Polly asked.

"Oh, salt pork, and vegetables, and, oh, all sorts of things that they can't buy on the island."

"Seafarm Ledge!" she next shouted.

"All of us get out here!" cried Sprite, "because this is the place where the gentlemen sit around and do nothing, while the ladies dress up, and walk, and walk, and walk up and down the board walk."

There must have been a very rough sea, for the hammock rolled and pitched, until it seemed as if the little voyagers would surely be thrown overboard, so violently did the steamer lurch.

The passengers were evidently but little frightened. In truth, they appeared to think the trip a huge joke, for they laughed gaily; at last Sprite cried:

"Cliffmore! Cliffmore! Every one get out, because this steamer goes no farther!"

"Is that true, Sprite, that the steamer Queen of the Ocean stops at Cliffmore, and then turns and goes back?"

"Oh, yes," said Sprite. "Some of the boats go farther, but that vessel never does."

"Well, we had a fine trip in our hammock-steamer," said Princess Polly, "and if our vessel did pitch pretty badly, what did we care, while the sky was blue and cloudless overhead?"

"It has been bright and sunny here at Avondale," said Sprite, "and I've had a lovely time, and I only long to go home, just because it is home."

"But soon after you go back to Cliffmore, Rose and I will come, and then we three will play together, and play all day, because it will be vacation, no lessons, and no school."

"Mamma is sure that this Summer at Cliffmore is to be delightful," said Polly.

"And Uncle John says that there will be lots of good times, but that he knows of one happening that will be a surprise for everyone!" said Rose.

Those who would like to meet Princess Polly again at Avondale, with her dearest friend Rose Atherton, to be with them again at Cliffmore, where they are constantly with little Sprite, may enjoy all their "good-times" in -- 

"Princess Polly at Play."

<eob>

The Tale Of Solomon Owl

By

Arthur Scott Bailey



I Scaring Johnny Green


When Johnnie Green was younger, it always scared him to hear Solomon Owl's deep-toned voice calling in the woods after dark.

"Whoo-whoo-whoo, whoo-whoo, to-whoo-ah!" That weird cry was enough to send Johnnie Green hurrying into the farmhouse, though sometimes he paused in the doorway to listen-especially if Solomon Owl happened to be laughing. His "haw-haw-hoo-hoo," booming across the meadow on a crisp fall evening, when the big yellow moon hung over the fields of corn-shocks and pumpkins, sounded almost as if Solomon were laughing at the little boy he had frightened. There was certainly a mocking, jeering note in his laughter.

Of course, as he grew older, Johnnie Green no longer shivered on hearing Solomon's rolling call. When Solomon laughed, Johnnie Green would laugh, too. But Solomon Owl never knew that, for often he was half a mile from the farm buildings.

A "hoot owl," Johnnie Green termed him. And anyone who heard Solomon hooting of an evening, or just before sunrise, would have agreed that it was a good name for him. But he was really a barred owl, for he had bars of white across his feathers.

If you had happened to catch Solomon Owl resting among the thick hemlocks near the foot of Blue Mountain, where he lived, you would have thought that he looked strangely like a human being. He had no "horns," or ear-tufts, such as some of the other owls wore; and his great pale face, with its black eyes, made him seem very wise and solemn.

In spite of the mild, questioning look upon his face whenever anyone surprised him in the daytime, Solomon Owl was the noisiest of all the different families of owls in Pleasant Valley. There were the barn owls, the long-eared owls, the short-eared owls, the saw-whet owls, the screech owls-but there! there's no use of naming them all. There wasn't one of them that could equal Solomon Owl's laughing and hooting and shrieking and wailing-at night.

During the day, however, Solomon Owl he was quiet about it. One reason for his silence then was that he generally slept when the sun was shining. And when most people were sleeping, Solomon Owl was as wide awake as he could be.

He was a night-prowler-if ever there was one. And he could see a mouse on the darkest night, even if it stirred ever so slightly.

That was unfortunate for the mice. But luckily for them, Solomon Owl couldn't be in more than one place at a time. Otherwise, there wouldn't have been a mouse left in Pleasant Valley-if he could have had his way.

And though he didn't help the mice, he helped Farmer Green by catching them. If he did take a fat pullet once in a while, it is certain that he more than paid for it.

So, on the whole, Farmer Green did not wood-lot. And for a long time Solomon raised no objection to Farmer Green's living near Swift River.

But later Solomon Owl claimed that it would be a good thing for the forest folk if they could get rid of the whole Green family-and the hired man, too.



II A Newcomer


Upon his arrival, as a stranger, in Pleasant Valley, Solomon Owl looked about carefully for a place to live. What he wanted especially was a good, dark hole, for he thought that sunshine was very dismal.

Though he was willing to bestir himself enough to suit anybody, when it came to hunting, Solomon Owl did not like to work. He was no busy nest-builder, like Rusty Wren. In his search for a house he looked several times at the home of old Mr. Crow. If it had suited him better, Solomon would not have hesitated to take that it was altogether too light to please him.

That was lucky for old Mr. Crow. And the black rascal knew it, too. He had noticed that Solomon Owl was hanging about the neighborhood. And several times he caught Solomon examining his nest.

But Mr. Crow did not have to worry long. For as it happened, Solomon Owl at last found exactly what he wanted. In an old, hollow hemlock, he came across a cozy, dark cavity. As soon as he saw it he knew that it was the very thing! So he moved in at once. And except for the time that he spent in the meadow-which was considerably later-he lived there for a good many years.

Once Fatty Coon thought that he would drive Solomon out of his snug house and live in it himself. But he soon changed Solomon Owl-so Fatty discovered-had sharp, strong claws and a sharp, strong beak as well, which curled over his face in a cruel hook.

It was really a good thing for Solomon Owl-the fight he had with Fatty Coon. For afterward his neighbors seldom troubled him-except when Jasper Jay brought a crowd of his noisy friends to tease Solomon, or Reddy Woodpecker annoyed him by rapping on his door when he was asleep.

But those rowdies always took good care to skip out of Solomon's reach. And when Jasper Jay met Solomon alone in the woods at dawn or dusk he was most polite to the solemn old chap. Then it was "How-dy-do, Mr. Owl!" and "I hope you're well to-day!" And when Solomon Jasper, that bold fellow always felt quite uneasy; and he was glad when Solomon Owl looked away.

If Solomon Owl chanced to hoot on those occasions, Jasper Jay would jump almost out of his bright blue coat. Then Solomon's deep laughter would echo mockingly through the woods.

You see, though not nearly so wise as he appeared, Solomon Owl knew well enough how to frighten some people.



III Solomon Likes Frogs


It was a warm summer's evening-so warm that Mr. Frog, the tailor, had taken his sewing outside his tailor's shop and seated himself cross-legged upon the bank of the brook, where he sang and sewed without ceasing-except to take a swim now and then in the cool water, "to stretch his legs," as he claimed.

He was making a new suit of blue clothes for Jasper Jay. And since Jasper was a great dandy, and very particular Mr. Frog was taking special pains with his sewing.

Usually he did his work quickly. But now after every five stitches that he put into his work he stopped to take out ten. And naturally he was not getting on very fast. He had been working busily since early morning; and Jasper Jay's suit was further than ever from being finished.

Since he was a most cheerful person, Mr. Frog did not mind that. Indeed, he was more than pleased, because the oftener he took a swim the fewer stitches he lost. So he sang the merriest songs he knew.

The light was fast fading when a hollow laugh startled Mr. Frog. It seemed to come from the willow tree right over his head. And he knew without looking up that it was Solomon Owl's deep voice.

Mr. Frog tried to leap into the brook. But when he uncrossed his legs, in his haste he tangled them up in his sewing. And all he could do was to turn a somersault backward among some bulrushes, hoping that Solomon Owl had not seen him.

It is no secret that Mr. Frog was terribly afraid of Solomon Owl. Some of Mr. Frog's friends had mysteriously disappeared. And they had last been seen in Solomon's company.

As it happened, Mr. Frog had hoped in vain. For Solomon Owl only laughed more loudly than before. And then he said:

"What are you afraid of, Mr. Frog?"

The tailor knew at once that he was caught. So he hopped nimbly to his feet and answered that there was nothing to be afraid of, so far as he could see.

It was a true statement, too; because Mr. Frog had not yet discovered Solomon Owl's exact whereabouts.

But he learned them soon; for Solomon immediately dropped down from the big willow and alighted on the bank near Mr. Frog-altogether too near him, in fact, for the tailor's comfort.

Solomon looked at Mr. Frog very solemnly. And he thought that he shivered.

"What's the matter? Are you ill?" Solomon Owl inquired. "You seem to be shaking."

"Just a touch of chills and fever, probably!" replied Mr. Frog with an uneasy smile. "You know it's very damp here."

"You don't look in the best of health-that's a fact!" Solomon Owl remarked. "You appear to me to be somewhat green in the face." And he laughed once more-that same hollow, mirthless laugh.

Mr. Frog couldn't help jumping, because the sound alarmed him.

"Don't be disturbed!" said Solomon Owl. "I like all the Frog family."

At that remark, Mr. Frog started violently That was exactly the trouble! Solomon Owl was altogether too fond of frogs, whether they were old or young, big or little.

It was no wonder that Mr. Frog swallowed rapidly sixteen times before he could say another word.



IV An Odd Bargain


While Mr. Frog was swallowing nothing rapidly, he was thinking rapidly, too. There was something about Solomon Owl's big, staring eyes that made Mr. Frog feel uncomfortable. And if he had thought he had any chance of escaping he would have dived into the brook and swum under the bank.

But Solomon Owl was too near him for that. And Mr. Frog was afraid his caller would pounce upon him any moment. So he quickly thought of a plan to save himself. "No doubt -- " he began. But Solomon Owl interrupted him.

"There!" cried Solomon. "You can speak, after all. I supposed you'd swallowed your tongue. And I was just waiting to see what you'd do next. I thought maybe you would swallow your head."

Mr. Frog managed to laugh at the joke, though, to tell the truth, he felt more nervous than ever. He saw what was in Solomon Owl's mind, for Solomon was thinking of swallowing Mr. Frog's head himself.

"No doubt-" Mr. Frog resumed-"no doubt you've come to ask me to make you a new suit of clothes."

Now, Solomon Owl had had no such idea at all. But when it was mentioned to him, he rather liked it.

"Will you?" he inquired, with a highly interested air.

"Why, certainly!" the tailor replied. And for the first time since he had turned his backward somersault into the bulrushes, he smiled widely. "I'll tell you what I'll do!" he said. "First, I'll make you a coat free. And second, if you like it I will then make you a waistcoat and trousers, at double rates."

Solomon Owl liked the thought of getting a coat for nothing. But for all that, he looked at the tailor somewhat doubtfully.

"Will it take you long?" he asked.

"No, indeed!" Mr. Frog told him. "I'll make your coat while you wait."

"Oh, I wasn't going away," Solomon assured him with an odd look which made Mr. Frog shiver again. "Be quick, please! Because I have some important business to attend to."

Mr. Frog couldn't help wondering if it wasn't he himself that Solomon Owl was going to attend to. In spite of his fears, to work to cut up some cloth that hung just outside his door.

"Stop!" Solomon Owl cried in a voice that seemed to shake the very ground. "You haven't measured me yet!"

"It's not necessary," Mr. Frog explained glibly. "I've become so skilful that one look at an elegant figure like yours is all that I need."

Naturally, Mr. Frog's remark pleased Solomon Owl. And he uttered ten rapid hoots, which served to make Mr. Frog's fingers fly all the faster. Soon he was sewing Solomon's coat with long stitches; and though his needle slipped now and then, he did not pause to take out a single stitch. For some reason, Mr. Frog was in a great hurry.

Solomon Owl did not appear to notice that the tailor was not taking much pains with his sewing. Perhaps Mr. Frog worked so fast that Solomon could not see what he was doing.

Anyhow, he was delighted when Mr. Frog suddenly cried:

"It's finished!" And then he tossed the coat to Solomon. "Try it on!" he said. "I want to see how well it fits you."

Solomon Owl held up the garment and looked at it very carefully. And as he examined it a puzzled look came over his great pale face.

There was something about his new coat that he did not understand.



V The Cold Weather Coat


Yes! As he held up his new coat and looked at it, Solomon Owl was puzzled. He turned his head toward Mr. Frog and stared at him for a moment. And then he turned his head away from the tailor and gazed upon the coat again.

Mr. Frog was most uncomfortable-especially when Solomon looked at him.

"Everything's all right, isn't it?" he inquired.

Solomon Owl slowly shook his head.

"This is a queer coat!" he said. "What's this bag at the top of it?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Frog. "That's the hood! Knowing that you spend your winters here in Pleasant Valley, I made a hood to go over your head.... You'll find it very comfortable in cold weather-and it's the latest style, too. All the winter coats this year will have hoods, with holes to see through, you know."

Solomon Owl looked relieved at Mr. Frog's explanation. But there was still something more that appeared to trouble him.

"How shall I get into the coat?" he inquired. "It doesn't open in front, as it should."

"Another cold-weather style!" Mr. Frog assured him. "It's wind-proof! And instead of buttoning the coat, you pull it on over your head."

Solomon Owl said he didn't like that style very well.

"Then I can easily change it," the tailor told him. "But just try it on!" he urged. "It may please you, after all."

So Solomon Owl pulled the coat over his head. And it fell down about him, almost reaching his feet. But the coat did not seem to suit him at all, for he began to splutter and choke.

"What's the matter now?" Mr. Frog asked him.

"I can't see-that's what's the matter!" Solomon Owl cried in a voice that sounded hollower than ever, because it was muffled by the hood, which covered his head.

"I declare-I haven't cut the holes for your eyes!" the tailor exclaimed. "Just wait a moment and I'll make everything satisfactory." He clinked his shears together sharply as he spoke.

But Solomon Owl told him that he wouldn't think of letting anybody use shears so near his eyes.

Solomon Found Mr. Frog's Shop Was Closed


"I'll take off the coat," he said. "And I know now that you're a very poor tailor, or you wouldn't have made such a mistake." He began to tug at the coat. But he soon found that taking it off was not so easy as putting it on. Solomon's sharp claws caught in the cloth; and his hooked beak, too, fastened itself in the hood the moment he tried to pull the coat over his head. "Here!" he cried to Mr. Frog. "Just lend me a hand! I can't see to help myself."

But Mr. Frog did not even answer him.

"Don't you hear me?" Solomon Owl shouted, as he struggled with his new coat, only to become tangled in it more than ever.

Still, the tailor said never a word, though something very like a giggle, followed by a splash, caught Solomon's ear.

"He's left me!" Solomon Owl groaned.

"Mr. Frog has left me to get out of this coat alone. And goodness knows how I'm ever a-going to do it." He threshed about so vigorously that he tripped himself and fell upon the bank of the brook, rolling over and over toward the water.

He had a very narrow escape. If he hadn't happened to bring up against an old stump he would certainly have tumbled into the stream.

Though Solomon couldn't see, he knew that he was in danger. So he lay on his back on the ground and carefully tore his new coat into strings and ribbons.

At last he was free. And he rose to his feet feeling very sheepish, for he knew that Mr. Frog had played a sly trick on him.

"Nevermind!" said Solomon Owl, as he flew way. "I'll come back to-morrow and ask Mr. Frog to make me a waistcoat and trousers. And then -- " He did not finish what he was saying. But there is no doubt that whatever it was, it could not have been very pleasant for Mr. Frog.

Just as he had planned, Solomon Owl returned to the brook the next day. And he was both surprised and disappointed at what he found.

The door of Mr. Frog's tailor's shop was shut and locked. And on it there was a sign, which said:

To Let

"He's moved away!" cried Solomon Owl. And he went off feeling that he had been cheated out of a good dinner-to say nothing of a new waistcoat-and new trousers, too.

He had not been gone long when the door opened. And Mr. Frog leaped nimbly outside. He took the sign off the door; and sitting down cross-legged upon the bank, he began to sew upon Jasper Jay's new blue suit, while his face wore a wider smile than ever.

He had suddenly decided not to let his shop, after all.



VI Solomon Needs A Change


For some time Solomon Owl had known that a queer feeling was coming over him. And he could not think what it meant. He noticed, too, that his appetite was leaving him. Nothing seemed to taste good any more.

So at last, one fine fall evening he went to see Aunt Polly Woodchuck, who was an herb doctor; for he had begun to worry about his health.

"It's lucky you came to-day," said Aunt Polly. "Because to-night I'm going to begin my winter's nap. And you couldn't have seen me again till spring-unless you happened to come here on ground-hog day, next February.... What appears to be your trouble?" she inquired.

"It's my appetite, partly," Solomon Owl said. "Nothing tastes as it did when I was a youngster. And I keep longing for something, though what it is I can't just tell."

Aunt Polly Woodchuck nodded her head wisely.

"What have you been eating lately?" she asked.

Solomon Owl replied that he hadn't eaten anything but mice since the leaves began to turn.

"H-m-the leaves are nearly all off the trees now," the old lady remarked. "How many mice have you eaten in that time?"

Solomon said that as nearly as he could remember he had eaten twenty-seven-or a hundred and twenty-seven. He couldn't say which-but one of those numbers was correct.

Aunt Polly Woodchuck threw up her hands.

"Sakes alive!" she cried. "It's no wonder you don't feel well! What you need is a change of food. And it's lucky you came to me now. If you'd gone on like that much longer I'd hate to say what might have happened to you. You'd have had dyspepsia, or some other sort of misery in your stomach."

"What shall I do?" asked Solomon Owl. "Insects are scarce at this season of the year. Of course, there are frogs-but I don't seem to care for them. And there are fish-but they're not easy to get, for they don't come out of the water and sit on the bank, as the frogs do."

"How about pullets?" Aunt Polly inquired.

At that Solomon Owl let out a long row of hoots, because he was pleased.

"The very thing!" he cried. "That's what I've been wanting all this time. And I never guessed it.... I'll pay you for your advice the next time I see you," he told Aunt Polly. And Solomon Owl hurried away before she could stop him. Since he had no intention of visiting her on ground-hog day, he knew it would be spring before he saw Aunt Polly Woodchuck again.

The old lady scolded a bit. And it did not make her feel any pleasanter to hear Solomon's mocking laughter, which grew fainter and fainter as he left the pasture behind him. Then she went inside her house, for she was fast growing sleepy. And she wanted to set things to rights before she began her long winter's nap.

Meanwhile, Solomon Owl roamed restlessly through the woods. There was only one place in the neighborhood where he could get a pullet. That was at Farmer Green's chicken house. And for some reason he did not care to visit the farm buildings until it grew darker.

So he amused himself by making the woods echo with his strange cry, "Whoo-whoo-whoo, whoo-whoo, to-whoo-ah!" And now and then he threw in a few "wha-whas," just for extra measure.

Many of the forest folk who heard him remarked that Solomon Owl seemed to be in extra fine spirits.

"Probably it's the hunter's moon that pleases him!" Jimmy Rabbit remarked to a friend of his. "I've always noticed that old Solomon makes more noise on moonlight nights than at any other time."

The hunter's moon, big and yellow and round, was just rising over Blue Mountain. But for once it was not the moon that made Solomon Owl so talkative. He was in fine feather, so to speak, because he was hoping to have a fat pullet for his supper. And as for the moon, he would have been just as pleased had there been none at all that night. For Solomon Owl never cared to be seen when he visited Farmer Green's chicken house.



VII The Blazing Eyes


It was some three hours after sunset when Solomon Owl at last reached Farmer Green's place. All was quiet in the chicken house because the hens and roosters and their families had long since gone to roost. And except for a light that shone through a window, the farmhouse showed not a sign of life.

Everything was as Solomon Owl wished it-or so he thought, at least, as he alighted in a tree in the yard to look about him. He wanted no one to interrupt him when he should go nosing around the chicken house, to find an opening.

To his annoyance, he had not sat long in the tree when the wood-shed door opened. And Solomon stared in amazement at the strange sight he saw.

A great head appeared, with eyes and mouth-yes! and nose, too-all a glaring flame color. Solomon had never seen such a horrible face on man or bird or beast. But he was sure it was a man, for he heard a laugh that was not to be mistaken for either a beast's or a bird's. And the worst of it was, those blazing eyes were turned squarely toward Farmer Green's chicken house!

Solomon Owl was too wary to go for his fat pullet just then. He decided that he would wait quietly in the tree for a time, hoping that the man would go away.

While Solomon watched him the stranger neither moved nor spoke. And, of course, Solomon Owl was growing hungrier every minute. So at last he felt that he simply must say something.

"Who-who-who-are-you?" he called out from his tree.

But the strange man did not answer. He did not even turn his head.

"He must be some city person," Solomon Owl said to himself. "He thinks he's too good to speak to a countryman like me."

Then Solomon sat up and listened. He heard a scratching sound. And soon he saw a plump figure crawl right up into his tree-top.

It was Fatty Coon!

"What are you doing here?" Solomon Owl asked in a low voice, which was not any too pleasant.

"I'm out for an airing," Fatty answered. "Beautiful night-isn't it?"

But Solomon Owl was not interested in the weather. "I don't suppose you've come down here to get a chicken, have you?" he inquired.

Fatty Coon seemed greatly surprised at the question.

"Why-no!" he exclaimed. "But now that you speak of it, it reminds me that Farmer Green's saving a pullet for me. He was heard to say not long ago that he would like to catch me taking one of his hens. So he must have one for me. And I don't want to disappoint him."

At first Solomon Owl didn't know what answer to make. But at last he turned his head toward Fatty.

"Why don't you go and get your pullet now?" he asked.

"There's that man down below, with the glaring eyes-" said Fatty Coon. "I've been waiting around here for quite a long time and he hasn't looked away from the chicken house even once.... Do you know him?"

"No! And I don't want to!" said Solomon Owl.

"S-sh!" Fatty Coon held up a warning hand. "Who's that?" he asked, peering down at a dark object at the foot of their tree.

Then both he and Solomon saw that it was Tommy Fox, sitting on his haunches and staring at the big head, with its blazing eyes and nose and mouth.

"Not looking for chickens, I suppose?" Solomon Owl called in a low tone, which was hardly more than a whisper.

But Tommy Fox's sharp ears heard him easily. And he looked up, licking his chops as if he were very hungry indeed. And all the while the stranger continued to stare straight at the chicken house, as if he did not intend to let anybody go

prowling about that long, low building to steal any of Farmer Green's poultry.

It was no wonder that the three chicken-lovers (two in the tree and one beneath it) hesitated. If the queer man had only spoken they might not have been so timid. But he said never a word.



VIII Watching The Chickens


Solomon Owl and Fatty Coon couldn't help laughing at what Tommy Fox said to them, as they sat in their tree near the farmhouse, looking down at him in the moonlight.

"I'm here to watch Farmer Green's chickens for him-" said he-"to see that no rat-or anybody else-runs away with a pullet."

"Farmer Green has someone else watching for him to-night," said Solomon Owl, when he had stopped laughing. "There's that strange man! You can see how he keeps his glaring eyes fixed on the chicken house. And unless I'm mistaken, he's on the lookout for you."

"No such thing!" Tommy Fox snapped. And he looked up at Solomon as if he wished that he could climb the tree.

"Here comes somebody else!" Fatty Coon exclaimed suddenly. His keen eyes had caught sight of Jimmy Rabbit, hopping along on his way to the vegetable garden, to see if he couldn't find a stray cabbage or a turnip.

Solomon Owl called to him. Whereupon, Jimmy Rabbit promptly sat up and looked at the odd trio. If it hadn't been for Tommy Fox he would have drawn nearer.

"Do you know that stranger?" Solomon Owl asked him, pointing out the horrible head to Jimmy.

"I haven't the pleasure," said Jimmy Rabbit, after he had taken a good look.

"Well," said Solomon, "won't you kindly speak to him; and ask him to go away?"

"Certainly!" answered Jimmy Rabbit, who always tried to be obliging.

"I hope the stranger won't eat him," remarked Tommy Fox, "because I hope to do that some day, myself."

It was queer-but Jimmy Rabbit was the only one of the four that wasn't afraid of those glaring features. He hopped straight up to the big round head, which was just a bit higher than one of the fence posts, against which the stranger seemed to be leaning. And after a moment or two Jimmy Rabbit called to Solomon and Fatty and Tommy Fox:

"He won't go away! He's going to stay right where he is!"

"Come here a minute!" said Tommy.

Jimmy Rabbit shook his head.

"You come over here!" he answered. And he did not stir from the side of the stranger. He knew very well that Tommy Fox was afraid of the man with the head with the glaring eyes.

As for Tommy Fox, he did not even reply-that is, to Jimmy Rabbit. But he spoke his mind freely enough to his two friends in the tree.

"It seems to me one of you ought to do something," said he. "We'll eat no pullets to-night if we can't get rid of this meddlesome stranger."

Fatty Coon quite agreed with him.

"The one who was here first is the one to act!" Fatty declared. "That's you!" he told Solomon Owl.

So Solomon Owl felt most uncomfortable.

"I don't know what I can do," he said. "I spoke to the stranger-asked him who he was. And he wouldn't answer me."

"Can't you frighten him away?" Tommy Fox inquired. "Fly right over his head and give him a blow with your wing as you pass!"

Solomon Owl coughed. He was embarrassed, to say the least.

"He's afraid!" Fatty Coon cried. And both he and Tommy Fox kept repeating, over and over again, "He's afraid! He's afraid! He's afraid!"

It was really more than Solomon Owl could stand.

"I'm not!" he retorted angrily. "Watch me and you'll see!" And without another word he darted out of the tree and swooped down upon the stranger, just brushing the top of his head. Solomon Owl knew at once that he had knocked something off the top of that dreadful head-something that fell to the ground and made Jimmy Rabbit jump nervously.

Then Solomon returned to his perch in the tree.

"He hasn't moved," he said. "But I knocked off his hat."

"You took off the top of his head!" cried Fatty Coon in great excitement. "Look! The inside of his head is afire."

And peering down from the tree-top, Solomon Owl saw that Fatty Coon had told the truth.



IX Hallowe'en


Solomon Owl was afraid of fire. And when he looked down from his perch in the tree and saw, through the hole in the stranger's crown, that all was aglow inside his big, round head, Solomon couldn't help voicing his horror. He "whoo-whooed" so loudly that Tommy Fox, at the foot of the tree, asked him what on earth was the matter.

"His head's all afire!" Solomon Owl told him. "That's what makes his eyes glare so. And that's why the fire shines through his mouth and his nose, too. It's no wonder he didn't answer my question-for, of course, his tongue must certainly be burned to a cinder."

"Then it ought to be safe for anybody to enter the chicken house," Tommy Fox observed. "What could the stranger do, when he's in such a fix?"

"He could set the chicken house afire, if he followed you inside," replied Solomon Owl wisely. "And I, for one, am not going near the pullets to-night."

"Nor I!" Fatty Coon echoed. "I'm going straight to the cornfield. The corn is still standing there in shocks; and I ought to find enough ears to make a good meal."

But Solomon Owl and Tommy Fox were not interested in corn. They never ate it. And so it is not surprising that they should be greatly disappointed. After a person has his mouth all made up for chicken it is hard to think of anything that would taste even half as good.

"It's queer he doesn't go and hold his head under the pump," said Solomon Owl. "That's what I should do, if I were he."

"Jimmy Rabbit had better not go too near him, or he'll get singed," said Tommy Fox, anxiously. "I don't want anything to happen to him."

"Jimmy Rabbit is very careless," Solomon declared. "I don't see what he's thinking of-going so near a fire! It makes me altogether too nervous to stay here. And I'm going away at once."

Tommy Fox said that he felt the same way. And the moment Fatty Coon, with his sharp claws, started to crawl down the tree on his way to the cornfield, Tommy Fox hurried off without even stopping to say good-bye.

"Haw-haw-haw-hoo!" laughed Solomon Owl. "Tommy Fox is afraid of you!" he told Fatty Coon.

But Fatty didn't seem to hear him. He was thinking only of the supper of corn that he was going to have.

"Better come away!" Solomon Owl called to Jimmy Rabbit, turning his head toward the fence where Jimmy had been lingering near the hot-headed stranger.

But Jimmy Rabbit didn't answer him, either. He was no longer there. The moment he had seen Tommy Fox bounding off across the meadow Jimmy had started at once for Farmer Green's vegetable garden.

So Solomon Owl was the last to leave.

"There's really nothing else I can do," he remarked to himself. "I don't know what Aunt Polly Woodchuck would say if she knew that I didn't follow her advice to-night and eat a pullet for my supper.... But I've tried my best.... And that's all anybody can do."

Solomon Owl was upset all the rest of that night. And just before daybreak he visited the farmyard again, to see whether the strange man with the flaring head still watched the chicken house. And Solomon found that he had vanished.

So Solomon Owl alighted on the fence. There was nothing there except a hollowed-out pumpkin, with a few holes cut in it, which someone had left on one of the fence-posts.

"Good!" said he. "Maybe I can get my pullet after all!" He turned to fly to the chicken house. But just then the woodshed door opened again. And Farmer Green stepped outside, with a lantern in his hand. He was going to the barn to milk the cows. But Solomon Owl did not wait to learn anything more.

He hurried away to his house among the hemlocks. And having quickly settled himself for a good nap, he was soon fast asleep.

That was how Johnnie Green's jack-o'-lantern kept Tommy Fox and Fatty Coon and Solomon Owl from taking any chickens on Hallowe'en.



X A Troublesome Wishbone


Solomon Owl had pains-sharp pains-underneath his waistcoat. And not knowing what else to do, he set off at once for Aunt Polly Woodchuck's house under the hill, in the pasture, which he had not visited since the previous fall. Luckily, he found the old lady at home. And quickly he told her of his trouble.

"What have you been eating?" she inquired.

"I've followed your advice. I've been eating chickens," said he-"very small chickens, because they were all I could get."

Aunt Polly Woodchuck, who was an herb doctor-and a good one-regarded him through her spectacles.

"I'm afraid," said she, "you don't chew your food properly. Bolting one's food is very harmful. It's as bad as not eating anything at all, almost."

Solomon Owl showed plainly that her remark surprised him.

"Why," he exclaimed, "I always swallow my food whole-when it isn't too big!"

"Gracious me!" cried Aunt Polly, throwing up both her hands. "It's no wonder you're ill. It's no wonder you have pains; and now I know exactly what's the matter with you. You have a wishbone inside you. I can feel it!" she told him, as she prodded him in the waistcoat.

"I wish you could get it out for me!" said Solomon with a look of distress.

"All the wishing in the world won't help you," she answered, "unless we can find some way of removing the wishbone so you can wish on that. Then I'm sure you would feel better at once."

"This is strange," Solomon mused. "All my life I've been swallowing my food without chewing it. And it has never given me any trouble before.... What shall I do?"

"Don't eat anything for a week," she directed. "And fly against tree-trunks as hard as you can. Then come back here after seven days."

Solomon Owl went off in a most doleful frame of mind. It seemed to him that he had never seen so many mice and frogs and chipmunks as he came across during the following week. But he didn't dare catch a single one, on account of what Aunt Polly Woodchuck had said.

His pains, however, grew less from day to day-at least, the pains that had first troubled him. But he had others to take their place. Hunger pangs, these were! And they were almost as bad as those that had sent him hurrying to see Aunt Polly Woodchuck.

On the whole, Solomon passed a very unhappy week. Flying head foremost into tree-trunks (as Aunt Polly had instructed him to do) gave him many bumps and bruises. So he was glad when the time came for him to return to her house in the pasture.

Solomon's neighbors had been so interested in watching him that they were all sorry when he ceased his strange actions. Indeed, there was a rumor that Solomon had become very angry with Farmer Green and that he was trying to knock down some of Farmer Green's trees. Before the end of that unpleasant week Solomon had often noticed as many as twenty-four of the forest folk following him about, hoping to see a tree fall.

But they were all disappointed. However, they enjoyed the sight of Solomon hurling himself against tree-trunks. And the louder he groaned, the more people gathered around him.



XI Cured At Last


"How do you feel now?" Aunt Polly Woodchuck asked Solomon Owl, when he had come back to her house after a week's absence.

"No better!" he groaned. "I still have pains. But they seem to have moved and scattered all over me."

"Good!" she exclaimed with a smile. "You are much better, though you didn't know it. The wishbone is broken. You broke it by flying against the trees. And you ought not to have any more trouble. But let me examine you!" she said, prodding him in the waistcoat once more.

"This is odd!" she continued a bit later. "I can feel the wishbone more plainly than ever."

"That's my own wishbone!" Solomon cried indignantly. "I've grown so thin through not eating that it's a wonder you can't feel my backbone, too."

Aunt Polly Woodchuck looked surprised.

"Perhaps you're right!" said she. "Not having a wishbone of my own, I forgot that you had one."

A look of disgust came over Solomon Owl's face.

"You're a very poor doctor," he told her. "Here you've kept me from eating for a whole week-and I don't believe it was necessary at all!"

"Well, you're better, aren't you?" she asked him.

"I shall be as soon as I have a good meal," replied Solomon Owl, hopefully.

"You ought not to eat anything for another week," Aunt Polly told him solemnly.

"Nonsense!" he cried.

"I'm a doctor; and I ought to know best," she insisted.

But Solomon Owl hooted rudely.

"I'll never come to you for advice any more," he declared. "I firmly believe that my whole trouble was simply that I've been eating too sparingly. And I shall take good care to see that it doesn't happen again."

No one had ever spoken to Aunt Polly in quite that fashion-though old Mr. Crow had complained one time that she had cured him too quickly. But she did not lose her temper, in spite of Solomon's jeers.

"You'll be back here again the very next time you're ill," she remarked. "And if you continue to swallow your food whole -- "

But Solomon Owl did not even wait to hear what she said. He was so impolite that he flew away while she was talking. And since it was then almost dark, and a good time to look for field mice, he began his night's hunting right there in Farmer Green's pasture.

By morning Solomon was so plump that Aunt Polly Woodchuck would have had a good deal of trouble finding his wishbone. But since he did not visit her again, she had no further chance to prod him in the waistcoat.

Afterward, Solomon heard a bit of gossip that annoyed him. A friend of his reported that Aunt Polly Woodchuck was going about and telling everybody how she had saved Solomon's life.

"Mice!" he exclaimed (he often said that when some would have said "Rats!"). "There's not a word of truth in her claim. And if people in this neighborhood keep on taking her advice and her catnip tea they're going to be sorry some day. For they'll be really ill the first thing they know. And then what will they do?"



XII Benjamin Bat


Solomon Owl was by no means the only night-prowler in Pleasant Valley. He had neighbors that chose to sleep in the daytime, so they might roam through the woods and fields after dark. One of these was Benjamin Bat. And furthermore, he was the color of night itself.

Now, Benjamin Bat was an odd chap. When he was still he liked to hang by his feet, upside down. And when he was flying he sailed about in a zigzag, helter-skelter fashion. He went in so many different directions, turning this way and that, one could never tell where he was going. One might say that his life was just one continual dodge-when he wasn't resting with his heels where his head ought to be.

A good many of Benjamin Bat's friends said he certainly must be crazy, because he didn't do as they did. But that never made the slightest difference in Benjamin Bat's habits. He continued to zigzag through life-and hang by his heels-just the same. Perhaps he thought that all other people were crazy because they didn't do likewise.

Benjamin often dodged across Solomon Owl's path, when Solomon was hunting for field mice. And since Benjamin was the least bit like a mouse himself-except for his wings-there was a time, once, when Solomon tried to catch him.

But Solomon Owl soon found that chasing Benjamin Bat made him dizzy. If Benjamin hadn't been used to hanging head downward, maybe he would have been dizzy, too.

Though the two often saw each other, Benjamin Bat never seemed to care to stop for a chat with Solomon Owl. One night, however, Benjamin actually called to Solomon and asked his advice. He was in trouble. And he knew that Solomon Owl was supposed by some to be the wisest old fellow for miles around.

It was almost morning. And Solomon Owl was hurrying home, because a terrible storm had arisen. The lightning was flashing, and peals of thunder crashed through the woods. Big drops of rain were already pattering down. But Solomon Owl did not care, for he had almost reached his house in the hollow hemlock near the foot of Blue Mountain.

It was different with Benjamin Bat. That night he had strayed a long distance from his home in Cedar Swamp. And he didn't know what to do. "I want to get under cover, somewhere," he told Solomon Owl. "You don't know of a good place near-by, do you, where I can get out of the storm and take a nap?"

"Why, yes!" answered Solomon Owl. "Come right along to my house and spend the day with me!"

But Benjamin Bat did not like the suggestion at all.

"I'm afraid I might crowd, you," he said. He was thinking of the time when Solomon Owl had chased him. And sleeping in Solomon Owl's house seemed far from a safe thing to do.

Benjamin Asked Solomon's Advice


Solomon was wise enough to guess what was going on inside Benjamin's head.

"Come along!" he said. "We'll both be asleep before we know it. I'm sorry I can't offer you something to eat. But I haven't a morsel of food in my house. No doubt, though, you've just had a good meal. I ate seven mice to-night. And I certainly couldn't eat anything more."

When Solomon Owl told him that, Benjamin Bat thought perhaps there was no danger, after all. And since the rain was falling harder and harder every moment, he thanked Solomon and said he would be glad to accent his invitation.

"Follow me, then!" said Solomon Owl. And he led the way to his home in the hemlock.

For once, Benjamin Bat flew in a fairly straight line, though he did a little dodging, because he couldn't help it.

There was more room inside Solomon's house than Benjamin Bat had supposed. While Benjamin was looking about and telling Solomon that he had a fine home, his host quickly made a bed of leaves in one corner of the room-there was only one room, of course.

"That's for you!" said Solomon Owl. "I always sleep on the other side of the house." And without waiting even to make sure that his guest was comfortable, Solomon Owl lay down and began to snore-for he was very sleepy.

It was so cozy there that Benjamin Bat was glad, already, that he had accepted Solomon's invitation.



XIII The Lucky Guest


In the middle of the day Solomon Owl happened to awake. He was sorry that he hadn't slept until sunset, because he was very hungry. Knowing that it was light outside his hollow tree, he didn't want to leave home to find something to eat.

Then, suddenly, he remembered that he had brought Benjamin Bat to his house early that morning, so Benjamin might escape the storm.... Why not eat Benjamin Bat?

As soon as the thought occurred to him, Solomon Owl liked it. And he moved stealthily over to the bed of leaves he had made for his guest just before daybreak.

But Benjamin Bat was not there. Though Solomon looked in every nook and cranny of his one-room house, he did not find him.

"He must have left as soon as it stopped raining," said Solomon Owl to himself. "He might at least have waited to thank me for giving him a day's lodging. It's the last time I'll ever bring any worthless vagabond into my house. And I ought to have known better than to have anything to do with a crazy person like Benjamin Bat."

Anybody can see that Solomon Owl was displeased. But it was not at all astonishing, if one stops to remember how hungry he was, and that he had expected to enjoy a good meal without the trouble of going away from home to get it.

Solomon Owl went to the door of his house and looked out. The sun was shining so brightly that after blinking in his doorway for a few minutes he decided that he would go to bed again and try to sleep until dusk. He never liked bright days. "They're so dismal!" he used to say. "Give me a good, dark night and I'm happy, for there's nothing more cheering than gloom."

In spite of the pangs of hunger that gnawed inside him, Solomon at last succeeded in falling asleep once more. And he dreamed that he chased Benjamin Bat three times around Blue Mountain, and then three times back again, in the opposite direction. But he never could catch him, because Benjamin Bat simply wouldn't fly straight. His zigzag course was so confusing that even in his dream Solomon Owl grew dizzy.

Now, Benjamin Bat was in Solomon's house all the time. And the reason why Solomon Owl hadn't found him was a very simple one. It was merely that Solomon hadn't looked in the right place.

Benjamin Bat was hidden-as you might say-where his hungry host never once thought of looking for him. And being asleep all the while, Benjamin didn't once move or make the slightest noise.

If he had snored, or sneezed, or rustled his wings, no doubt Solomon Owl would have found him.

When Benjamin awakened, late in the afternoon, Solomon was still sleeping. And Benjamin crept through the door and went out into the gathering twilight, without arousing Solomon.

"I'll thank him the next time I meet him," Benjamin Bat decided. And he staggered away through the air as if he did not quite know, himself, where he was going. But, of course, that was only his queer way of flying.

When he told his friends where he had spent the day they were astonished.

"How did you ever dare do anything so dangerous as sleeping in Solomon Owl's house?" they all asked him.

But Benjamin Bat only said, "Oh! There was nothing to be afraid of." And he began to feel quite important.



XIV Hanging By The Heels


It was several nights before Solomon Owl and Benjamin Bat chanced to meet again in the forest.

"Hullo!" said Solomon.

"Hullo!" said Benjamin Bat. "I'm glad to see you, because I want to thank you for letting me spend the day in your house, so I wouldn't have to stay out in the storm."

"You must be a light sleeper," Solomon observed. (He did not tell Benjamin that he was welcome!)

"What makes you think that?" Benjamin Bat inquired.

"Why-you left my house before noon," Solomon told him.

"Oh, no!" said Benjamin. "I slept soundly until sunset. When I came away the crickets were chirping. And I was surprised that you hadn't waked up yourself."

"You were gone before midday," Solomon Owl insisted. And they had something very like a dispute, while Solomon Owl sat in one tree and Benjamin Bat hung head downward from another. "I ought to know," said Solomon. "I was awake about noon; and I looked everywhere for you."

"What for?" asked Benjamin.

Naturally, Solomon didn't like to tell him that he had intended to eat him. So he looked wise-and said nothing.

"You didn't look on the ceiling, did you?" Benjamin Bat inquired.

"No, indeed!" Solomon Owl exclaimed.

"Well, that's where I was, hanging by my feet," Benjamin Bat informed him.

Solomon Owl certainly was surprised to hear that.

"The idea!" he cried. "You're a queer one! I never once thought of looking on the ceiling for a luncheon!" He was so astonished that he spoke before he thought how oddly his remark would sound to another.

When he heard what Solomon Owl said, Benjamin Bat knew at once that Solomon had meant to eat him. And he was so frightened that he dropped from the limb to which he was clinging and flew off as fast as he could go. For once in his life he flew in a straight line, with no zigzags at all, he was in such a hurry to get away from Solomon Owl, who-for all he knew-might still be very hungry.

But Solomon Owl had caught so many mice that night that he didn't feel like chasing anybody. So he sat motionless in the tree, merely turning his head to watch Benjamin sailing away through the dusky woods. He noticed that Benjamin didn't dodge at all-except when there was a tree in his way. And he wondered what the reason was.

"Perhaps he's not so crazy as I supposed," said Solomon Owl to himself. And ever afterward, when he happened to awake and feel hungry, Solomon Owl used to look up at the ceiling above him and wish that Benjamin Bat was there.

But Benjamin Bat never cared to have anything more to do with Solomon Owl.

He said he had a good reason for avoiding him.

And ever afterward he passed for a very brave person among his friends. They often pointed him out to strangers, saying, "There's Benjamin Bat! He doesn't know what fear is. Why, once he even spent a whole day asleep in Solomon Owl's house! And if you don't think that was a bold thing to do, then I guess you don't know Solomon Owl."



XV Disputes Settled


Solomon Owl looked so wise that many of his neighbors fell into the habit of going to him for advice. If two of the forest folk chanced to have a dispute which they could not settle between them they frequently visited Solomon and asked him to decide which was in the right. And in the course of time Solomon became known far and wide for his ability to patch up a quarrel.

At last Jimmy Rabbit stopped Solomon Owl one night and suggested that he hang a sign outside his house, so that there shouldn't be anybody in the whole valley that wouldn't know what to do in case he found himself in an argument.

Solomon decided on the spot that Jimmy Rabbit's idea was a good one. So he hurried home and before morning he had his sign made, and put out where everyone could see it. It looked like this:

Disputes Settled Within

There was only one objection to the sign. As soon as Jimmy Rabbit saw it he told Solomon that it should have said:

Disputes Settled Without

"Without what?" Solomon Owl inquired.

"Why, without going into your house!" said Jimmy Rabbit. "I can't climb a tree, you know. And neither can Tommy Fox. We might have a dispute to-night; and how could you ever settle it?"

"Oh, I shall be willing to step outside," Solomon told him. And he refused to change the sign, declaring that he liked it just as it was.

Now, there was only one trouble with Solomon Owl's settling of disputes. Many of the forest folk wanted to see him in the daytime. And night was the only time he was willing to see them. But he heard so many objections to that arrangement that in the end Solomon agreed to meet people at dusk and at dawn, when it was neither very dark nor very light. On the whole he found that way very satisfactory, because there was just enough light at dusk and at dawn to make him blink. And when Solomon blinked he looked even wiser than ever.

Well, the first disputing pair that came to Solomon's tree after he hung out his new sign were old Mr. Crow and Jasper Jay. They reached the hemlock grove soon after sunset and squalled loudly for Solomon. "Hurry!" Mr. Crow cried, as soon as Solomon Owl stepped outside his door. "It will be dark before we know it; and it's almost our bedtime."

"What's your difficulty?" Solomon asked them.

Mr. Crow looked at Jasper Jay. And then he looked at Solomon again.

"Maybe you won't like to hear it," he said. And he winked at Jasper. "But you've put out this sign-so we've come here."

"You've done just right!" exclaimed Solomon Owl. "And as for my not liking to hear the trouble, it's your dispute and not mine. So I don't see how it concerns me-except to settle it."

"Very Well," Mr. Crow answered. "The dispute, then, is this: Jasper says that in spite of your looking so wise, you're really the stupidest person in Pleasant Valley."

"He does, eh?" cried Solomon Owl, while Jasper Jay laughed loudly. "And you, of course, do not agree with him," Solomon continued.

"I do not!" Mr. Crow declared.

"Good!" said Solomon, nodding his head approvingly.

"No, I do not agree with Jasper Jay," Mr. Crow said. "I claim that there's one other person more stupid than you are-and that's Fatty Coon."

Well, Solomon Owl certainly was displeased. And it didn't make him feel any happier to hear Jasper Jay's boisterous shouts, or the hoarse "haw-haw" of old Mr. Crow.

"I hope you can decide which one of us is right," Mr. Crow ventured.

"I am, of course!" cried Jasper Jay.

"You're not!" Mr. Crow shouted. And to Solomon Owl he said, "We've been disputing like this all day long."

Solomon Owl didn't know what to say. If he announced that Jasper was right it would be the same as admitting that he was the stupidest person in the whole neighborhood. And if he said that old Mr. Crow's opinion was correct he would not be much better off. Naturally he didn't want to tell either of them that he was right.

"I'll have to think about this," Solomon observed at last.

"We don't want to wait," said Mr. Crow. "If we keep on disputing we're likely to have a fight."

Now, Solomon Owl hoped that they would have a fight. So he was determined to keep them waiting for his decision.

"Come back to-morrow at this time," he said.



XVI Nine Fights


The next evening, just at dusk, Jasper Jay and old Mr. Crow returned to Solomon Owl's house, looking much bedraggled. One of Mr. Crow's eyes was almost closed; and Jasper Jay's crest seemed to have been torn half off his head.

"What's the matter?" asked Solomon, as soon as he saw them.

"We've had three fights," said Jasper Jay.

"Yes! And I've whipped him each time!" cried Mr. Crow. "So I must be in the right. And you'd better decide our dispute in my favor at once."

But Solomon Owl was still in no hurry.

"It's a difficult question to settle,' said he. 'I don't want to make any mistake. So I shall have to ask you to come back here to-morrow at this time."

Both Jasper and Mr. Crow seemed disappointed. Although Mr. Crow had won each fight, he was very weary, for he was older than Jasper Jay.

As they went off, Solomon Owl began to feel much pleased with himself.

The following evening, at sunset, old Mr. Crow and Jasper Jay visited Solomon Owl once more. And they looked more battered than ever.

"We've had three more fights," said Mr. Crow.

"Yes! And I won each time!" Jasper Jay piped up. "So I must be in the right. And you'd better decide in my favor without any further delay."

Solomon Owl thought deeply for some time.

"Maybe I ought to wait until to-morrow -- " he began.

But his callers both shouted "No!"

"Well," said Solomon, "Mr. Crow has won three fights; and Jasper Jay has won three. So it is certain that each must be in the wrong."

But that announcement did not satisfy Jasper and Mr. Crow. And they left the hemlock grove, disputing more loudly than ever.

And the next day, at dusk, they came back again.

"We've had three more fights; and I won!" they both cried at the same time.

"That proves my claim," said Solomon Owl. "You're both wrong."

They whispered together for a few minutes.

"We don't like your way of settling disputes," Mr. Crow remarked shortly. "But we've decided to stop quarreling."

"Good!" said Solomon Owl. "That shows that you are sensible."

"Yes!" replied Jasper. "We've decided to stop quarreling and fight you!"

"Wait a moment!" said Solomon Owl hastily, as they drew nearer. "I don't want my new suit spoiled." And he ducked inside the hollow tree before they could reach him.

Jasper and Mr. Crow waited and waited. But Solomon Owl did not reappear. And since his two visitors did not dare follow him into the dark cavern where he lived, they decided at last that they would go home-and get into bed.

"Let's take away his sign, anyhow!" Jasper Jay suggested.

So they pulled down Solomon's sign, which said "Disputes Settled Within," and they carried it off with them and hid it in some bushes.

That same night Solomon Owl hunted for it for a long time. But he never found it.

He decided not to hang out another, for he saw that settling disputes was a dangerous business.



XVII Cousin Simon Screecher


Solomon Owl had a small cousin named Simon Screecher. He was unlike Solomon in some respects, because he always wore ear-tufts, and his eyes were yellow instead of black. But in some other ways he was no different from Solomon Owl, for he was a noisy chap and dearly loved mice-to eat.

It happened that the two met in the woods one fine fall evening; and they agreed to go hunting mice together.

Now, being so much smaller than Solomon, Simon Screecher was all the spryer. In fact, he was so active that he could catch mice faster than Solomon Owl could capture them. And they had not hunted long before Solomon discovered that Simon had succeeded in disposing of six mice to his three.

That discovery did not please Solomon at all.

"Look here!" he said. "Since we are hunting together it's only fair to divide what we catch, half and half."

Simon Screecher hesitated. But after reflecting that his cousin was very big and very strong, he agreed to Solomon's suggestion.

So they resumed their hunting. And every time one of them caught two mice, he gave one mouse to his cousin.

Still Solomon Owl was not satisfied.

"Wait a moment!" Solomon called to Simon Screecher. "It has just occurred to me that I am more than twice as big as you are; so I ought to have twice as many mice as you."

This time Simon Screecher hesitated longer. He did not like the second suggestion even as well as the first. And in the end he said as much, too.

But Solomon Owl insisted that it was only fair.

"You surely ought to be glad to please your own cousin," he told Simon.

"It's not that," said Simon Screecher. "It seems to me that since I'm not half your size, I ought to have twice as many mice to eat, so I'll grow bigger."

Well, Solomon Owl hadn't thought of that. He was puzzled to know what to say. And he wanted time in which to ponder.

"I'll think over what you say," he told Simon Screecher. "And now, since it's almost dawn, we'd better not hunt any longer to-night. But I'll meet you again at dusk if you'll come to my house."

"Very well, Cousin Solomon!" Simon answered. "I'm sure that after you've had a good sleep you'll be ready to agree with me."

"If that's the case, I may not take any nap at all," Solomon replied.

"Oh! You ought to have your rest!" his cousin exclaimed. Simon knew that if Solomon went all day without sleep he would be frightfully peevish by nightfall.

"Well-I'll try to get forty winks," Solomon promised. "But I don't believe I can get more than that, because I have so much on my mind that I'm sure to be wakeful."

Simon Screecher was somewhat worried as they parted. His wailing, tremulous whistle, which floated through the shadowy woods, showed that he was far from happy.



XVIII XVIII - A Cousinly Quarrel


It proved to be just as Solomon Owl had told his cousin, Simon Screecher. Solomon had so much on his mind that he had no sooner fallen asleep than he awoke again, to study over the question that perplexed him. He certainly did not want Simon to have twice as many mice as he. But Simon's argument was a good one. He had said that since Solomon was more than twice his size, it was proper that he should have a chance to grow. And everybody knew-Solomon reflected-everybody knew that eating made one larger.

The longer Solomon pondered, the farther he seemed from any answer that he liked. And he had begun to fear that he would not succeed in getting more than thirty-nine winks all day-instead of forty-when all at once an idea came into his mind.

Solomon knew right away that he had nothing more to worry about. He dropped into a sound sleep with a pleasant smile upon his usually solemn face. And when he opened his eyes again it was time for Simon Screecher to arrive.

Yes! Solomon could hear his cousin's whistle even then. So he hurried to his door; and there was Simon, sitting on a limb of the big hemlock waiting for him!

"It's all right!" said Solomon to his cousin. "I agree to your suggestion. We'll hunt together again to-night; and if you will give me one-third of all the mice you catch, I promise to give you two-thirds of all the mice that I capture."

"Good!" said Simon Screecher. And he looked vastly relieved. "Just hoot when you have any mice for me!"

"Whistle when you have any for me!" Solomon Owl replied.

And at that they started out for their night's sport. It was not long before Simon Screecher's well known whistle brought Solomon hurrying to him. Simon already had three mice, one of which he gave to Solomon, according to their agreement.

That same thing happened several times; until at last Simon Screecher began to grumble.

"What's the matter?" he asked his cousin. "You are not hooting, as you promised you would."

"But I haven't caught any mice yet!" Solomon Owl replied.

"It's All Right," Said Solomon


Again and again and again Simon's call summoned Solomon. But not once did Solomon's summon Simon. And all the time Simon Screecher grew more discontented. Toward the end of the night he declared flatly that he wasn't going to hunt any more with his cousin.

"I've done exactly as I agreed!" Solomon Owl protested.

"You're altogether too slow and clumsy," Simon Screecher told him bluntly. "If I'm going to hunt with anybody after this I'm going to choose someone that's as spry as I am. There's no sense in my working for you. Here I've toiled all night long and I'm still hungry, for I've given you a third of my food."

They parted then-and none too pleasantly.

In Simon's whistle, as he flew away toward his home, there was unmistakable anger. But Solomon Owl's answering hoots-while they were not exactly sweet-seemed to carry more than a hint of laughter.

One would naturally think that Solomon might have been even hungrier than his small cousin. But it was not so. He had had more to eat than usual; for he had been very busy catching locusts and katydids-and frogs, too. Solomon Owl had not tried to catch a single mouse that night.

You know now the idea that had come to him while he was lying awake in his house during the daytime. He had made up his mind that he would not hunt for mice. And since he had not promised Simon to give him anything else, there was no reason why he should not eat all the frogs and katydids and locusts that he could find.

Perhaps it was not surprising that Simon Screecher never guessed the truth. But he seemed to know that there was something queer about that night's hunting, for he never came to Solomon Owl's house again.



XIX The Sleet Storm


It was winter. And for several days a strong south wind had swept up Pleasant Valley. That-as Solomon Owl knew very well-that meant a thaw was coming. He was not sorry, because the weather had been bitterly cold.

Well, the thaw came. And the weather grew so warm that Solomon Owl could stay out all night without once feeling chilled. He found the change so agreeable that he strayed further from home than was his custom. Indeed, he was far away on the other side of Blue Mountain at midnight, when it began to rain.

Now, that was not quite so pleasant. But still Solomon did not mind greatly. It was not until later that he began to feel alarmed, when he noticed that flying did not seem so easy as usual.

Solomon had grown heavy all at once-and goodness knows it was not because he had overeaten, for food was scarce at that season of the year. Moreover, Solomon's wings were strangely stiff. When he moved them they crackled.

"It must be my joints," he said to himself. "I'm afraid this wetting has given me rheumatism." So he started home at once-though it was only midnight. But the further he went, the worse he felt-and the harder it was to fly.

"I'll have to rest a while," he said to himself at last. So he alighted on a limb; for he was more tired than he had ever been in all his life.

But he soon felt so much better that he was ready to start on again. And then, to his dismay, Solomon Owl found that he could hardly stir. The moment he left his perch he floundered down upon the ground. And though he tried his hardest, he couldn't reach the tree again.

The rain was still beating down steadily. And Solomon began to think it a bad night to be out. What was worse, the weather was fast turning cold.

"I'm afraid I'll have to stay in bed a week after this," he groaned. "If I sit here long, as wet as I am, while the thaw turns into a freeze, I shall certainly be ill."

Now, if it hadn't been for the rain, Solomon Owl would have had no trouble at all. Or if it hadn't been for the freezing cold he would have been in no difficulty. Though he didn't know it, his trouble was simply this: The rain froze upon him as

fast as it fell, covering him with a coating of ice. It was no wonder that he felt strangely heavy-no wonder that he couldn't fly.

There he crouched on the ground, while the rain and sleet beat upon him. And the only comforting thought that entered his head was that on so stormy a night Tommy Fox and Fatty Coon would be snug and warm in their beds. They wouldn't go out in such weather.

And Solomon Owl wished that he, too, had stayed at home that night.

From midnight until almost dawn Solomon Owl sat there. Now and then he tried to fly. But it was no use. He could scarcely raise himself off the ground.

At last he decided he would have to walk home. Fortunately, a hard crust covered the soft snow. So Solomon started off on his long journey.

Flying, Solomon could have covered the distance in a few minutes. But he was a slow walker. By the time he reached his home among the hemlocks the sun was shining brightly-for the rain had stopped before daybreak.

Solomon wondered how he would ever succeed in reaching his doorway, high up in the hollow tree. He gazed helplessly upward. And as he sat there mournfully the bright sunshine melted the ice that bound his wings. After a time he discovered that he could move freely once more. And then he rose quickly in the air and in a twinkling he had disappeared into the darkness of his home-that darkness which to him was always so pleasant.



XX A Pair Of Red-Heads


In the woods there was hardly one of Solomon Owl's neighbors that couldn't point out the big hemlock tree where he lived. And mischievous fellows like Reddy Woodpecker sometimes annoyed Solomon a good deal by rapping loudly on his door. When he thrust his head angrily out of his house and blinked in the sunlight, his tormentors would skip away and laugh. They laughed because they knew that they had awakened Solomon Owl. And they dodged out of his reach because he was always ill-tempered when anybody disturbed his rest in the daytime.

Solomon Owl did not mind so very much so long as that trick was not played on him too often. But after a time it became one of Reddy Woodpecker's favorite sports. Not only once, but several times a day did he go to the hemlock grove to hammer upon Solomon's hollow tree. And each time that he brought Solomon Owl to his door Reddy Woodpecker laughed more loudly than ever before.

Once Solomon forgot to take off his nightcap (though he wore it in the daytime, it really was a nightcap). And Reddy Woodpecker was so amused that he shouted at the top of his lungs.

"What's the joke?" asked Solomon Owl in his deep, rumbling voice. He tried to look very severe. But it is hard to look any way except funny with a nightcap on one's head.

As luck had it, Jasper Jay came hurrying up just then. He had heard Reddy Woodpecker's laughter. And if there was a joke he wanted to enjoy it, too.

Jasper Jay, alighting in a small hemlock near Reddy Woodpecker, asked the same question that Solomon Owl had just put to his rude caller.

"What's the joke?" inquired Jasper Jay.

Reddy could not speak. He was rocking back and forth upon a limb, choking and gasping for breath. But he managed to point to the big tree where Solomon Owl lived.

And when Jasper looked, and saw Solomon's great, round, pale, questioning face, all tied up in a red nightcap, he began to scream.

They were no ordinary screams-those shrieks of Jasper Jay's. That blue-coated rascal was the noisiest of all the feathered folk in Pleasant Valley. And now he fairly made the woods echo with his hoarse cries.

"This is the funniest sight I've ever seen!" Jasper Jay said at last, to nobody in particular. "I declare, there's a pair of them!"

At that, Reddy Woodpecker suddenly stopped laughing.

"A pair of what?" he asked.

"A pair of red-heads, of course!" Jasper Jay replied. "You've a red cap-and so has he!" Jasper pointed at Solomon Owl (a very rude thing to do!).

Then two things happened all at once. Solomon Owl snatched off his red night-cap-which he had quite forgotten. And Reddy Woodpecker dashed at Jasper Jay. He couldn't pull off his red cap, for it grew right on his head.

"So that's what you're laughing at, is it?" he cried angrily. And then nobody laughed any more-that is, nobody but Solomon Owl.

Solomon was so pleased by the fight that followed between Jasper Jay and Reddy Woodpecker that his deep, rumbling laughter could be heard for half an hour-even if it was midday. "Wha-wha! Whoo-ah!" The sound reached the ears of Farmer Green, who was just crossing a neighboring field, on his way home to dinner.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed. "I wonder what's happened to that old owl! Something must have tickled him-for I never heard an owl laugh in broad daylight before."



XXI At Home In The Haystack


After what happened when he came to his door without remembering to take off his red nightcap, Solomon Owl hoped that Reddy Woodpecker would stop teasing him.

But it was not so. Having once viewed Solomon's red cap, Reddy Woodpecker wanted to see it some more. So he came again and again and knocked on Solomon's door.

Solomon Owl, however, remembered each time to remove his nightcap before sticking his head out. And it might be said that neither of them was exactly pleased. For Reddy Woodpecker was disappointed; and Solomon Owl was angry.

Not a day passed that Reddy Woodpecker didn't disturb Solomon's rest at least a dozen times. Perhaps if Solomon had just kept still inside his house Reddy would have grown tired of bothering him. But Solomon Owl-for all he looked so wise-never thought of that.

But he saw before a great while that he would have to make a change of some sort-if he wanted to enjoy a good, quiet sleep again.

For a long time Solomon Owl pondered. It was a great puzzle-to know just how to outwit Reddy Woodpecker. And Solomon almost despaired of finding a way out of the difficulty. But at last an idea came to him, all in a flash. He would take his daytime naps somewhere else!

Solomon spent several nights looking for a good place to pass his days. And in the end he decided on the meadow. It would be convenient, he thought, when he was hunting meadow mice at dawn, if he could stay right there, without bothering to go into the woods to sleep.

Since there were no trees in the meadow, but only a few scrubby bushes along the stone wall, one might naturally make the mistake of thinking that there could not possibly be a nook of any kind that would suit Solomon Owl, who could never sleep soundly unless his bedroom was quite dark.

But there was one hiding place that Solomon liked almost as well as his home in the hollow hemlock. And that was Farmer Green's haystack. He burrowed into one side of it and made himself a snug chamber, which was as dark as a pocket-and ever so much quieter. What pleased Solomon most, however, was this: Nobody knew about that new retreat except himself.

Even if Reddy Woodpecker should succeed in finding it, he never could disturb Solomon by drumming upon the haystack. If Reddy tried that trick, his bill would merely sink noiselessly into the hay.

So Solomon Owl at last had a good day's rest. And when he met Reddy Woodpecker just after sunset, Solomon was feeling so cheerful that he said "Good-evening!" quite pleasantly, before he remembered that it was Reddy who had teased him so often.

"Good-evening!" Reddy Woodpecker replied. He seemed much surprised that Solomon Owl should be so agreeable. "Can you hear me?" Reddy asked him.

"Perfectly!" said Solomon.

"That's strange!" Reddy Woodpecker exclaimed. "I was almost sure you had suddenly grown deaf." And he could not understand why Solomon Owl laughed loud and long.

"Wha-wha! Whoo-ah!" Solomon's deep-voiced laughter rolled and echoed through the woodland.

But Reddy Woodpecker did not laugh at all.



XXII It Was Solomon's Fault


Reddy Woodpecker had a very good reason for not laughing when he met Solomon Owl. Of course, he knew nothing whatever of Solomon's new hiding place in the haystack. And that very morning Reddy had invited a party of friends to go with him to the hemlock grove where Solomon Owl had always lived, "to have some fun," as Reddy had explained.

For a long time he had knocked and hammered and pounded at Solomon Owl's door. But for once Solomon's great pale face did not appear.

"Where's the fun?" Reddy's friends had wanted to know, after they had waited until they were impatient.

And Reddy Woodpecker could only shake his head and say:

"I can't understand it! It's never happened like this before. I'm afraid Solomon Owl has lost his hearing."

Reddy Woodpecker's friends were no more polite than he. And they began to jeer at him.

"You didn't hammer loud enough," one of them told him.

So he set to work again and rapped and rapped until his head felt as if it would fly off, and his neck began to ache.

Still, Solomon Owl did not appear. And the party broke up in something very like a quarrel. For Reddy Woodpecker lost his temper when his friends teased him; and a good many unpleasant remarks passed back and forth.

Somehow, Reddy felt that it was all Solomon Owl's fault, because he hadn't come to the door.

Of course, Reddy had no means of knowing that all that time Solomon Owl was sleeping peacefully in Farmer Green's haystack in the meadow, a quarter of a mile away.

It was a good joke on Reddy Woodpecker. And though no one had told Solomon Owl about it, he was not so stupid that he couldn't guess at least a little that had happened.



Solomon Owl continued to have a very pleasant time living in the meadow. Since there were many mice right close at hand, little by little he visited the woods less and less. And there came a time at last when he hardly left the meadow at all.

Not flying any more than he could help, and eating too much, and sleeping very soundly each day, he grew stouter than ever, until his friends hardly knew him when they saw him.

"Solomon Owl is a sight-he's so fat!" people began to say.

But his size never worried Solomon Owl in the least. When he became too big for his doorway in the haystack, it was a simple matter to make the opening larger-much simpler than it would have been to make himself smaller. And that was another reason why he was delighted with his new home.

At last, however, something happened to put an end to his lazy way of living. One day the sound of men's voices awakened him, when he was having a good nap in the haystack. And he felt his bedroom quiver as if an earthquake had shaken it.

Scrambling to his doorway and peeping slyly out, Solomon saw a sight that made him very angry. A hayrack stood alongside the stack; and on it stood Farmer Green and his hired man. Each had a pitchfork in his hands, with which he tore great forkfuls of hay off the stack and piled it upon the wagon.

Solomon Owl knew then that his fine hiding place was going to be spoiled. As soon as the horses had pulled the load of hay away, with Farmer Green and the hired man riding on top of it, Solomon Owl crept out of his snug bedroom and hurried off to the woods.

He was so fat that it was several days before he could squeeze inside his old home in the hollow hemlock. And for the time being he had to sit on a limb and sleep in the daylight as best he could.

But to his surprise, Reddy Woodpecker troubled him no more. Reddy had drummed so hard on Solomon's door, in the effort to awake him when he wasn't there, that Aunt Polly Woodchuck told him he would ruin his bill, if he didn't look out. And since the warning thoroughly alarmed him, Reddy stopped visiting the hemlock grove.

In time Solomon Owl grew to look like himself again. And people never really knew just what had happened to him. But they noticed that he always hooted angrily whenever anybody mentioned Farmer Green's name.

<eob>

The Cricket On The Hearth

By

Charles Dickens



Chirp The First


The kettle began it! Don't tell me what Mrs. Peerybingle said. I know better. Mrs. Peerybingle may leave it on record to the end of time that she couldn't say which of them began it; but I say the kettle did. I ought to know, I hope? The kettle began it, full five minutes by the little waxy-faced Dutch clock in the corner, before the Cricket uttered a chirp.

As if the clock hadn't finished striking, and the convulsive little Hay-maker at the top of it, jerking away right and left with a scythe in front of a Moorish Palace, hadn't mowed down half an acre of imaginary grass before the Cricket joined in at all!

Why, I am not naturally positive. Every one knows that I wouldn't set my own opinion against the opinion of Mrs. Peerybingle, unless I were quite sure, on any account whatever. Nothing should induce me. But, this is a question of fact. And the fact is, that the kettle began it at least five minutes before the Cricket gave any sign of being in existence. Contradict me, and I'll say ten.

Let me narrate exactly how it happened. I should have proceeded to do so, in my very first word, but for this plain consideration -- if I am to tell a story I must begin at the beginning; and how is it possible to begin at the beginning without beginning at the kettle?

It appeared as if there were a sort of match, or trial of skill, you must understand, between the kettle and the Cricket. And this is what led to it, and how it came about.

Mrs. Peerybingle, going out into the raw twilight, and clicking over the wet stones in a pair of pattens that worked innumerable rough impressions of the first proposition in Euclid all about the yard -- Mrs. Peerybingle filled the kettle at the water-butt. Presently returning, less the pattens (and a good deal less, for they were tall, and Mrs. Peerybingle was but short), she set the kettle on the fire. In doing which she lost her temper, or mislaid it for an instant; for, the water being uncomfortably cold, and in that slippy, slushy, sleety sort of state wherein it seems to penetrate through every kind of substance, patten rings included -- had laid hold of Mrs. Peerybingle's toes, and even splashed her legs. And when we rather plume ourselves (with reason too) upon our legs, and keep ourselves particularly neat in point of stockings, we find this, for the moment, hard to bear.

Besides, the kettle was aggravating and obstinate. It wouldn't allow itself to be adjusted on the top bar; it wouldn't hear of accommodating itself kindly to the knobs of coal; it would lean forward with a drunken air, and dribble, a very Idiot of a kettle, on the hearth. It was quarrelsome, and hissed and spluttered morosely at the fire. To sum up all, the lid, resisting Mrs. Peerybingle's fingers, first of all turned topsy-turvy, and then, with an ingenious pertinacity deserving of a better cause, dived sideways in -- down to the very bottom of the kettle. And the hull of the Royal George has never made half the monstrous resistance to coming out of the water which the lid of that kettle employed against Mrs. Peerybingle before she got it up again.

It looked sullen and pig-headed enough, even then; carrying its handle with an air of defiance, and cocking its spout pertly and mockingly at Mrs. Peerybingle, as if it said, "I won't boil. Nothing shall induce me!"

But, Mrs. Peerybingle, with restored good-humour, dusted her chubby little hands against each other, and sat down before the kettle laughing. Meantime, the jolly blaze uprose and fell, flashing and gleaming on the little Hay-maker at the top of the Dutch clock, until one might have thought he stood stock-still before the Moorish Palace, and nothing was in motion but the flame.

He was on the move, however; and had his spasms, two to the second, all right and regular. But his sufferings when the clock was going to strike were frightful to behold; and when a Cuckoo looked out of a trap-door in the Palace, and gave note six times, it shook him, each time, like a spectral voice -- or like a something wiry plucking at his legs.

It was not until a violent commotion and a whirring noise among the weights and ropes below him had quite subsided that this terrified Hay-maker became himself again. Nor was he startled without reason; for these rattling, bony skeletons of clocks are very disconcerting in their operation, and I wonder very much how any set of men, but most of all how Dutchmen, can have had a liking to invent them. There is a popular belief that Dutchmen love broad cases and much clothing for their own lower selves; and they might know better than to leave their clocks so very lank and unprotected, surely.

Now it was, you observe, that the kettle began to spend the evening. Now it was that the kettle, growing mellow and musical, began to have irrepressible gurglings in its throat, and to indulge in short vocal snorts, which it checked in the bud, as if it hadn't quite made up its mind yet to be good company. Now it was that after two or three such vain attempts to stifle its convivial sentiments, it threw off all moroseness, all reserve, and burst into a stream of song so cosy and hilarious as never maudlin nightingale yet formed the least idea of.

So plain, too! Bless you, you might have understood it like a book -- better than some books you and I could name, perhaps. With its warm breath gushing forth in a light cloud which merrily and gracefully ascended a few feet, then hung about the chimney-corner as its own domestic Heaven, it trolled its song with that strong energy of cheerfulness, that its iron body hummed and stirred upon the fire; and the lid itself, the recently rebellious lid -- such is the influence of a bright example -- performed a sort of jig, and clattered like a deaf and dumb young cymbal that had never known the use of its twin brother.

That this song of the kettle's was a song of invitation and welcome to somebody out of doors: to somebody at that moment coming on towards the snug small home and the crisp fire: there is no doubt whatever. Mrs. Peerybingle knew it perfectly, as she sat musing before the hearth. It's a dark night, sang the kettle, and the rotten leaves are lying by the way; and, above, all is mist and darkness, and, below, all is mire and clay; and there's only one relief in all the sad and murky air; and I don't know that it is one, for it's nothing but a glare; of deep and angry crimson, where the sun and wind together; set a brand upon the clouds for being guilty of such weather; and the widest open country is a long dull streak of black; and there's hoar frost on the finger-post, and thaw upon the track; and the ice it isn't water, and the water isn't free; and you couldn't say that anything is what it ought to be; but he's coming, coming, coming! -- 

And here, if you like, the Cricket DID chime in! with a Chirrup, Chirrup, Chirrup of such magnitude, by way of chorus; with a voice so astoundingly disproportionate to its size, as compared with the kettle; (size! you couldn't see it!) that, if it had then and there burst itself like an overcharged gun, if it had fallen a victim on the spot, and chirruped its little body into fifty pieces, it would have seemed a natural and inevitable consequence, for which it had expressly laboured.

The kettle had had the last of its solo performance. It persevered with undiminished ardour; but the Cricket took first fiddle, and kept it. Good Heaven, how it chirped! Its shrill, sharp, piercing voice resounded through the house, and seemed to twinkle in the outer darkness like a star. There was an indescribable little trill and tremble in it at its loudest, which suggested its being carried off its legs, and made to leap again, by its own intense enthusiasm. Yet they went very well together, the Cricket and the kettle. The burden of the song was still the same; and louder, louder, louder still, they sang it in their emulation.

The fair little listener -- for fair she was, and young; though something of what is called the dumpling shape; but I don't myself object to that -- lighted a candle, glanced at the Hay-maker on the top of the clock, who was getting in a pretty average crop of minutes; and looked out of the window, where she saw nothing, owing to the darkness, but her own face imaged in the glass. And my opinion is (and so would yours have been) that she might have looked a long way and seen nothing half so agreeable. When she came back, and sat down in her former seat, the Cricket and the kettle were still keeping it up, with a perfect fury of competition. The kettle's weak side clearly being that he didn't know when he was beat.

There was all the excitement of a race about it. Chirp, chirp, chirp! Cricket a mile ahead. Hum, hum, hum -- m -- m! Kettle making play in the distance, like a great top. Chirp, chirp, chirp! Cricket round the corner. Hum, hum, hum -- m -- m! Kettle sticking to him in his own way; no idea of giving in. Chirp, chirp, chirp! Cricket fresher than ever. Hum, hum, hum -- m -- m! Kettle slow and steady. Chirp, chirp, chirp! Cricket going in to finish him. Hum, hum, hum -- m -- m! Kettle not to be finished. Until at last they got so jumbled together, in the hurry-skurry, helter-skelter, of the match, that whether the kettle chirped and the Cricket hummed, or the Cricket chirped and the kettle hummed, or they both chirped and both hummed, it would have taken a clearer head than yours or mine to have decided with anything like certainty. But of this there is no doubt: that, the kettle and the Cricket, at one and the same moment, and by some power of amalgamation best known to themselves, sent, each, his fireside song of comfort streaming into a ray of the candle that shone out through the window, and a long way down the lane. And this light, bursting on a certain person who, on the instant, approached towards it through the gloom, expressed the whole thing to him, literally in a twinkling, and cried, "Welcome home, old fellow! Welcome home, my boy!"

This end attained, the kettle, being dead beat, boiled over, and was taken off the fire. Mrs. Peerybingle then went running to the door, where, what with the wheels of a cart, the tramp of a horse, the voice of a man, the tearing in and out of an excited dog, and the surprising and mysterious appearance of a baby, there was soon the very What's-his-name to play.

Where the baby came from, or how Mrs. Peerybingle got hold of it in that flash of time, I don't know. But a live baby there was in Mrs. Peerybingle's arms; and a pretty tolerable amount of pride she seemed to have in it, when she was drawn gently to the fire, by a sturdy figure of a man, much taller and much older than herself, who had to stoop a long way down to kiss her. But she was worth the trouble. Six foot six, with the lumbago, might have done it.

"Oh goodness, John!" said Mrs. P. "What a state you're in with the weather!"

"A dot and" -- here he glanced at the baby -- "a dot and carry -- I won't say it, for fear I should spoil it; but I was very near a joke."

He was something the worse for it undeniably. The thick mist hung in clots upon his eyelashes like candied thaw; and, between the fog and fire together, there were rainbows in his very whiskers.

"Why, you see, Dot," John made answer slowly, as he unrolled a shawl from about his throat, and warmed his hands; "it -- it an't exactly summer weather. So no wonder."

"I wish you wouldn't call me Dot, John. I don't like it," said Mrs. Peerybingle: pouting in a way that clearly showed she did like it very much.

"Why, what else are you?" returned John, looking down upon her with a smile, and giving her waist as light a squeeze as his huge hand and arm could give. "A dot and" -- here he glanced at the baby -- "a dot and carry -- I won't say it, for fear I should spoil it; but I was very near a joke. I don't know as ever I was nearer."

He was often near to something or other very clever, by his own account: this lumbering, slow, honest John; this John so heavy, but so light of spirit; so rough upon the surface, but so gentle at the core; so dull without, so quick within; so stolid, but so good! Oh, Mother Nature, give thy children the true poetry of heart that hid itself in this poor Carrier's breast -- he was but a Carrier, by the way -- and we can bear to have them talking prose, and leading lives of prose; and bear to bless thee for their company!

It was pleasant to see Dot, with her little figure and her baby in her arms: a very doll of a baby: glancing with a coquettish thoughtfulness at the fire, and inclining her delicate little head just enough on one side to let it rest in an odd, half-natural, half-affected, wholly nestling and agreeable manner, on the great rugged figure of the Carrier. It was pleasant to see him, with his tender awkwardness, endeavouring to adapt his rude support to her slight need, and make his burly middle age a leaning-staff not inappropriate to her blooming youth. It was pleasant to observe how Tilly Slowboy, waiting in the background for the baby, took special cognizance (though in her earliest teens) of this grouping; and stood with her mouth and eyes wide open, and her head thrust forward, taking it in as if it were air. Nor was it less agreeable to observe how John the Carrier, reference being made by Dot to the aforesaid baby, checked his hand when on the point of touching the infant, as if he thought he might crack it; and, bending down, surveyed it from a safe distance, with a kind of puzzled pride, such as an amiable mastiff might be supposed to show if he found himself, one day, the father of a young canary.

"An't he beautiful, John? Don't he look precious in his sleep?"

"Very precious," said John. "Very much so. He generally is asleep, an't he?"

"Lor, John! Good gracious, no!"

"Oh!" said John, pondering. "I thought his eyes was generally shut. Halloa!"

"Goodness, John, how you startle one!"

"It an't right for him to turn 'em up in that way," said the astonished Carrier, "is it? See how he's winking with both of 'em at once! and look at his mouth! Why, he's gasping like a gold and silver fish!"

"You don't deserve to be a father, you don't," said Dot, with all the dignity of an experienced matron. "But how should you know what little complaints children are troubled with, John? You wouldn't so much as know their names, you stupid fellow." And when she had turned the baby over on her left arm, and had slapped its back as a restorative, she pinched her husband's ear, laughing.

"No," said John, pulling off his outer coat. "It's very true, Dot. I don't know much about it. I only know that I've been fighting pretty stiffly with the wind to-night. It's been blowing north-east, straight into the cart, the whole way home."

"Poor old man, so it has!" cried Mrs. Peerybingle, instantly becoming very active. "Here, take the precious darling, Tilly, while I make myself of some use. Bless it, I could smother it with kissing it, I could! Hie then, good dog! Hie, Boxer, boy! Only let me make the tea first, John; and then I'll help you with the parcels, like a busy bee. 'How doth the little' -- and all the rest of it, you know, John. Did you ever learn 'How doth the little,' when you went to school, John?"

"Not to quite know it," John returned. "I was very near it once. But I should only have spoilt it, I dare say."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Dot. She had the blithest little laugh you ever heard. "What a dear old darling of a dunce you are, John, to be sure!"

Not at all disputing this position, John went out to see that the boy with the lantern, which had been dancing to and fro before the door and window, like a Will of the Wisp, took due care of the horse; who was fatter than you would quite believe, if I gave you his measure, and so old that his birthday was lost in the mists of antiquity. Boxer, feeling that his attentions were due to the family in general, and must be impartially distributed, dashed in and out with bewildering inconstancy; now describing a circle of short barks round the horse, where he was being rubbed down at the stable door; now feigning to make savage rushes at his mistress, and facetiously bringing himself to sudden stops; now eliciting a shriek from Tilly Slowboy, in the low nursing-chair near the fire, by the unexpected application of his moist nose to her countenance; now exhibiting an obtrusive interest in the baby; now going round and round upon the hearth, and lying down as if he had established himself for the night; now getting up again, and taking that nothing of a fag-end of a tail of his out into the weather, as if he had just remembered an appointment, and was off at a round trot, to keep it.

"There! There's the teapot, ready on the hob!" said Dot; as briskly busy as a child at play at keeping house. "And there's the cold knuckle of ham; and there's the butter; and there's the crusty loaf, and all! Here's a clothes basket for the small parcels, John, if you've got any there. Where are you, John? Don't let the dear child fall under the grate, Tilly, whatever you do!"

It may be noted of Miss Slowboy, in spite of her rejecting the caution with some vivacity, that she had a rare and surprising talent for getting this baby into difficulties: and had several times imperilled its short life in a quiet way peculiarly her own. She was of a spare and straight shape, this young lady, insomuch that her garments appeared to be in constant danger of sliding off those sharp pegs, her shoulders, on which they were loosely hung. Her costume was remarkable for the partial development, on all possible occasions, of some flannel vestment of a singular structure; also for affording glimpses, in the region of the back, of a corset, or a pair of stays, in colour a dead green. Being always in a state of gaping admiration at everything, and absorbed, besides, in the perpetual contemplation of her mistress's perfections and the baby's, Miss Slowboy, in her little errors of judgment, may be said to have done equal honour to her head and to her heart; and though these did less honour to the baby's head, which they were the occasional means of bringing into contact with deal doors, dressers, stair-rails, bed-posts, and other foreign substances, still they were the honest results of Tilly Slowboy's constant astonishment at finding herself so kindly treated, and installed in such a comfortable home. For the maternal and paternal Slowboy were alike unknown to Fame, and Tilly had been bred by public charity, a foundling; which word, though only differing from fondling by one vowel's length, is very different in meaning, and expresses quite another thing.

To have seen little Mrs. Peerybingle come back with her husband, tugging at the clothes basket, and making the most strenuous exertions to do nothing at all (for he carried it), would have amused you almost as much as it amused him. It may have entertained the Cricket, too, for anything I know; but, certainly, it now began to chirp again vehemently.

Tilly Slowboy.

"Heyday!" said John in his slow way. "It's merrier than ever to-night, I think."

"And it's sure to bring us good fortune, John! It always has done so. To have a Cricket on the Hearth is the luckiest thing in all the world!"

John looked at her as if he had very nearly got the thought into his head that she was his Cricket in chief, and he quite agreed with her. But it was probably one of his narrow escapes, for he said nothing.

"The first time I heard its cheerful little note, John, was on that night when you brought me home -- when you brought me to my new home here; its little mistress. Nearly a year ago. You recollect, John?"

Oh, yes! John remembered. I should think so!

"Its chirp was such a welcome to me! It seemed so full of promise and encouragement. It seemed to say, you would be kind and gentle with me, and would not expect (I had a fear of that, John, then) to find an old head on the shoulders of your foolish little wife."

John thoughtfully patted one of the shoulders, and then the head, as though he would have said No, no; he had had no such expectation; he had been quite content to take them as they were. And really he had reason. They were very comely.

"It spoke the truth, John, when it seemed to say so: for you have ever been, I am sure, the best, the most considerate, the most affectionate of husbands to me. This has been a happy home, John; and I love the Cricket for its sake!"

"Why, so do I, then," said the Carrier. "So do I, Dot."

"I love it for the many times I have heard it, and the many thoughts its harmless music has given me. Sometimes, in the twilight, when I have felt a little solitary and down-hearted, John -- before baby was here, to keep me company and make the house gay -- when I have thought how lonely you would be if I should die; how lonely I should be, if I could know that you had lost me, dear; its Chirp, Chirp, Chirp upon the hearth has seemed to tell me of another little voice, so sweet, so very dear to me, before whose coming sound my trouble vanished like a dream. And when I used to fear -- I did fear once, John; I was very young, you know -- that ours might prove to be an ill-assorted marriage, I being such a child, and you more like my guardian than my husband; and that you might not, however hard you tried, be able to learn to love me, as you hoped and prayed you might; its Chirp, Chirp, Chirp has cheered me up again, and filled me with new trust and confidence. I was thinking of these things to-night, dear, when I sat expecting you; and I love the Cricket for their sake!"

"And so do I," repeated John. "But, Dot! I hope and pray that I might learn to love you? How you talk! I had learnt that long before I brought you here, to be the Cricket's little mistress, Dot!"

She laid her hand, an instant, on his arm, and looked up at him with an agitated face, as if she would have told him something. Next moment, she was down upon her knees before the basket; speaking in a sprightly voice, and busy with the parcels.

"There are not many of them to-night, John, but I saw some goods behind the cart just now; and though they give more trouble, perhaps, still they pay as well; so we have no reason to grumble, have we? Besides, you have been delivering, I dare say, as you came along?"

"Oh, yes!" John said. "A good many."

"Why, what's this round box? Heart alive, John, it's a wedding-cake!"

"Leave a woman alone to find out that," said John admiringly. "Now, a man would never have thought of it! Whereas, it's my belief that if you was to pack a wedding-cake up in a tea-chest, or a turn-up bedstead, or a pickled-salmon keg, or any unlikely thing, a woman would be sure to find it out directly. Yes; I called for it at the pastrycook's."

"And it weighs I don't know what -- whole hundredweights!" cried Dot, making a great demonstration of trying to lift it. "Whose is it, John? Where is it going?"

"Read the writing on the other side," said John.

"Why, John! My Goodness, John!"

"Ah! who'd have thought it?" John returned.

"You never mean to say," pursued Dot, sitting on the floor and shaking her head at him, "that it's Gruff and Tackleton the toymaker!"

John nodded.

Mrs. Peerybingle nodded also, fifty times at least. Not in assent -- in dumb and pitying amazement; screwing up her lips, the while, with all their little force (they were never made for screwing up; I am clear of that), and looking the good Carrier through and through, in her abstraction. Miss Slowboy, in the meantime, who had a mechanical power of reproducing scraps of current conversation for the delectation of the baby, with all the sense struck out of them, and all the nouns changed into the plural number, inquired aloud of that young creature, Was it Gruffs and Tackletons the toymakers then, and Would it call at Pastrycooks for wedding-cakes, and Did its mothers know the boxes when its fathers brought them home; and so on.

"And that is really to come about!" said Dot. "Why, she and I were girls at school together, John."

He might have been thinking of her, or nearly thinking of her, perhaps, as she was in that same school-time. He looked upon her with a thoughtful pleasure, but he made no answer.

"And he's as old! As unlike her! -- Why, how many years older than you is Gruff and Tackleton, John?"

"How many more cups of tea shall I drink to-night, at one sitting, than Gruff and Tackleton ever took in four, I wonder?" replied John good-humouredly, as he drew a chair to the round table, and began at the cold ham. "As to eating, I eat but little; but that little I enjoy, Dot."

Even this, his usual sentiment at meal-times, one of his innocent delusions (for his appetite was always obstinate, and flatly contradicted him), awoke no smile in the face of his little wife, who stood among the parcels, pushing the cake-box slowly from her with her foot, and never once looked, though her eyes were cast down too, upon the dainty shoe she generally was so mindful of. Absorbed in thought, she stood there, heedless alike of the tea and John (although he called to her and rapped the table with his knife to startle her), until he rose and touched her on the arm; when she looked at him for a moment, and hurried to her place behind the tea-board, laughing at her negligence. But not as she had laughed before. The manner and the music were quite changed.

The Cricket, too, had stopped. Somehow, the room was not so cheerful as it had been. Nothing like it.

"So, these are all the parcels, are they, John?" she said, breaking a long silence, which the honest Carrier had devoted to the practical illustration of one part of his favourite sentiment -- certainly enjoying what he ate, if it couldn't be admitted that he ate but little. "So these are all the parcels, are they, John?"

"That's all," said John. "Why -- no -- I" -- laying down his knife and fork, and taking a long breath -- "I declare -- I've clean forgotten the old gentleman!"

"The old gentleman?"

"In the cart," said John. "He was asleep among the straw, the last time I saw him. I've very nearly remembered him, twice, since I came in; but he went out of my head again. Halloa! Yahip there! Rouse up! That's my hearty!"

John said these latter words outside the door, whither he had hurried with the candle in his hand.

Miss Slowboy, conscious of some mysterious reference to The Old Gentleman, and connecting, in her mystified imagination, certain associations of a religious nature with the phrase, was so disturbed, that hastily rising from the low chair by the fire to seek protection near the skirt of her mistress, and coming into contact, as she crossed the doorway, with an ancient Stranger, she instinctively made a charge or butt at him with the only offensive instrument within her reach. This instrument happening to be the baby, great commotion and alarm ensued, which the sagacity of Boxer rather tended to increase; for that good dog, more thoughtful than his master, had, it seemed, been watching the old gentleman in his sleep, lest he should walk off with a few young poplar-trees that were tied up behind the cart; and he still attended on him very closely, worrying his gaiters, in fact, and making dead sets at the buttons.

"You're such an undeniably good sleeper, sir," said John, when tranquillity was restored (in the meantime the old gentleman had stood, bareheaded and motionless, in the centre of the room), "that I have half a mind to ask you where the other six are -- only that would be a joke, and I know I should spoil it. Very near, though," murmured the Carrier with a chuckle; "very near!"

The Stranger, who had long white hair, good features, singularly bold and well defined for an old man, and dark, bright, penetrating eyes, looked round with a smile, and saluted the Carrier's wife by gravely inclining his head.

His garb was very quaint and odd -- a long, long way behind the time. Its hue was brown, all over. In his hand he held a great brown club or walking-stick; and, striking this upon the floor, it fell asunder, and became a chair. On which he sat down quite composedly.

"There!" said the Carrier, turning to his wife. "That's the way I found him, sitting by the roadside! Upright as a milestone. And almost as deaf."

"Sitting in the open air, John?"

"In the open air," replied the Carrier, "just at dusk. 'Carriage Paid,' he said; and gave me eighteen-pence. Then he got in. And there he is."

"He's going, John, I think!"

Not at all. He was only going to speak.

"If you please, I was to be left till called for," said the Stranger mildly. "Don't mind me."

With that he took a pair of spectacles from one of his large pockets, and a book from another, and leisurely began to read. Making no more of Boxer than if he had been a house lamb!

The Carrier and his wife exchanged a look of perplexity. The Stranger raised his head; and, glancing from the latter to the former, said:

"Your daughter, my good friend?"

"Wife," returned John.

"Niece?" said the Stranger.

"Wife!" roared John.

"Indeed?" observed the Stranger. "Surely? Very young!"

He quietly turned over, and resumed his reading. But, before he could have read two lines, he again interrupted himself to say:

"Baby yours?"

John gave him a gigantic nod: equivalent to an answer in the affirmative, delivered through a speaking trumpet.

"Girl?"

"Bo-o-oy!" roared John.

"Also very young, eh?"

Mrs. Peerybingle instantly struck in. "Two months and three da-ays. Vaccinated just six weeks ago-o! Took very fine-ly! Considered, by the doctor, a remarkably beautiful chi-ild! Equal to the general run of children at five months o-ld! Takes notice in a way quite wonder-ful! May seem impossible to you, but feels his legs al-ready!"

"That's the way I found him, sitting by the roadside! Upright as a milestone."

Here, the breathless little mother, who had been shrieking these short sentences into the old man's ear, until her pretty face was crimsoned, held up the Baby before him as a stubborn and triumphant fact; while Tilly Slowboy, with a melodious cry of "Ketcher, Ketcher" -- which sounded like some unknown words, adapted to a popular Sneeze -- performed some cow-like gambols around that all unconscious Innocent.

"Hark! He's called for, sure enough," said John. "There's somebody at the door. Open it, Tilly."

Before she could reach it, however, it was opened from without; being a primitive sort of door, with a latch that any one could lift if he chose -- and a good many people did choose, for all kinds of neighbours liked to have a cheerful word or two with the Carrier, though he was no great talker himself. Being opened, it gave admission to a little, meagre, thoughtful, dingy-faced man, who seemed to have made himself a great-coat from the sackcloth covering of some old box; for, when he turned to shut the door and keep the weather out, he disclosed upon the back of that garment the inscription G & T in large black capitals. Also the word GLASS in bold characters.

"Good evening, John!" said the little man. "Good evening, mum! Good evening, Tilly! Good evening, Unbeknown! How's Baby, mum? Boxer's pretty well I hope?"

"All thriving, Caleb," replied Dot. "I am sure you need only look at the dear child, for one, to know that."

"And I'm sure I need only look at you for another," said Caleb.

He didn't look at her, though; he had a wandering and thoughtful eye, which seemed to be always projecting itself into some other time and place, no matter what he said; a description which will equally apply to his voice.

"Or at John for another," said Caleb. "Or at Tilly, as far as that goes. Or certainly at Boxer."

"Busy just now, Caleb?" asked the Carrier.

"Why, pretty well, John," he returned, with the distraught air of a man who was casting about for the Philosopher's stone, at least. "Pretty much so. There's rather a run on Noah's Arks at present. I could have wished to improve on the Family, but I don't see how it's to be done at the price. It would be a satisfaction to one's mind to make it clearer which was Shems and Hams, and which was Wives. Flies an't on that scale, neither, as compared with elephants, you know! Ah, well! Have you got anything in the parcel line for me, John?"

The Carrier put his hand into a pocket of the coat he had taken off; and brought out, carefully preserved in moss and paper, a tiny flower-pot.

"There it is!" he said, adjusting it with great care. "Not so much as a leaf damaged. Full of buds!"

Caleb's dull eye brightened as he took it, and thanked him.

"Dear, Caleb," said the Carrier. "Very dear at this season."

"Never mind that. It would be cheap to me, what ever it cost," returned the little man. "Anything else, John?"

"A small box," replied the Carrier. "Here you are!"

"'For Caleb Plummer,'" said the little man, spelling out the direction. "'With Cash.' With Cash, John? I don't think it's for me."

"With Care," returned the Carrier, looking over his shoulder. "Where do you make out cash?"

"Oh! To be sure!" said Caleb. "It's all right. With care! Yes, yes; that's mine. It might have been with cash, indeed, if my dear Boy in the Golden South Americas had lived, John. You loved him like a son; didn't you? You needn't say you did. I know, of course. 'Caleb Plummer. With care.' Yes, yes, it's all right. It's a box of dolls' eyes for my daughters' work. I wish it was her own sight in a box, John."

"I wish it was, or could be!" cried the Carrier.

"Thankee," said the little man. "You speak very hearty. To think that she should never see the Dolls -- and them a staring at her, so bold, all day long! That's where it cuts. What's the damage, John?"

"I'll damage you," said John, "if you inquire. Dot! Very near?"

"Well! it's like you to say so," observed the little man. "It's your kind way. Let me see. I think that's all."

"I think not," said the Carrier. "Try again."

"Something for our Governor, eh?" said Caleb after pondering a little while. "To be sure. That's what I came for; but my head's so running on them Arks and things! He hasn't been here, has he?"

"Not he," returned the Carrier. "He's too busy, courting."

"He's coming round, though," said Caleb; "for he told me to keep on the near side of the road going home, and it was ten to one he'd take me up. I had better go, by-the-bye. -- You couldn't have the goodness to let me pinch Boxer's tail, mum, for half a moment, could you?"

"Why, Caleb, what a question!"

"Oh, never mind, mum!" said the little man. "He mightn't like it, perhaps. There's a small order just come in for barking dogs; and I should wish to go as close to Natur' as I could for sixpence. That's all. Never mind, mum."

It happened opportunely that Boxer, without receiving the proposed stimulus, began to bark with great zeal. But, as this implied the approach of some new visitor, Caleb, postponing his study from the life to a more convenient season, shouldered the round box, and took a hurried leave. He might have spared himself the trouble, for he met the visitor upon the threshold.

"Oh! You are here, are you? Wait a bit. I'll take you home. John Peerybingle, my service to you. More of my service to your pretty wife. Handsomer every day! Better too, if possible! And younger," mused the speaker in a low voice, "that's the devil of it!"

"I should be astonished at your paying compliments, Mr. Tackleton," said Dot, not with the best grace in the world, "but for your condition."

"You know all about it, then?"

"I have got myself to believe it somehow," said Dot.

"After a hard struggle, I suppose?"

"Very."

Tackleton the Toy merchant, pretty generally known as Gruff and Tackleton -- for that was the firm, though Gruff had been bought out long ago; only leaving his name, and, as some said, his nature, according to its Dictionary meaning, in the business -- Tackleton the Toy merchant was a man whose vocation had been quite misunderstood by his Parents and Guardians. If they had made him a Money Lender, or a sharp Attorney, or a Sheriff's Officer, or a Broker, he might have sown his discontented oats in his youth, and, after having had the full run of himself in ill-natured transactions, might have turned out amiable, at last, for the sake of a little freshness and novelty. But, cramped and chafing in the peaceable pursuit of toymaking, he was a domestic Ogre, who had been living on children all his life, and was their implacable enemy. He despised all toys; wouldn't have bought one for the world; delighted, in his malice, to insinuate grim expressions into the faces of brown-paper farmers who drove pigs to market, bellmen who advertised lost lawyers' consciences, movable old ladies who darned stockings or carved pies; and other like samples of his stock-in-trade. In appalling masks; hideous, hairy, red-eyed Jacks in Boxes; Vampire Kites; demoniacal Tumblers who wouldn't lie down, and were perpetually flying forward, to stare infants out of countenance; his soul perfectly revelled. They were his only relief, and safety-valve. He was great in such inventions. Anything suggestive of a Pony nightmare was delicious to him. He had even lost money (and he took to that toy very kindly) by getting up Goblin slides for magic lanterns, whereon the Powers of Darkness were depicted as a sort of supernatural shell-fish, with human faces. In intensifying the portraiture of Giants, he had sunk quite a little capital; and, though no painter himself, he could indicate, for the instruction of his artists, with a piece of chalk, a certain furtive leer for the countenances of those monsters, which was safe to destroy the peace of mind of any young gentleman between the ages of six and eleven, for the whole Christmas or Midsummer Vacation.

What he was in toys, he was (as most men are) in other things. You may easily suppose, therefore, that within the great green cape, which reached down to the calves of his legs, there was buttoned up to the chin an uncommonly pleasant fellow; and that he was about as choice a spirit, and as agreeable a companion, as ever stood in a pair of bull-headed-looking boots with mahogany-coloured tops.

Still, Tackleton, the toy merchant, was going to be married. In spite of all this, he was going to be married. And to a young wife too, a beautiful young wife.

He didn't look much like a Bridegroom, as he stood in the Carrier's kitchen, with a twist in his dry face, and a screw in his body, and his hat jerked over the bridge of his nose, and his hands tucked down into the bottoms of his pockets, and his whole sarcastic, ill-conditioned self peering out of one little corner of one little eye, like the concentrated essence of any number of ravens. But a Bridegroom he designed to be.

"In three days' time. Next Thursday. The last day of the first month in the year. That's my wedding-day," said Tackleton.

Did I mention that he had always one eye wide open, and one eye nearly shut; and that the one eye nearly shut was always the expressive eye? I don't think I did.

"That's my wedding-day!" said Tackleton, rattling his money.

"Why, it's our wedding-day too," exclaimed the Carrier.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Tackleton. "Odd! You're just such another couple. Just!"

The indignation of Dot at this presumptuous assertion is not to be described. What next? His imagination would compass the possibility of just such another Baby, perhaps. The man was mad.

"I say! A word with you," murmured Tackleton, nudging the Carrier with his elbow, and taking him a little apart. "You'll come to the wedding? We're in the same boat, you know."

"How in the same boat?" inquired the Carrier.

"A little disparity, you know," said Tackleton with another nudge. "Come and spend an evening with us beforehand."

"Why?" demanded John, astonished at this pressing hospitality.

"Why?" returned the other. "That's a new way of receiving an invitation. Why, for pleasure -- sociability, you know, and all that."

"I thought you were never sociable," said John in his plain way.

"Tchah! It's of no use to be anything but free with you, I see," said Tackleton. "Why, then, the truth is, you have a -- what tea-drinking people call a sort of a comfortable appearance together, you and your wife. We know better, you know, but --  -- "

"No, we don't know better," interposed John. "What are you talking about?"

"Well! We don't know better, then," said Tackleton. "We'll agree that we don't. As you like; what does it matter? I was going to say, as you have that sort of appearance, your company will produce a favourable effect on Mrs. Tackleton that will be. And, though I don't think your good lady's very friendly to me in this matter, still she can't help herself from falling into my views, for there's a compactness and cosiness of appearance about her that always tells, even in an indifferent case. You'll say you'll come?"

"We have arranged to keep our Wedding-day (as far as that goes) at home," said John. "We have made the promise to ourselves these six months. We think, you see, that home -- "

"Bah! what's home?" cried Tackleton. "Four walls and a ceiling! (Why don't you kill that Cricket? I would! I always do. I hate their noise.) There are four walls and a ceiling at my house. Come to me!"

"You kill your Crickets, eh?" said John.

"Scrunch 'em, sir," returned the other, setting his heel heavily on the floor. "You'll say you'll come? It's as much your interest as mine, you know, that the women should persuade each other that they're quiet and contented, and couldn't be better off. I know their way. Whatever one woman says, another woman is determined to clinch always. There's that spirit of emulation among 'em, sir, that if your wife says to my wife, 'I'm the happiest woman in the world, and mine's the best husband in the world, and I dote on him,' my wife will say the same to yours, or more, and half believe it."

"Do you mean to say she don't, then?" asked the Carrier.

"Don't!" cried Tackleton with a short, sharp laugh. "Don't what?"

The Carrier had some faint idea of adding, "dote upon you." But, happening to meet the half-closed eye, as it twinkled upon him over the turned-up collar of the cape, which was within an ace of poking it out, he felt it such an unlikely part and parcel of anything to be doted on, that he substituted, "that she don't believe it?"

"Ah, you dog! You're joking," said Tackleton.

But the Carrier, though slow to understand the full drift of his meaning, eyed him in such a serious manner, that he was obliged to be a little more explanatory.

"I have the humour," said Tackleton: holding up the fingers of his left hand, and tapping the forefinger, to imply, "There I am, Tackleton to wit": "I have the humour, sir, to marry a young wife, and a pretty wife": here he rapped his little finger, to express the Bride; not sparingly, but sharply; with a sense of power. "I'm able to gratify that humour, and I do. It's my whim. But -- now look there!"

He pointed to where Dot was sitting, thoughtfully before the fire: leaning her dimpled chin upon her hand, and watching the bright blaze. The Carrier looked at her, and then at him, and then at her, and then at him again.

"She honours and obeys, no doubt, you know," said Tackleton; "and that, as I am not a man of sentiment, is quite enough for me. But do you think there's anything more in it?"

"I think," observed the Carrier, "that I should chuck any man out of window who said there wasn't."

"Exactly so," returned the other with an unusual alacrity of assent. "To be sure! Doubtless you would. Of course. I'm certain of it. Good night. Pleasant dreams!"

The Carrier was puzzled, and made uncomfortable and uncertain, in spite of himself. He couldn't help showing it in his manner.

"Good night, my dear friend!" said Tackleton compassionately. "I'm off. We're exactly alike in reality, I see. You won't give us to-morrow evening? Well! Next day you go out visiting, I know. I'll meet you there, and bring my wife that is to be. It'll do her good. You're agreeable? Thankee. What's that?"

It was a loud cry from the Carrier's wife: a loud, sharp, sudden cry, that made the room ring like a glass vessel. She had risen from her seat, and stood like one transfixed by terror and surprise. The Stranger had advanced towards the fire to warm himself, and stood within a short stride of her chair. But quite still.

"Dot!" cried the Carrier. "Mary! Darling! What's the matter?"

They were all about her in a moment. Caleb, who had been dozing on the cake-box, in the first imperfect recovery of his suspended presence of mind, seized Miss Slowboy by the hair of her head, but immediately apologised.

"Mary!" exclaimed the Carrier, supporting her in his arms. "Are you ill? What is it? Tell me dear!"

She only answered by beating her hands together, and falling into a wild fit of laughter. Then, sinking from his grasp upon the ground, she covered her face with her apron, and wept bitterly. And then, she laughed again, and then she cried again, and then she said how cold she was, and suffered him to lead her to the fire, where she sat down as before. The old man standing, as before, quite still.

"I'm better, John," she said. "I'm quite well now -- I --  -- "

"John!" But John was on the other side of her. Why turn her face towards the strange old gentleman, as if addressing him. Was her brain wandering?

"Only a fancy, John dear -- a kind of shock -- a something coming suddenly before my eyes -- I don't know what it was. It's quite gone, quite gone."

"I'm glad it's gone," muttered Tackleton, turning the expressive eye all round the room. "I wonder where it's gone, and what it was. Humph! Caleb, come here! Who's that with the grey hair?"

"I don't know, sir," returned Caleb in a whisper. "Never see him before in all my life. A beautiful figure for a nut-cracker; quite a new model. With a screw-jaw opening down into his waistcoat, he'd be lovely."

"Not ugly enough," said Tackleton.

"Or for a fire-box either," observed Caleb in deep contemplation, "what a model! Unscrew his head to put the matches in; turn him heels up'ards for the light; and what a fire-box for a gentleman's mantel-shelf, just as he stands!"

"Not half ugly enough," said Tackleton. "Nothing in him at all. Come! Bring that box! All right now, I hope?"

"Oh, quite gone! Quite gone!" said the little woman, waving him hurriedly away. "Good night!"

"Good night!" said Tackleton. "Good night, John Peerybingle! Take care how you carry that box, Caleb. Let it fall, and I'll murder you! Dark as pitch, and weather worse than ever, eh? Good night!"

So, with another sharp look round the room, he went out at the door; followed by Caleb with the wedding-cake on his head.

The Carrier had been so much astounded by his little wife, and so busily engaged in soothing and tending her, that he had scarcely been conscious of the Stranger's presence until now, when he again stood there, their only guest.

"He don't belong to them, you see," said John. "I must give him a hint to go."

"I beg your pardon, friend," said the old gentleman, advancing to him; "the more so as I fear your wife has not been well; but the Attendant whom my infirmity," he touched his ears, and shook his head, "renders almost indispensable, not having arrived, I fear there must be some mistake. The bad night which made the shelter of your comfortable cart (may I never have a worse!) so acceptable, is still as bad as ever. Would you, in your kindness, suffer me to rent a bed here?"

"Yes, yes," cried Dot. "Yes! Certainly!"

"Oh!" said the Carrier, surprised by the rapidity of this consent. "Well! I don't object; but still I'm not quite sure that --  -- "

"Hush!" she interrupted. "Dear John!"

"Why, he's stone deaf," urged John.

"I know he is, but --  -- Yes, sir, certainly. Yes, certainly! I'll make him up a bed directly, John."

As she hurried off to do it, the flutter of her spirits, and the agitation of her manner, were so strange, that the Carrier stood looking after her, quite confounded.

"Did its mothers make it up a Beds, then!" cried Miss Slowboy to the Baby; "and did its hair grow brown and curly when its caps was lifted off, and frighten it, a precious Pets, a sitting by the fires!"

With that unaccountable attraction of the mind to trifles, which is often incidental to a state of doubt and confusion, the Carrier, as he walked slowly to and fro, found himself mentally repeating even these absurd words, many times. So many times, that he got them by heart, and was still conning them over and over, like a lesson, when Tilly, after administering as much friction to the little bald head with her hand as she thought wholesome (according to the practice of nurses), had once more tied the Baby's cap on.

"And frighten it, a precious Pets, a sitting by the fires. What frightened Dot, I wonder?" mused the Carrier, pacing to and fro.

He scouted, from his heart, the insinuations of the toy merchant, and yet they filled him with a vague, indefinite uneasiness. For Tackleton was quick and sly; and he had that painful sense, himself, of being a man of slow perception, that a broken hint was always worrying to him. He certainly had no intention in his mind of linking anything that Tackleton had said with the unusual conduct of his wife, but the two subjects of reflection came into his mind together, and he could not keep them asunder.

The bed was soon made ready; and the visitor, declining all refreshment but a cup of tea, retired. Then, Dot -- quite well again, she said, quite well again -- arranged the great chair in the chimney-corner for her husband; filled his pipe and gave it him; and took her usual little stool beside him on the hearth.

She always would sit on that little stool. I think she must have had a kind of notion that it was a coaxing, wheedling little stool.

She was, out and out, the very best filler of a pipe, I should say, in the four quarters of the globe. To see her put that chubby little finger in the bowl, and then blow down the pipe to clear the tube, and, when she had done so, affect to think that there was really something in the tube, and blow a dozen times, and hold it to her eye like a telescope, with a most provoking twist in her capital little face, as she looked down it, was quite a brilliant thing. As to the tobacco, she was perfect mistress of the subject; and her lighting of the pipe, with a wisp of paper, when the Carrier had it in his mouth -- going so very near his nose, and yet not scorching it -- was Art, high Art.

And the Cricket and the Kettle, turning up again, acknowledged it! The bright fire, blazing up again, acknowledged it! The little Mower on the clock, in his unheeded work, acknowledged it! The Carrier, in his smoothing forehead and expanding face, acknowledged it, the readiest of all.

And as he soberly and thoughtfully puffed at his old pipe, and as the Dutch clock ticked, and as the red fire gleamed, and as the Cricket chirped, that Genius of his Hearth and Home (for such the Cricket was) came out, in fairy shape, into the room, and summoned many forms of Home about him. Dots of all ages and all sizes filled the chamber. Dots who were merry children, running on before him, gathering flowers in the fields; coy Dots, half shrinking from, half yielding to, the pleading of his own rough image; newly-married Dots, alighting at the door, and taking wondering possession of the household keys; motherly little Dots, attended by fictitious Slowboys, bearing babies to be christened; matronly Dots, still young and blooming, watching Dots of daughters, as they danced at rustic balls; fat Dots, encircled and beset by troops of rosy grandchildren; withered Dots, who leaned on sticks, and tottered as they crept along. Old Carriers, too, appeared with blind old Boxers lying at their feet; and newer carts with younger drivers ("Peerybingle Brothers" on the tilt); and sick old Carriers, tended by the gentlest hands; and graves of dead and gone old Carriers, green in the churchyard. And as the Cricket showed him all these things -- he saw them plainly, though his eyes were fixed upon the fire -- the Carrier's heart grew light and happy, and he thanked his Household Gods with all his might, and cared no more for Gruff and Tackleton than you do.

*   *   *   *   *

But what was that young figure of a man, which the same Fairy Cricket set so near Her stool, and which remained there, singly and alone? Why did it linger still, so near her, with its arm upon the chimney-piece, ever repeating "Married! and not to me!"

Oh, Dot! Oh, failing Dot! There is no place for it in all your husband's visions. Why has its shadow fallen on his hearth?



Chirp The Second


Caleb Plummer and his Blind Daughter lived all alone by themselves, as the Story Books say -- and my blessing, with yours, to back it I hope, on the Story Books, for saying anything in this work-a-day world! -- Caleb Plummer and his Blind Daughter lived all alone by themselves, in a little cracked nutshell of a wooden house, which was, in truth, no better than a pimple on the prominent red-brick nose of Gruff and Tackleton. The premises of Gruff and Tackleton were the great feature of the street; but you might have knocked down Caleb Plummer's dwelling with a hammer or two, and carried off the pieces in a cart.

If any one had done the dwelling-house of Caleb Plummer the honour to miss it after such an inroad, it would have been, no doubt, to commend its demolition as a vast improvement. It stuck to the premises of Gruff and Tackleton like a barnacle to a ship's keel, or a snail to a door, or a little bunch of toadstools to the stem of a tree. But it was the germ from which the full-grown trunk of Gruff and Tackleton had sprung; and, under its crazy roof, the Gruff before last had, in a small way, made toys for a generation of old boys and girls, who had played with them, and found them out, and broken them, and gone to sleep.

I have said that Caleb and his poor Blind Daughter lived here. I should have said that Caleb lived here, and his poor Blind Daughter somewhere else -- in an enchanted home of Caleb's furnishing, where scarcity and shabbiness were not, and trouble never entered. Caleb was no sorcerer; but in the only magic art that still remains to us, the magic of devoted, deathless love, Nature had been the mistress of his study; and, from her teaching, all the wonder came.

The Blind Girl never knew that ceilings were discoloured, walls blotched and bare of plaster here and there, high crevices unstopped and widening every day, beams mouldering and tending downward. The Blind Girl never knew that iron was rusting, wood rotting, paper peeling off; the size, and shape, and true proportion of the dwelling, withering away. The Blind Girl never knew that ugly shapes of delf and earthenware were on the board; that sorrow and faint-heartedness were in the house; that Caleb's scanty hairs were turning greyer and more grey before her sightless face. The Blind Girl never knew they had a master, cold, exacting, and uninterested -- never knew that Tackleton was Tackleton, in short; but lived in the belief of an eccentric humorist, who loved to have his jest with them, and who, while he was the Guardian Angel of their lives, disdained to hear one word of thankfulness.

And all was Caleb's doing; all the doing of her simple father! But he, too, had a Cricket on his Hearth; and listening sadly to its music when the motherless Blind Child was very young that Spirit had inspired him with the thought that even her great deprivation might be almost changed into a blessing, and the girl made happy by these little means. For all the Cricket tribe are potent Spirits, even though the people who hold converse with them do not know it (which is frequently the case), and there are not in the unseen world voices more gentle and more true, that may be so implicitly relied on, or that are so certain to give none but tenderest counsel, as the Voices in which the Spirits of the Fireside and the Hearth address themselves to humankind.

Caleb and his daughter were at work together in their usual working-room, which served them for their ordinary living-room as well; and a strange place it was. There were houses in it, finished and unfinished, for Dolls of all stations in life. Suburban tenements for Dolls of moderate means; kitchens and single apartments for Dolls of the lower classes; capital town residences for Dolls of high estate. Some of these establishments were already furnished according to estimate, with a view to the convenience of Dolls of limited income; others could be fitted on the most expensive scale, at a moment's notice, from whole shelves of chairs and tables, sofas, bedsteads, and upholstery. The nobility and gentry and public in general, for whose accommodation these tenements were designed, lay here and there, in baskets, staring straight up at the ceiling; but in denoting their degrees in society, and confining them to their respective stations (which experience shows to be lamentably difficult in real life), the makers of these Dolls had far improved on Nature, who is often froward and perverse; for they, not resting on such arbitrary marks as satin, cotton print, and bits of rag, had superadded striking personal differences which allowed of no mistake. Thus, the Doll-lady of distinction had wax limbs of perfect symmetry; but only she and her compeers. The next grade in the social scale being made of leather, and the next of coarse linen stuff. As to the common people, they had just so many matches out of tinder-boxes for their arms and legs, and there they were -- established in their sphere at once, beyond the possibility of getting out of it.

There were various other samples of his handicraft besides Dolls in Caleb Plummer's room. There were Noah's arks, in which the Birds and Beasts were an uncommonly tight fit, I assure you; though they could be crammed in, anyhow, at the roof, and rattled and shaken into the smallest compass. By a bold poetical licence, most of these Noah's arks had knockers on the doors; inconsistent appendages, perhaps, as suggestive of morning callers and a Postman, yet a pleasant finish to the outside of the building. There were scores of melancholy little carts, which, when the wheels went round, performed most doleful music. Many small fiddles, drums, and other instruments of torture; no end of cannon, shields, swords, spears, and guns. There were little tumblers in red breeches, incessantly swarming up high obstacles of red tape, and coming down, head first, on the other side; and there were innumerable old gentlemen of respectable, not to say venerable appearance, insanely flying over horizontal pegs, inserted, for the purpose, in their own street-doors. There were beasts of all sorts; horses, in particular, of every breed, from the spotted barrel on four pegs with a small tippet for a mane, to the thorough-bred rocker on his highest mettle. As it would have been hard to count the dozens upon dozens of grotesque figures that were ever ready to commit all sorts of absurdities on the turning of a handle, so it would have been no easy task to mention any human folly, vice, or weakness that had not its type, immediate or remote, in Caleb Plummer's room. And not in an exaggerated form, for very little handles will move men and women to as strange performances as any Toy was ever made to undertake.

In the midst of all these objects, Caleb and his daughter sat at work. The Blind Girl busy as a Doll's dressmaker; Caleb painting and glazing the four-pair front of a desirable family mansion.

The care imprinted in the lines of Caleb's face, and his absorbed and dreamy manner, which would have sat well on some alchemist or abstruse student, were at first sight an odd contrast to his occupation and the trivialities about him. But trivial things, invented and pursued for bread, become very serious matters of fact: and, apart from this consideration, I am not at all prepared to say, myself, that if Caleb had been a Lord Chamberlain, or a Member of Parliament, or a lawyer, or even a great speculator, he would have dealt in toys one whit less whimsical, while I have a very great doubt whether they would have been as harmless.

"So you were out in the rain last night, father, in your beautiful new great-coat," said Caleb's daughter.

"In my beautiful new great-coat," answered Caleb, glancing towards a clothes-line in the room, on which the sackcloth garment previously described was carefully hung up to dry.

"How glad I am you bought it, father!"

"And of such a tailor too," said Caleb. "Quite a fashionable tailor. It's too good for me."

The Blind Girl rested from her work, and laughed with delight. "Too good, father! What can be too good for you?"

"I'm half ashamed to wear it, though," said Caleb, watching the effect of what he said upon her brightening face, "upon my word! When I hear the boys and people say behind me, 'Halloa! Here's a swell!' I don't know which way to look. And when the beggar wouldn't go away last night; and, when I said I was a very common man, said, 'No, your Honour! Bless your Honour, don't say that!' I was quite ashamed. I really felt as if I hadn't a right to wear it."

Happy Blind Girl! How merry she was in her exultation!

"I see you, father," she said, clasping her hands, "as plainly as if I had the eyes I never want when you are with me. A blue coat --  -- "

"Bright blue," said Caleb.

"Yes, yes! Bright blue!" exclaimed the girl, turning up her radiant face; "the colour I can just remember in the blessed sky! You told me it was blue before! A bright blue coat --  -- "

"Made loose to the figure," suggested Caleb.

"Yes! loose to the figure!" cried the Blind Girl, laughing heartily; "and in it, you, dear father, with your merry eye, your smiling face, your free step, and your dark hair -- looking so young and handsome!"

"Halloa! Halloa!" said Caleb. "I shall be vain presently!"

"I think you are already," cried the Blind Girl, pointing at him in her glee. "I know you, father! Ha, ha, ha! I've found you out, you see!"

How different the picture in her mind, from Caleb, as he sat observing her! She had spoken of his free step. She was right in that. For years and years he had never once crossed that threshold at his own slow pace, but with a footfall counterfeited for her ear; and never had he, when his heart was heaviest, forgotten the light tread that was to render hers so cheerful and courageous!

Heaven knows! But I think Caleb's vague bewilderment of manner may have half originated in his having confused himself about himself and everything around him, for the love of his Blind Daughter. How could the little man be otherwise than bewildered, after labouring for so many years to destroy his own identity, and that of all the objects that had any bearing on it?

"There we are," said Caleb, falling back a pace or two to form the better judgment of his work; "as near the real thing as sixpenn'orth of halfpence is to sixpence. What a pity that the whole front of the house opens at once! If there was only a staircase in it now, and regular doors to the rooms to go in at! But that's the worst of my calling, I'm always deluding myself, and swindling myself."

"You are speaking quite softly. You are not tired, father?"

"Tired!" echoed Caleb with a great burst of animation. "What should tire me, Bertha? I was never tired. What does it mean?"

To give the greater force to his words, he checked himself in an involuntary imitation of two half-length stretching and yawning figures on the mantel-shelf, who were represented as in one eternal state of weariness from the waist upwards; and hummed a fragment of a song. It was a Bacchanalian song, something about a Sparkling Bowl. He sang it with an assumption of a Devil-may-care voice, that made his face a thousand times more meagre and more thoughtful than ever.

"What! You're singing, are you?" said Tackleton, putting his head in at the door. "Go it! I can't sing."

Nobody would have suspected him of it. He hadn't what is generally termed a singing face, by any means.

"I can't afford to sing," said Tackleton. "I'm glad you can. I hope you can afford to work too. Hardly time for both, I should think?"

"If you could only see him, Bertha, how he's winking at me!" whispered Caleb. "Such a man to joke! You'd think, if you didn't know him, he was in earnest -- wouldn't you now?"

The Blind Girl smiled and nodded.

"The bird that can sing and won't sing must be made to sing, they say," grumbled Tackleton. "What about the owl that can't sing, and oughtn't to sing, and will sing; is there anything that he should be made to do?"

"The extent to which he's winking at this moment!" whispered Caleb to his daughter. "Oh, my gracious!"

"Always merry and light-hearted with us!" cried the smiling Bertha.

"Oh! you're there, are you?" answered Tackleton. "Poor Idiot!"

He really did believe she was an Idiot; and he founded the belief, I can't say whether consciously or not, upon her being fond of him.

"Well! and being there, -- how are you?" said Tackleton in his grudging way.

"Oh! well; quite well! And as happy as even you can wish me to be. As happy as you would make the whole world, if you could!"

"Poor Idiot!" muttered Tackleton. "No gleam of reason. Not a gleam!"

The Blind Girl took his hand and kissed it; held it for a moment in her own two hands; and laid her cheek against it tenderly before releasing it. There was such unspeakable affection and such fervent gratitude in the act, that Tackleton himself was moved to say, in a milder growl than usual:

"What's the matter now?"

"I stood it close beside my pillow when I went to sleep last night, and remembered it in my dreams. And when the day broke, and the glorious red sun -- the red sun, father?"

"Red in the mornings and the evenings, Bertha," said poor Caleb with a woeful glance at his employer.

"When it rose, and the bright light I almost fear to strike myself against in walking, came into the room, I turned the little tree towards it, and blessed Heaven for making things so precious, and blessed you for sending them to cheer me!"

"Bedlam broke loose!" said Tackleton under his breath. "We shall arrive at the strait-waistcoat and mufflers soon. We're getting on!"

Caleb, with his hands hooked loosely in each other, stared vacantly before him while his daughter spoke, as if he really were uncertain (I believe he was) whether Tackleton had done anything to deserve her thanks or not. If he could have been a perfectly free agent at that moment, required, on pain of death, to kick the toy merchant, or fall at his feet, according to his merits, I believe it would have been an even chance which course he would have taken. Yet Caleb knew that with his own hands he had brought the little rose-tree home for her so carefully, and that with his own lips he had forged the innocent deception which should help to keep her from suspecting how much, how very much, he every day denied himself, that she might be happier.

"Bertha!" said Tackleton, assuming, for the nonce, a little cordiality. "Come here."

"Oh, I can come straight to you! You needn't guide me!" she rejoined.

"Shall I tell you a secret, Bertha?"

"If you will!" she answered eagerly.

How bright the darkened face! How adorned with light the listening head!

"This is the day on which little what's-her-name, the spoilt child, Peerybingle's wife, pays her regular visit to you -- makes her fantastic Picnic here, an't it?" said Tackleton with a strong expression of distaste for the whole concern.

"Yes," replied Bertha. "This is the day."

"I thought so," said Tackleton. "I should like to join the party."

"Do you hear that, father?" cried the Blind Girl in an ecstasy.

"Yes, yes, I hear it," murmured Caleb with the fixed look of a sleep-walker; "but I don't believe it. It's one of my lies, I've no doubt."

"You see I -- I want to bring the Peerybingles a little more into company with May Fielding," said Tackleton. "I'm going to be married to May."

"Married!" cried the Blind Girl, starting from him.

"She's such a con-founded idiot," muttered Tackleton, "that I was afraid she'd never comprehend me. Ah, Bertha! Married! Church, parson, clerk, beadle, glass coach, bells, breakfast, bridecake, favours, marrow-bones, cleavers, and all the rest of the tomfoolery. A wedding, you know; a wedding. Don't you know what a wedding is?"

"I know," replied the Blind Girl in a gentle tone. "I understand!"

"Do you?" muttered Tackleton. "It's more than I expected. Well! On that account I want to join the party, and to bring May and her mother. I'll send in a little something or other, before the afternoon. A cold leg of mutton, or some comfortable trifle of that sort. You'll expect me?"

"Yes," she answered.

She had drooped her head, and turned away; and so stood, with her hands crossed, musing.

"I don't think you will," muttered Tackleton, looking at her; "for you seem to have forgotten all about it already. Caleb!"

"I may venture to say I'm here, I suppose," thought Caleb. "Sir!"

"Take care she don't forget what I've been saying to her."

"She never forgets," returned Caleb. "It's one of the few things she an't clever in."

"Every man thinks his own geese swans," observed the toy merchant with a shrug. "Poor devil!"

Having delivered himself of which remark with infinite contempt, old Gruff and Tackleton withdrew.

Bertha remained where he had left her, lost in meditation. The gaiety had vanished from her downcast face, and it was very sad. Three or four times she shook her head, as if bewailing some remembrance or some loss; but her sorrowful reflections found no vent in words.

It was not until Caleb had been occupied some time in yoking a team of horses to a waggon by the summary process of nailing the harness to the vital parts of their bodies, that she drew near to his working-stool, and, sitting down beside him, said:

"Father, I am lonely in the dark. I want my eyes, my patient, willing eyes."

"Here they are," said Caleb. "Always ready. They are more yours than mine, Bertha, any hour in the four-and-twenty. What shall your eyes do for you, dear?"

"Look round the room, father."

"All right," said Caleb. "No sooner said than done, Bertha."

"Tell me about it."

"It's much the same as usual," said Caleb. "Homely, but very snug. The gay colours on the walls; the bright flowers on the plates and dishes; the shining wood, where there are beams or panels; the general cheerfulness and neatness of the building, -- make it very pretty."

Cheerful and neat it was, wherever Bertha's hands could busy themselves. But nowhere else were cheerfulness and neatness possible in the old crazy shed which Caleb's fancy so transformed.

"You have your working dress on, and are not so gallant as when you wear the handsome coat?" said Bertha, touching him.

"Not quite so gallant," answered Caleb. "Pretty brisk, though."

"Father," said the Blind Girl, drawing close to his side, and stealing one arm round his neck, "tell me something about May. She is very fair?"

"She is indeed," said Caleb. And she was indeed. It was quite a rare thing to Caleb not to have to draw on his invention.

"Her hair is dark," said Bertha pensively, "darker than mine. Her voice is sweet and musical, I know. I have often loved to hear it. Her shape --  -- "

"There's not a Doll's in all the room to equal it," said Caleb. "And her eyes! --  -- "

He stopped; for Bertha had drawn closer round his neck, and, from the arm that clung about him, came a warning pressure which he understood too well.

He coughed a moment, hammered for a moment, and then fell back upon the song about the sparkling bowl, his infallible resource in all such difficulties.

"Our friend, father, our benefactor. I am never tired, you know, of hearing about him. -- Now, was I ever?" she said hastily.

"Of course not," answered Caleb, "and with reason."

"Ah! With how much reason!" cried the Blind Girl. With such fervency, that Caleb, though his motives were so pure, could not endure to meet her face; but dropped his eyes, as if she could have read in them his innocent deceit.

"Then tell me again about him, dear father," said Bertha. "Many times again! His face is benevolent, kind, and tender. Honest and true, I am sure it is. The manly heart that tries to cloak all favours with a show of roughness and unwillingness, beats in its every look and glance."

"And makes it noble," added Caleb in his quiet desperation.

"And makes it noble," cried the Blind Girl. "He is older than May, father."

"Ye-es," said Caleb reluctantly. "He's a little older than May. But that don't signify."

"Oh, father, yes! To be his patient companion in infirmity and age; to be his gentle nurse in sickness, and his constant friend in suffering and sorrow; to know no weariness in working for his sake; to watch him, tend him, sit beside his bed and talk to him awake, and pray for him asleep; what privileges these would be! What opportunities for proving all her truth and her devotion to him! Would she do all this, dear father?"

"No doubt of it," said Caleb.

"I love her, father; I can love her from my soul!" exclaimed the Blind Girl. And, saying so, she laid her poor blind face on Caleb's shoulder, and so wept and wept, that he was almost sorry to have brought that tearful happiness upon her.

In the meantime there had been a pretty sharp commotion at John Peerybingle's, for little Mrs. Peerybingle naturally couldn't think of going anywhere without the Baby; and to get the Baby under way took time. Not that there was much of the Baby, speaking of it as a thing of weight and measure, but there was a vast deal to do about and about it, and it all had to be done by easy stages. For instance, when the Baby was got, by hook and by crook, to a certain point of dressing, and you might have rationally supposed that another touch or two would finish him off, and turn him out a tiptop Baby challenging the world, he was unexpectedly extinguished in a flannel cap, and hustled off to bed; where he simmered (so to speak) between two blankets for the best part of an hour. From this state of inaction he was then recalled, shining very much and roaring violently, to partake of -- well? I would rather say, if you'll permit me to speak generally -- of a slight repast. After which he went to sleep again. Mrs. Peerybingle took advantage of this interval, to make herself as smart in a small way as ever you saw anybody in all your life; and, during the same short truce, Miss Slowboy insinuated herself into a spencer of a fashion so surprising and ingenious, that it had no connection with herself, or anything else in the universe, but was a shrunken, dog's-eared, independent fact, pursuing its lonely course without the least regard to anybody. By this time, the Baby, being all alive again, was invested, by the united efforts of Mrs. Peerybingle and Miss Slowboy, with a cream-coloured mantle for its body, and a sort of nankeen raised pie for its head; and so, in course of time, they all three got down to the door, where the old horse had already taken more than the full value of his day's toll out of the Turnpike Trust, by tearing up the road with his impatient autographs; and whence Boxer might be dimly seen in the remote perspective, standing looking back, and tempting him to come on without orders.

As to a chair, or anything of that kind for helping Mrs. Peerybingle into the cart, you know very little of John, if you think that was necessary. Before you could have seen him lift her from the ground, there she was in her place, fresh and rosy, saying, "John! How can you? Think of Tilly!"

If I might be allowed to mention a young lady's legs on any terms, I would observe of Miss Slowboy's that there was a fatality about them which rendered them singularly liable to be grazed; and that she never effected the smallest ascent or descent without recording the circumstance upon them with a notch, as Robinson Crusoe marked the days upon his wooden calendar. But, as this might be considered ungenteel, I'll think of it.

"John! You've got the basket with the Veal and Ham Pie and things, and the bottles of Beer?" said Dot. "If you haven't you must turn round again this very minute."

"You're a nice little article," returned the Carrier, "to be talking about turning round, after keeping me a full quarter of an hour behind my time."

"I am sorry for it, John," said Dot in a great bustle, "but I really could not think of going to Bertha's -- I would not do it, John, on any account -- without the Veal and Ham Pie and things, and the bottles of Beer. Way!"

This monosyllable was addressed to the horse, who didn't mind it at all.

"Oh, do way, John!" said Mrs. Peerybingle. "Please!"

"It'll be time enough to do that," returned John, "when I begin to leave things behind me. The basket's safe enough."

"What a hard-hearted monster you must be, John, not to have said so at once, and save me such a turn! I declare I wouldn't go to Bertha's without the Veal and Ham Pie and things, and the bottles of Beer, for any money. Regularly once a fortnight ever since we have been married, John, have we made our little Picnic there. If anything was to go wrong with it, I should almost think we were never to be lucky again."

"It was a kind thought in the first instance," said the Carrier; "and I honour you for it, little woman."

"My dear John!" replied Dot, turning very red. "Don't talk about honouring me. Good gracious!"

"By-the-bye" -- observed the Carrier -- "that old gentleman --  -- "

Again so visibly and instantly embarrassed!

"He's an odd fish," said the Carrier, looking straight along the road before them. "I can't make him out. I don't believe there's any harm in him."

"None at all. I'm -- I'm sure there's none at all."

"Yes," said the Carrier, with his eyes attracted to her face by the great earnestness of her manner. "I am glad you feel so certain of it, because it's a confirmation to me. It's curious that he should have taken it into his head to ask leave to go on lodging with us; an't it? Things come about so strangely."

"So very strangely," she rejoined in a low voice, scarcely audible.

"However, he's a good-natured old gentleman," said John, "and pays as a gentleman, and I think his word is to be relied upon, like a gentleman's. I had quite a long talk with him this morning: he can hear me better already, he says, as he gets more used to my voice. He told me a great deal about himself, and I told him a good deal about myself, and a rare lot of questions he asked me. I gave him information about my having two beats, you know, in my business; one day to the right from our house and back again; another day to the left from our house and back again (for he's a stranger, and don't know the names of places about here); and he seemed quite pleased. 'Why, then I shall be returning home to-night your way,' he says, 'when I thought you'd be coming in an exactly opposite direction. That's capital! I may trouble you for another lift, perhaps, but I'll engage not to fall so sound asleep again.' He was sound asleep, sure-ly! -- Dot! what are you thinking of?"

"Thinking of, John? I -- I was listening to you."

"Oh! That's all right!" said the honest Carrier. "I was afraid, from the look of your face, that I had gone rambling on so long as to set you thinking about something else. I was very near it, I'll be bound."

Dot making no reply, they jogged on, for some little time, in silence. But, it was not easy to remain silent very long in John Peerybingle's cart, for everybody on the road had something to say. Though it might only be "How are you?" and, indeed, it was very often nothing else, still, to give that back again in the right spirit of cordiality, required, not merely a nod and a smile, but as wholesome an action of the lungs withal as a long-winded Parliamentary speech. Sometimes, passengers on foot, or horseback, plodded on a little way beside the cart, for the express purpose of having a chat; and then there was a great deal to be said on both sides.

Then, Boxer gave occasion to more good-natured recognitions of, and by, the Carrier, than half-a-dozen Christians could have done! Everybody knew him all along the road -- especially the fowls and pigs, who, when they saw him approaching, with his body all on one side, and his ears pricked up inquisitively, and that knob of a tail making the most of itself in the air, immediately withdrew into remote back-settlements, without waiting for the honour of a nearer acquaintance. He had business elsewhere; going down all the turnings, looking into all the wells, bolting in and out of all the cottages, dashing into the midst of all the Dame Schools, fluttering all the pigeons, magnifying the tails of all the cats, and trotting into the public-houses like a regular customer. Wherever he went, somebody or other might have been heard to cry, "Halloa! here's Boxer!" and out came that somebody forthwith, accompanied by at least two or three other somebodies, to give John Peerybingle and his pretty wife Good day.

The packages and parcels for the errand cart were numerous; and there were many stoppages to take them in and give them out, which were not by any means the worst parts of the journey. Some people were so full of expectation about their parcels, and other people were so full of wonder about their parcels, and other people were so full of inexhaustible directions about their parcels, and John had such a lively interest in all the parcels, that it was as good as a play. Likewise, there were articles to carry, which required to be considered and discussed, and in reference to the adjustment and disposition of which councils had to be holden by the Carrier and the senders: at which Boxer usually assisted, in short fits of the closest attention, and long fits of tearing round and round the assembled sages, and barking himself hoarse. Of all these little incidents, Dot was the amused and open-eyed spectatress from her chair in the cart; and as she sat there, looking on -- a charming little portrait framed to admiration by the tilt -- there was no lack of nudgings and glancings and whisperings and envyings among the younger men. And this delighted John the Carrier beyond measure; for he was proud to have his little wife admired, knowing that she didn't mind it -- that, if anything, she rather liked it perhaps.

The trip was a little foggy, to be sure, in the January weather; and was raw and cold. But who cared for such trifles? Not Dot, decidedly. Not Tilly Slowboy, for she deemed sitting in a cart, on any terms, to be the highest point of human joys; the crowning circumstance of earthly hope. Not the Baby, I'll be sworn; for it's not in Baby nature to be warmer or more sound asleep, though its capacity is great in both respects, than that blessed young Peerybingle was, all the way.

You couldn't see very far in the fog, of course; but you could see a great deal! It's astonishing how much you may see in a thicker fog than that, if you will only take the trouble to look for it. Why, even to sit watching for the Fairyrings in the fields, and for the patches of hoar frost still lingering in the shade, near hedges and by trees, was a pleasant occupation, to make no mention of the unexpected shapes in which the trees themselves came starting out of the mist, and glided into it again. The hedges were tangled and bare, and waved a multitude of blighted garlands in the wind; but there was no discouragement in this. It was agreeable to contemplate; for it made the fireside warmer in possession, and the summer greener in expectancy. The river looked chilly; but it was in motion, and moving at a good pace -- which was a great point. The canal was rather slow and torpid; that must be admitted. Never mind. It would freeze the sooner when the frost set fairly in, and then there would be skating and sliding; and the heavy old barges, frozen up somewhere near a wharf, would smoke their rusty iron chimney-pipes all day, and have a lazy time of it.

In one place there was a great mound of weeds or stubble burning; and they watched the fire, so white in the daytime, flaring through the fog, with only here and there a dash of red in it, until, in consequence, as she observed, of the smoke "getting up her nose," Miss Slowboy choked -- she could do anything of that sort, on the smallest provocation -- and woke the Baby, who wouldn't go to sleep again. But Boxer, who was in advance some quarter of a mile or so, had already passed the outposts of the town, and gained the corner of the street where Caleb and his daughter lived; and, long before they had reached the door, he and the Blind Girl were on the pavement waiting to receive them.

Boxer, by the way, made certain delicate distinctions of his own, in his communication with Bertha, which persuade me fully that he knew her to be blind. He never sought to attract her attention by looking at her, as he often did with other people, but touched her invariably. What experience he could ever have had of blind people or blind dogs I don't know. He had never lived with a blind master; nor had Mr. Boxer the elder, nor Mrs. Boxer, nor any of his respectable family on either side, ever been visited with blindness, that I am aware of. He may have found it out for himself, perhaps, but he had got hold of it somehow; and therefore he had hold of Bertha too, by the skirt, and kept hold, until Mrs. Peerybingle and the Baby, and Miss Slowboy and the basket, were all got safely within doors.

May Fielding was already come; and so was her mother -- a little querulous chip of an old lady with a peevish face, who, in right of having preserved a waist like a bedpost, was supposed to be a most transcendent figure; and who, in consequence of having once been better off, or of labouring under an impression that she might have been, if something had happened which never did happen, and seemed to have never been particularly likely to come to pass -- but it's all the same -- was very genteel and patronising indeed. Gruff and Tackleton was also there, doing the agreeable, with the evident sensation of being as perfectly at home, and as unquestionably in his own element, as a fresh young salmon on the top of the Great Pyramid.

"May! My dear old friend!" cried Dot, running up to meet her. "What a happiness to see you!"

Her old friend was, to the full, as hearty and as glad as she; and it really was, if you'll believe me, quite a pleasant sight to see them embrace. Tackleton was a man of taste, beyond all question. May was very pretty.

You know sometimes, when you are used to a pretty face, how, when it comes into contact and comparison with another pretty face, it seems for the moment to be homely and faded, and hardly to deserve the high opinion you have had of it. Now, this was not at all the case, either with Dot or May; for May's face set off Dot's, and Dot's face set off May's, so naturally and agreeably, that, as John Peerybingle was very near saying when he came into the room, they ought to have been born sisters -- which was the only improvement you could have suggested.

Tackleton had brought his leg of mutton, and, wonderful to relate, a tart besides -- but we don't mind a little dissipation when our brides are in the case; we don't get married every day -- and, in addition to these dainties, there were the Veal and Ham Pie, and "things," as Mrs. Peerybingle called them; which were chiefly nuts and oranges, and cakes, and such small deer. When the repast was set forth on the board, flanked by Caleb's contribution, which was a great wooden bowl of smoking potatoes (he was prohibited, by solemn compact, from producing any other viands), Tackleton led his intended mother-in-law to the post of honour. For the better gracing of this place at the high festival, the majestic old soul had adorned herself with a cap, calculated to inspire the thoughtless with sentiments of awe. She also wore her gloves. But let us be genteel, or die!

Caleb sat next his daughter; Dot and her old schoolfellow were side by side; the good Carrier took care of the bottom of the table. Miss Slowboy was isolated, for the time being, from every article of furniture but the chair she sat on, that she might have nothing else to knock the Baby's head against.

As Tilly stared about her at the dolls and toys, they stared at her and at the company. The venerable old gentlemen at the street-doors (who were all in full action) showed especial interest in the party, pausing occasionally before leaping, as if they were listening to the conversation, and then plunging wildly over and over, a great many times, without halting for breath -- as in a frantic state of delight with the whole proceedings.

Certainly, if these old gentlemen were inclined to have a fiendish joy in the contemplation of Tackleton's discomfiture, they had good reason to be satisfied. Tackleton couldn't get on at all; and the more cheerful his intended bride became in Dot's society, the less he liked it, though he had brought them together for that purpose. For he was a regular dog in the manger, was Tackleton; and, when they laughed and he couldn't, he took it into his head, immediately, that they must be laughing at him.

"Ah, May!" said Dot. "Dear, dear, what changes! To talk of those merry school days makes one young again."

"Why, you an't particularly old at any time, are you?" said Tackleton.

"Look at my sober, plodding husband there," returned Dot. "He adds twenty years to my age at least. Don't you, John?"

"Forty," John replied.

"How many you'll add to Mary's, I am sure I don't know," said Dot, laughing. "But she can't be much less than a hundred years of age on her next birthday."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Tackleton. Hollow as a drum that laugh, though. And he looked as if he could have twisted Dot's neck comfortably.

"Dear, dear!" said Dot. "Only to remember how we used to talk, at school, about the husbands we would choose. I don't know how young, and how handsome, and how gay, and how lively mine was not to be! And as to May's! -- Ah dear! I don't know whether to laugh or cry, when I think what silly girls we were."

May seemed to know which to do; for the colour flashed into her face, and tears stood in her eyes.

"Even the very persons themselves -- real live young men -- we fixed on sometimes," said Dot. "We little thought how things would come about. I never fixed on John, I'm sure; I never so much as thought of him. And, if I had told you you were ever to be married to Mr. Tackleton, why, you'd have slapped me. Wouldn't you, May?"

Though May didn't say yes, she certainly didn't say no, or express no, by any means.

Tackleton laughed -- quite shouted, he laughed so loud. John Peerybingle laughed too, in his ordinary good-natured and contented manner; but his was a mere whisper of a laugh to Tackleton's.

"You couldn't help yourselves, for all that. You couldn't resist us, you see," said Tackleton. "Here we are! Here we are! Where are your gay young bridegrooms now?"

"Some of them are dead," said Dot; "and some of them forgotten. Some of them, if they could stand among us at this moment, would not believe we were the same creatures; would not believe that what they saw and heard was real, and we could forget them so. No! they would not believe one word of it!"

"Why, Dot!" exclaimed the Carrier. "Little woman!"

She had spoken with such earnestness and fire, that she stood in need of some recalling to herself, without doubt. Her husband's check was very gentle, for he merely interfered, as he supposed, to shield old Tackleton; but it proved effectual, for she stopped, and said no more. There was an uncommon agitation, even in her silence, which the wary Tackleton, who had brought his half-shut eye to bear upon her, noted closely, and remembered to some purpose too.

May uttered no word, good or bad, but sat quite still, with her eyes cast down, and made no sign of interest in what had passed. The good lady her mother now interposed, observing, in the first instance, that girls were girls, and bygones bygones, and that, so long as young people were young and thoughtless, they would probably conduct themselves like young and thoughtless persons: with two or three other positions of a no less sound and incontrovertible character. She then remarked, in a devout spirit, that she thanked Heaven she had always found in her daughter May a dutiful and obedient child: for which she took no credit to herself, though she had every reason to believe it was entirely owing to herself. With regard to Mr. Tackleton, she said, That he was in a moral point of view an undeniable individual, and That he was in an eligible point of view a son-in-law to be desired, no one in their senses could doubt. (She was very emphatic here.) With regard to the family into which he was so soon about, after some solicitation, to be admitted, she believed Mr. Tackleton knew that, although reduced in purse, it had some pretensions to gentility; and that if certain circumstances, not wholly unconnected, she would go so far as to say, with the Indigo Trade, but to which she would not more particularly refer, had happened differently, it might perhaps have been in possession of wealth. She then remarked that she would not allude to the past, and would not mention that her daughter had for some time rejected the suit of Mr. Tackleton; and that she would not say a great many other things which she did say at great length. Finally, she delivered it as the general result of her observation and experience, that those marriages in which there was least of what was romantically and sillily called love, were always the happiest; and that she anticipated the greatest possible amount of bliss -- not rapturous bliss; but the solid, steady-going article -- from the approaching nuptials. She concluded by informing the company that to-morrow was the day she had lived for expressly; and that, when it was over, she would desire nothing better than to be packed up and disposed of in any genteel place of burial.

As these remarks were quite unanswerable -- which is the happy property of all remarks that are sufficiently wide of the purpose -- they changed the current of the conversation, and diverted the general attention to the Veal and Ham Pie, the cold mutton, the potatoes, and the tart. In order that the bottled beer might not be slighted, John Peerybingle proposed To-morrow: the Wedding-day; and called upon them to drink a bumper to it, before he proceeded on his journey.

For you ought to know that he only rested there, and gave the old horse a bait. He had to go some four or five miles farther on; and, when he returned in the evening, he called for Dot, and took another rest on his way home. This was the order of the day on all the Picnic occasions, and had been ever since their institution.

There were two persons present, besides the bride and bridegroom elect, who did but indifferent honour to the toast. One of these was Dot, too flushed and discomposed to adapt herself to any small occurrence of the moment; the other, Bertha, who rose up hurriedly before the rest, and left the table.

"Good-bye!" said stout John Peerybingle, pulling on his dreadnought coat. "I shall be back at the old time. Good-bye all!"

"Good-bye, John," returned Caleb.

He seemed to say it by rote, and to wave his hand in the same unconscious manner; for he stood observing Bertha with an anxious wondering face, that never altered its expression.

"Good-bye, young shaver!" said the jolly Carrier, bending down to kiss the child; which Tilly Slowboy, now intent upon her knife and fork, had deposited asleep (and, strange to say, without damage) in a little cot of Bertha's furnishing; "good-bye! Time will come, I suppose, when you'll turn out into the cold, my little friend, and leave your old father to enjoy his pipe and his rheumatics in the chimney-corner; eh? Where's Dot?"

"I'm here, John!" she said, starting.

"Come, come!" returned the Carrier, clapping his sounding hands. "Where's the pipe?"

"I quite forgot the pipe, John."

Forgot the pipe! Was such a wonder ever heard of? She! Forgot the pipe!

"I'll -- I'll fill it directly. It's soon done."

But it was not so soon done, either. It lay in the usual place -- the Carrier's dreadnought pocket -- with the little pouch, her own work, from which she was used to fill it; but her hand shook so, that she entangled it (and yet her hand was small enough to have come out easily, I am sure), and bungled terribly. The filling of the pipe and lighting it, those little offices in which I have commended her discretion, were vilely done from first to last. During the whole process, Tackleton stood looking on maliciously with the half-closed eye; which, whenever it met hers -- or caught it, for it can hardly be said to have ever met another eye: rather being a kind of trap to snatch it up -- augmented her confusion in a most remarkable degree.

"Why, what a clumsy Dot you are this afternoon!" said John. "I could have done it better myself, I verily believe!"

With these good-natured words, he strode away, and presently was heard, in company with Boxer, and the old horse, and the cart, making lively music down the road. What time the dreamy Caleb still stood, watching his blind daughter, with the same expression on his face.

"Bertha!" said Caleb, softly. "What has happened? How changed you are, my darling, in a few hours -- since this morning! You silent and dull all day! What is it? Tell me!"

"Oh, father, father!" cried the Blind Girl, bursting into tears. "Oh, my hard, hard fate!"

Caleb drew his hand across his eyes before he answered her.

"But think how cheerful and how happy you have been, Bertha! How good, and how much loved, by many people."

"That strikes me to the heart, dear father! Always so mindful of me! Always so kind to me!"

Caleb was very much perplexed to understand her.

"To be -- to be blind, Bertha, my poor dear," he faltered, "is a great affliction; but --  -- "

"I have never felt it!" cried the Blind Girl. "I have never felt it in its fulness. Never! I have sometimes wished that I could see you, or could see him -- only once, dear father, only for one little minute -- that I might know what it is I treasure up," she laid her hands upon her breast, "and hold here! That I might be sure I have it right! And sometimes (but then I was a child) I have wept in my prayers at night, to think that, when your images ascended from my heart to Heaven, they might not be the true resemblance of yourselves. But I have never had these feelings long. They have passed away, and left me tranquil and contented."

"And they will again," said Caleb.

"But, father! Oh, my good gentle father, bear with me, if I am wicked!" said the Blind Girl. "This is not the sorrow that so weighs me down!"

Her father could not choose but let his moist eyes overflow; she was so earnest and pathetic. But he did not understand her yet.

"Bring her to me," said Bertha. "I cannot hold it closed and shut within myself. Bring her to me, father!"

She knew he hesitated, and said, "May. Bring May!"

May heard the mention of her name, and, coming quietly towards her, touched her on the arm. The Blind Girl turned immediately, and held her by both hands.

"Look into my face, Dear heart, Sweet heart!" said Bertha. "Read it with your beautiful eyes, and tell me if the truth is written on it."

"Dear Bertha, yes!"

The Blind Girl, still upturning the blank sightless face, down which the tears were coursing fast, addressed her in these words:

"There is not, in my soul, a wish or thought that is not for your good, bright May! There is not, in my soul, a grateful recollection stronger than the deep remembrance which is stored there of the many many times when, in the full pride of sight and beauty, you have had consideration for Blind Bertha, even when we two were children, or when Bertha was as much a child as ever blindness can be! Every blessing on your head! Light upon your happy course! Not the less, my dear May," -- and she drew towards her in a closer grasp, -- "not the less, my bird, because, to-day, the knowledge that you are to be His wife has wrung my heart almost to breaking! Father, May, Mary! Oh, forgive me that it is so, for the sake of all he has done to relieve the weariness of my dark life: and for the sake of the belief you have in me, when I call Heaven to witness that I could not wish him married to a wife more worthy of his goodness!"

While speaking, she had released May Fielding's hands, and clasped her garments in an attitude of mingled supplication and love. Sinking lower and lower down, as she proceeded in her strange confession, she dropped at last at the feet of her friend, and hid her blind face in the folds of her dress.

"Great Power!" exclaimed her father, smitten at one blow with the truth, "have I deceived her from her cradle, but to break her heart at last?"

It was well for all of them that Dot, that beaming, useful, busy little Dot -- for such she was, whatever faults she had, and however you may learn to hate her, in good time -- it was well for all of them, I say, that she was there, or where this would have ended, it were hard to tell. But Dot, recovering her self-possession, interposed, before May could reply, or Caleb say another word.

"Come, come, dear Bertha! come away with me! Give her your arm, May! So. How composed she is, you see, already; and how good it is of her to mind us," said the cheery little woman, kissing her upon the forehead. "Come away, dear Bertha! Come! and here's her good father will come with her, won't you, Caleb? To -- be -- sure!"

Well, well! she was a noble little Dot in such things, and it must have been an obdurate nature that could have withstood her influence. When she had got poor Caleb and his Bertha away, that they might comfort and console each other, as she knew they only could, she presently came bouncing back, -- the saying is, as fresh as any daisy; I say fresher -- to mount guard over that bridling little piece of consequence in the cap and gloves, and prevent the dear old creature from making discoveries.

"So bring me the precious Baby, Tilly," said she, drawing a chair to the fire; "and while I have it in my lap, here's Mrs. Fielding, Tilly, will tell me all about the management of Babies, and put me right in twenty points where I'm as wrong as can be. Won't you, Mrs. Fielding?"

Not even the Welsh Giant, who, according to the popular expression, was so "slow" as to perform a fatal surgical operation upon himself, in emulation of a juggling trick achieved by his arch enemy at breakfast-time; not even he fell half so readily into the snare prepared for him as the old lady into this artful pitfall. The fact of Tackleton having walked out; and furthermore, of two or three people having been talking together at a distance, for two minutes, leaving her to her own resources; was quite enough to have put her on her dignity, and the bewailment of that mysterious convulsion in the Indigo Trade, for four-and-twenty hours. But this becoming deference to her experience, on the part of the young mother, was so irresistible, that after a short affectation of humility, she began to enlighten her with the best grace in the world; and, sitting bolt upright before the wicked Dot, she did, in half an hour, deliver more infallible domestic recipes and precepts than would (if acted on) have utterly destroyed and done up that Young Peerybingle, though he had been an Infant Samson.

To change the theme, Dot did a little needlework -- she carried the contents of a whole workbox in her pocket; however she contrived it, I don't know -- then did a little nursing; then a little more needlework; then had a little whispering chat with May, while the old lady dozed; and so in little bits of bustle, which was quite her manner always, found it a very short afternoon. Then, as it grew dark, and as it was a solemn part of this Institution of the Picnic that she should perform all Bertha's household tasks, she trimmed the fire, and swept the hearth, and set the tea-board out, and drew the curtain, and lighted a candle. Then she played an air or two on a rude kind of harp, which Caleb had contrived for Bertha, and played them very well; for Nature had made her delicate little ear as choice a one for music as it would have been for jewels, if she had had any to wear. By this time it was the established hour for having tea; and Tackleton came back again to share the meal, and spend the evening.

Caleb and Bertha had returned some time before, and Caleb had sat down to his afternoon's work. But he couldn't settle to it, poor fellow, being anxious and remorseful for his daughter. It was touching to see him sitting idle on his working stool, regarding her so wistfully, and always saying in his face, "Have I deceived her from her cradle, but to break her heart?"

When it was night, and tea was done, and Dot had nothing more to do in washing up the cups and saucers; in a word -- for I must come to it, and there is no use in putting it off -- when the time drew nigh for expecting the Carrier's return in every sound of distant wheels, her manner changed again, her colour came and went, and she was very restless. Not as good wives are when listening for their husbands. No, no, no. It was another sort of restlessness from that.

Wheels heard. A horse's feet. The barking of a dog. The gradual approach of all the sounds. The scratching paw of Boxer at the door!

"Whose step is that?" cried Bertha, starting up.

"Whose step?" returned the Carrier, standing in the portal, with his brown face ruddy as a winter berry from the keen night air. "Why, mine."

"The other step," said Bertha. "The man's tread behind you!"

"She is not to be deceived," observed the Carrier, laughing. "Come along, sir. You'll be welcome, never fear!"

He spoke in a loud tone; and, as he spoke, the deaf old gentleman entered.

"He's not so much a stranger that you haven't seen him once, Caleb," said the Carrier. "You'll give him house room till we go?"

"Oh, surely, John, and take it as an honour!"

"He's the best company on earth to talk secrets in," said John. "I have reasonable good lungs, but he tries 'em I can tell you. Sit down, sir. All friends here, and glad to see you!"

When he had imparted this assurance, in a voice that amply corroborated what he had said about his lungs, he added in his natural tone, "A chair in the chimney-corner, and leave to sit quite silent and look pleasantly about him, is all he cares for. He's easily pleased."

Bertha had been listening intently. She called Caleb to her side, when he had set the chair, and asked him, in a low voice, to describe their visitor. When he had done so (truly now, with scrupulous fidelity), she moved, for the first time since he had come in, and sighed, and seemed to have no further interest concerning him.

The Carrier was in high spirits, good fellow that he was, and fonder of his little wife than ever.

"A clumsy Dot she was, this afternoon!" he said, encircling her with his rough arm, as she stood, removed from the rest; "and yet I like her somehow. See yonder, Dot!"

He pointed to the old man. She looked down. I think she trembled.

"He's -- ha, ha, ha! -- he's full of admiration for you!" said the Carrier. "Talked of nothing else the whole way here. Why, he's a brave old boy! I like him for it!"

"I wish he had a better subject, John," she said with an uneasy glance about the room. At Tackleton especially.

"A better subject!" cried the jovial John. "There's no such thing. Come! off with the great-coat, off with the thick shawl, off with the heavy wrappers! and a cosy half-hour by the fire. My humble service, mistress. A game at cribbage, you and I? That's hearty. The cards and board, Dot. And a glass of beer here, if there's any left, small wife!"

His challenge was addressed to the old lady, who, accepting it with gracious readiness, they were soon engaged upon the game. At first, the Carrier looked about him sometimes with a smile, or now and then called Dot to peep over his shoulder at his hand, and advise him on some knotty point. But his adversary being a rigid disciplinarian, and subject to an occasional weakness in respect of pegging more than she was entitled to, required such vigilance on his part, as left him neither eyes nor ears to spare. Thus, his whole attention gradually became absorbed upon the cards; and he thought of nothing else, until a hand upon his shoulder restored him to a consciousness of Tackleton.

"I am sorry to disturb you -- but a word directly."

"I'm going to deal," returned the Carrier. "It's a crisis."

"It is," said Tackleton. "Come here, man!"

There was that in his pale face which made the other rise immediately, and ask him, in a hurry, what the matter was.

"Hush! John Peerybingle," said Tackleton, "I am sorry for this. I am indeed. I have been afraid of it. I have suspected it from the first."

"What is it?" asked the Carrier with a frightened aspect.

"Hush! I'll show you, if you'll come with me."

The Carrier accompanied him without another word. They went across a yard, where the stars were shining, and by a little side-door, into Tackleton's own counting-house, where there was a glass window, commanding the ware-room, which was closed for the night. There was no light in the counting-house itself, but there were lamps in the long narrow ware-room; and consequently the window was bright.

"A moment!" said Tackleton. "Can you bear to look through that window, do you think?"

"Why not?" returned the Carrier.

"A moment more," said Tackleton. "Don't commit any violence. It's of no use. It's dangerous too. You're a strong-made man; and you might do murder before you know it."

The Carrier looked him in the face, and recoiled a step as if he had been struck. In one stride he was at the window, and he saw --  -- 

Oh, Shadow on the Hearth! Oh, truthful Cricket! Oh, perfidious wife!

He saw her with the old man -- old no longer, but erect and gallant -- bearing in his hand the false white hair that had won his way into their desolate and miserable home. He saw her listening to him, as he bent his head to whisper in her ear; and suffering him to clasp her round the waist, as they moved slowly down the dim wooden gallery towards the door by which they had entered it. He saw them stop, and saw her turn -- to have the face, the face he loved so, so presented to his view! -- and saw her, with her own hands, adjust the lie upon his head, laughing, as she did it, at his unsuspicious nature!

He clenched his strong right hand at first, as if it would have beaten down a lion. But, opening it immediately again, he spread it out before the eyes of Tackleton (for he was tender of her even then), and so, as they passed out, fell down upon a desk, and was as weak as any infant.

He was wrapped up to the chin, and busy with his horse and parcels, when she came into the room, prepared for going home.

"Now, John dear! Good night, May! Good night, Bertha!"

Could she kiss them? Could she be blithe and cheerful in her parting? Could she venture to reveal her face to them without a blush? Yes. Tackleton observed her closely, and she did all this.

Tilly was hushing the baby, and she crossed and recrossed Tackleton a dozen times, repeating drowsily:

"Did the knowledge that it was to be its wives, then, wring its hearts almost to breaking; and did its fathers deceive it from its cradles but to break its hearts at last!"

"Now, Tilly, give me the Baby! Good night, Mr. Tackleton. Where's John, for goodness' sake?"

"He's going to walk beside the horse's head," said Tackleton; who helped her to her seat.

"My dear John! Walk? To-night?"

The muffled figure of her husband made a hasty sign in the affirmative; and, the false stranger and the little nurse being in their places, the old horse moved off. Boxer, the unconscious Boxer, running on before, running back, running round and round the cart, and barking as triumphantly and merrily as ever.

When Tackleton had gone off likewise, escorting May and her mother home, poor Caleb sat down by the fire beside his daughter; anxious and remorseful at the core; and still saying, in his wistful contemplation of her, "Have I deceived her from her cradle, but to break her heart at last?"

The toys that had been set in motion for the Baby had all stopped and run down long ago. In the faint light and silence, the imperturbably calm dolls, the agitated rocking-horses with distended eyes and nostrils, the old gentlemen at the street-doors, standing half doubled up upon their failing knees and ankles, the wry-faced nut-crackers, the very Beasts upon their way into the Ark, in twos, like a Boarding-School out walking, might have been imagined to be stricken motionless with fantastic wonder at Dot being false, or Tackleton beloved, under any combination of circumstances.



Chirp The Third


The Dutch clock in the corner struck Ten when the Carrier sat down by his fireside. So troubled and grief-worn that he seemed to scare the Cuckoo, who, having cut his ten melodious announcements as short as possible, plunged back into the Moorish Palace again, and clapped his little door behind him, as if the unwonted spectacle were too much for his feelings.

If the little Hay-maker had been armed with the sharpest of scythes, and had cut at every stroke into the Carrier's heart, he never could have gashed and wounded it as Dot had done.

It was a heart so full of love for her; so bound up and held together by innumerable threads of winning remembrance, spun from the daily working of her many qualities of endearment; it was a heart in which she had enshrined herself so gently and so closely; a heart so single and so earnest in its Truth, so strong in right, so weak in wrong, -- that it could cherish neither passion nor revenge at first, and had only room to hold the broken image of its Idol.

But, slowly, slowly, as the Carrier sat brooding on his hearth, now cold and dark, other and fiercer thoughts began to rise within him, as an angry wind comes rising in the night. The Stranger was beneath his outraged roof. Three steps would take him to his chamber door. One blow would beat it in. "You might do murder before you know it," Tackleton had said. How could it be murder, if he gave the villain time to grapple with him hand to hand? He was the younger man.

It was an ill-timed thought, bad for the dark mood of his mind. It was an angry thought, goading him to some avenging act, that should change the cheerful house into a haunted place which lonely travellers would dread to pass by night; and where the timid would see shadows struggling in the ruined windows when the moon was dim, and hear wild noises in the stormy weather.

He was the younger man! Yes, yes; some lover who had won the heart that he had never touched. Some lover of her early choice, of whom she had thought and dreamed, for whom she had pined and pined, when he had fancied her so happy by his side. Oh, agony to think of it!

She had been above-stairs with the Baby; getting it to bed. As he sat brooding on the hearth, she came close beside him, without his knowledge -- in the turning of the rack of his great misery, he lost all other sounds -- and put her little stool at his feet. He only knew it when he felt her hand upon his own, and saw her looking up into his face.

With wonder? No. It was his first impression, and he was fain to look at her again, to set it right. No, not with wonder. With an eager and inquiring look; but not with wonder. At first it was alarmed and serious; then, it changed into a strange, wild, dreadful smile of recognition of his thoughts; then, there was nothing but her clasped hands on her brow, and her bent head, and falling hair.

Though the power of Omnipotence had been his to wield at that moment, he had too much of its diviner property of Mercy in his breast, to have turned one feather's weight of it against her. But he could not bear to see her crouching down upon the little seat where he had often looked on her, with love and pride, so innocent and gay; and, when she rose and left him, sobbing as she went, he felt it a relief to have the vacant place beside him rather than her so long-cherished presence. This in itself was anguish keener than all, reminding him how desolate he was become, and how the great bond of his life was rent asunder.

When suddenly, the struggling fire illuminated the whole chimney with a glow of light; and the Cricket on the Hearth began to Chirp!

The more he felt this, and the more he knew he could have better borne to see her lying prematurely dead before him with her little child upon her breast, the higher and the stronger rose his wrath against his enemy. He looked about him for a weapon.

There was a gun hanging on the wall. He took it down, and moved a pace or two towards the door of the perfidious Stranger's room. He knew the gun was loaded. Some shadowy idea that it was just to shoot this man like a wild beast seized him, and dilated in his mind until it grew into a monstrous demon in complete possession of him, casting out all milder thoughts, and setting up its undivided empire.

That phrase is wrong. Not casting out his milder thoughts, but artfully transforming them. Changing them into scourges to drive him on. Turning water into blood, love into hate, gentleness into blind ferocity. Her image, sorrowing, humbled, but still pleading to his tenderness and mercy with resistless power, never left his mind; but, staying there, it urged him to the door; raised the weapon to his shoulder; fitted and nerved his fingers to the trigger; and cried "Kill him! In his bed!"

He reversed the gun to beat the stock upon the door; he already held it lifted in the air; some indistinct design was in his thoughts of calling out to him to fly, for God's sake, by the window --  -- 

When suddenly, the struggling fire illuminated the whole chimney with a glow of light; and the Cricket on the Hearth began to Chirp!

No sound he could have heard, no human voice, not even hers, could so have moved and softened him. The artless words in which she had told him of her love for this same Cricket were once more freshly spoken; her trembling, earnest manner at the moment was again before him; her pleasant voice -- oh, what a voice it was for making household music at the fireside of an honest man! -- thrilled through and through his better nature, and awoke it into life and action.

He recoiled from the door, like a man walking in his sleep, awakened from a frightful dream; and put the gun aside. Clasping his hands before his face, he then sat down again beside the fire, and found relief in tears.

The Cricket on the Hearth came out into the room, and stood in Fairy shape before him.

"'I love it,'" said the Fairy Voice, repeating what he well remembered, "'for the many times I have heard it, and the many thoughts its harmless music has given me.'"

"She said so!" cried the Carrier. "True!"

"'This has been a happy home, John! and I love the Cricket for its sake!'"

"It has been, Heaven knows," returned the Carrier. "She made it happy, always, -- until now."

"So gracefully sweet-tempered; so domestic, joyful, busy, and light-hearted!" said the Voice.

"Otherwise I never could have loved her as I did," returned the Carrier.

The Voice, correcting him, said "do."

The Carrier repeated "as I did." But not firmly. His faltering tongue resisted his control, and would speak in its own way for itself and him.

The Figure, in an attitude of invocation, raised its hand and said:

"Upon your own hearth --  -- "

"The hearth she has blighted," interposed the Carrier.

"The hearth she has -- how often! -- blessed and brightened," said the Cricket; "the hearth which, but for her, were only a few stones and bricks and rusty bars, but which has been, through her, the Altar of your Home; on which you have nightly sacrificed some petty passion, selfishness, or care, and offered up the homage of a tranquil mind, a trusting nature, and an overflowing heart; so that the smoke from this poor chimney has gone upward with a better fragrance than the richest incense that is burnt before the richest shrines in all the gaudy temples of this world! -- Upon your own hearth; in its quiet sanctuary; surrounded by its gentle influences and associations; hear her! Hear me! Hear everything that speaks the language of your hearth and home!"

"And pleads for her?" inquired the Carrier.

"All things that speak the language of your hearth and home must plead for her!" returned the Cricket. "For they speak the truth."

And while the Carrier, with his head upon his hands, continued to sit meditating in his chair, the Presence stood beside him, suggesting his reflections by its power, and presenting them before him, as in a glass or picture. It was not a solitary Presence. From the hearth-stone, from the chimney, from the clock, the pipe, the kettle, and the cradle; from the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and the stairs; from the cart without, and the cupboard within, and the household implements; from everything and every place with which she had ever been familiar, and with which she had ever entwined one recollection of herself in her unhappy husband's mind, -- Fairies came trooping forth. Not to stand beside him as the Cricket did, but to busy and bestir themselves. To do all honour to her image. To pull him by the skirts, and point to it when it appeared. To cluster round it, and embrace it, and strew flowers for it to tread on. To try to crown its fair head with their tiny hands. To show that they were fond of it, and loved it; and that there was not one ugly, wicked, or accusatory creature to claim knowledge of it -- none but their playful and approving selves.

His thoughts were constant to her image. It was always there.

She sat plying her needle, before the fire, and singing to herself. Such a blithe, thriving, steady little Dot! The Fairy figures turned upon him all at once, by one consent, with one prodigious concentrated stare, and seemed to say, "Is this the light wife you are mourning for?"

There were sounds of gaiety outside, musical instruments, and noisy tongues, and laughter. A crowd of young merry-makers came pouring in, among whom were May Fielding and a score of pretty girls. Dot was the fairest of them all; as young as any of them too. They came to summon her to join their party. It was a dance. If ever little foot were made for dancing, hers was, surely. But she laughed, and shook her head, and pointed to her cookery on the fire, and her table ready spread; with an exulting defiance that rendered her more charming than she was before. And so she merrily dismissed them, nodding to her would-be partners, one by one, as they passed out, with a comical indifference, enough to make them go and drown themselves immediately if they were her admirers -- and they must have been so, more or less; they couldn't help it. And yet indifference was not her character. Oh no! For presently there came a certain Carrier to the door; and, bless her, what a welcome she bestowed upon him!

Again the staring figures turned upon him all at once, and seemed to say, "Is this the wife who has forsaken you?"

A shadow fell upon the mirror or the picture: call it what you will. A great shadow of the Stranger, as he first stood underneath their roof; covering its surface, and blotting out all other objects. But, the nimble Fairies worked like bees to clear it off again. And Dot again was there. Still bright and beautiful.

Rocking her little Baby in its cradle, singing to it softly, and resting her head upon a shoulder which had its counterpart in the musing figure by which the Fairy Cricket stood.

The night -- I mean the real night: not going by Fairy clocks -- was wearing now; and, in this stage of the Carrier's thoughts, the moon burst out, and shone brightly in the sky. Perhaps some calm and quiet light had risen also in his mind; and he could think more soberly of what had happened.

Although the shadow of the Stranger fell at intervals upon the glass -- always distinct, and big, and thoroughly defined -- it never fell so darkly as at first. Whenever it appeared, the Fairies uttered a general cry of consternation, and plied their little arms and legs with inconceivable activity to rub it out. And whenever they got at Dot again, and showed her to him once more, bright and beautiful, they cheered in the most inspiring manner.

They never showed her otherwise than beautiful and bright, for they were Household Spirits to whom falsehood is an annihilation; and being so, what Dot was there for them, but the one active, beaming, pleasant little creature who had been the light and sun of the Carrier's Home?

The Fairies were prodigiously excited when they showed her, with the Baby, gossipping among a knot of sage old matrons, and affecting to be wondrous old and matronly herself, and leaning in a staid demure old way upon her husband's arm, attempting -- she! such a bud of a little woman -- to convey the idea of having abjured the vanities of the world in general, and of being the sort of person to whom it was no novelty at all to be a mother; yet, in the same breath, they showed her laughing at the Carrier for being awkward, and pulling up his shirt collar to make him smart, and mincing merrily about that very room to teach him how to dance!

They turned, and stared immensely at him when they showed her with the Blind Girl; for, though she carried cheerfulness and animation with her wheresoever she went, she bore those influences into Caleb Plummer's home, heaped up and running over. The Blind Girl's love for her, and trust in her, and gratitude to her; her own good busy way of setting Bertha's thanks aside; her dexterous little arts for filling up each moment of the visit in doing something useful to the house, and really working hard while feigning to make holiday; her bountiful provision of those standing delicacies, the Veal and Ham Pie and the bottles of Beer; her radiant little face arriving at the door, and taking leave; the wonderful expression in her whole self, from her neat foot to the crown of her head, of being a part of the establishment -- a something necessary to it, which it couldn't be without, -- all this the Fairies revelled in, and loved her for. And once again they looked upon him all at once, appealingly, and seemed to say, while some among them nestled in her dress and fondled her, "Is this the wife who has betrayed your confidence?"

More than once, or twice, or thrice, in the long thoughtful night, they showed her to him sitting on her favourite seat, with her bent head, her hands clasped on her brow, her falling hair. As he had seen her last. And when they found her thus, they neither turned nor looked upon him, but gathered close round her, and comforted and kissed her, and pressed on one another, to show sympathy and kindness to her, and forgot him altogether.

Thus the night passed. The moon went down; the stars grew pale; the cold day broke; the sun rose. The Carrier still sat, musing, in the chimney-corner. He had sat there, with his head upon his hands, all night. All night the faithful Cricket had been Chirp, Chirp, Chirping on the Hearth. All night he had listened to its voice. All night the Household Fairies had been busy with him. All night she had been amiable and blameless in the glass, except when that one shadow fell upon it.

He rose up when it was broad day, and washed and dressed himself. He couldn't go about his customary cheerful avocations -- he wanted spirit for them -- but it mattered the less that it was Tackleton's wedding-day, and he had arranged to make his rounds by proxy. He had thought to have gone merrily to church with Dot. But such plans were at an end. It was their own wedding-day too. Ah! how little he had looked for such a close to such a year!

The Carrier expected that Tackleton would pay him an early visit; and he was right. He had not walked to and fro before his own door many minutes, when he saw the toy merchant coming in his chaise along the road. As the chaise drew nearer, he perceived that Tackleton was dressed out sprucely for his marriage, and that he had decorated his horse's head with flowers and favours.

The horse looked much more like a bridegroom than Tackleton, whose half-closed eye was more disagreeably expressive than ever. But the Carrier took little heed of this. His thoughts had other occupation.

"John Peerybingle!" said Tackleton with an air of condolence. "My good fellow, how do you find yourself this morning?"

"I have had but a poor night, Master Tackleton," returned the Carrier, shaking his head: "for I have been a good deal disturbed in my mind. But it's over now! Can you spare me half an hour or so, for some private talk?"

"I came on purpose," returned Tackleton, alighting. "Never mind the horse. He'll stand quiet enough, with the reins over this post, if you'll give him a mouthful of hay."

The Carrier having brought it from his stable and set it before him, they turned into the house.

"You are not married before noon," he said, "I think?"

"No," answered Tackleton. "Plenty of time. Plenty of time."

When they entered the kitchen, Tilly Slowboy was rapping at the Stranger's door; which was only removed from it by a few steps. One of her very red eyes (for Tilly had been crying all night long, because her mistress cried) was at the keyhole; and she was knocking very loud, and seemed frightened.

"If you please I can't make nobody hear," said Tilly, looking round. "I hope nobody an't gone and been and died if you please!"

This philanthropic wish Miss Slowboy emphasized with various new raps and kicks at the door, which led to no result whatever.

"Shall I go?" said Tackleton. "It's curious."

The Carrier, who had turned his face from the door, signed him to go if he would.

So Tackleton went to Tilly Slowboy's relief; and he too kicked and knocked; and he too failed to get the least reply. But he thought of trying the handle of the door; and, as it opened easily, he peeped in, looked in, went in, and soon came running out again.

"John Peerybingle," said Tackleton in his ear, "I hope there has been nothing -- nothing rash in the night?"

The Carrier turned upon him quickly.

"Because he's gone!" said Tackleton; "and the window's open. I don't see any marks -- to be sure, it's almost on a level with the garden: but I was afraid there might have been some -- some scuffle. Eh?"

He nearly shut up the expressive eye altogether; he looked at him so hard. And he gave his eye, and his face, and his whole person, a sharp twist. As if he would have screwed the truth out of him.

"Make yourself easy," said the Carrier. "He went into that room last night, without harm in word or deed from me, and no one has entered it since. He is away of his own free-will. I'd go out gladly at that door, and beg my bread from house to house, for life, if I could so change the past that he had never come. But he has come and gone. And I have done with him!"

"Oh! -- Well, I think he has got off pretty easy," said Tackleton, taking a chair.

The sneer was lost upon the Carrier, who sat down too, and shaded his face with his hand, for some little time, before proceeding.

"You showed me last night," he said at length, "my wife -- my wife that I love -- secretly --  -- "

"And tenderly," insinuated Tackleton.

" -- Conniving at that man's disguise, and giving him opportunities of meeting her alone. I think there's no sight I wouldn't have rather seen than that. I think there's no man in the world I wouldn't have rather had to show it me."

"I confess to having had my suspicions always," said Tackleton. "And that has made me objectionable here, I know."

"But, as you did show it me," pursued the Carrier, not minding him; "and as you saw her, my wife, my wife that I love" -- his voice, and eye, and hand grew steadier and firmer as he repeated these words: evidently in pursuance of a steadfast purpose -- "as you saw her at this disadvantage, it is right and just that you should also see with my eyes, and look into my breast, and know what my mind is upon the subject. For it's settled," said the Carrier, regarding him attentively. "And nothing can shake it now."

Tackleton muttered a few general words of assent about its being necessary to vindicate something or other; but he was overawed by the manner of his companion. Plain and unpolished as it was, it had a something dignified and noble in it, which nothing but the soul of generous honour dwelling in the man could have imparted.

"I am a plain, rough man," pursued the Carrier "with very little to recommend me. I am not a clever man, as you very well know. I am not a young man. I loved my little Dot, because I had seen her grow up, from a child, in her father's house; because I knew how precious she was; because she had been my life for years and years. There's many men I can't compare with, who never could have loved my little Dot like me, I think!"

He paused, and softly beat the ground a short time with his foot, before resuming:

"I often thought that though I wasn't good enough for her, I should make her a kind husband, and perhaps know her value better than another; and in this way I reconciled it to myself, and came to think it might be possible that we should be married. And, in the end, it came about, and we were married!"

"Hah!" said Tackleton with a significant shake of his head.

"I had studied myself; I had had experience of myself; I knew how much I loved her, and how happy I should be," pursued the Carrier. "But I had not -- I feel it now -- sufficiently considered her."

"To be sure," said Tackleton. "Giddiness, frivolity, fickleness, love of admiration! Not considered! All left out of sight! Hah!"

"You had best not interrupt me," said the Carrier with some sternness, "till you understand me; and you're wide of doing so. If, yesterday, I'd have struck that man down at a blow, who dared to breathe a word against her, to-day I'd set my foot upon his face, if he was my brother!"

The toy merchant gazed at him in astonishment. He went on in a softer tone:

"Did I consider," said the Carrier, "that I took her -- at her age, and with her beauty -- from her young companions, and the many scenes of which she was the ornament; in which she was the brightest little star that ever shone, to shut her up from day to day in my dull house, and keep my tedious company? Did I consider how little suited I was to her sprightly humour, and how wearisome a plodding man like me must be to one of her quick spirit? Did I consider that it was no merit in me, or claim in me, that I loved her, when everybody must who knew her? Never. I took advantage of her hopeful nature and her cheerful disposition; and I married her. I wish I never had! For her sake; not for mine!"

The toy merchant gazed at him without winking. Even the half-shut eye was open now.

"Heaven bless her!" said the Carrier, "for the cheerful constancy with which she has tried to keep the knowledge of this from me! And Heaven help me, that, in my slow mind, I have not found it out before! Poor child! Poor Dot! I not to find it out, who have seen her eyes fill with tears when such a marriage as our own was spoken of! I, who have seen the secret trembling on her lips a hundred times, and never suspected it, till last night! Poor girl! That I could ever hope she would be fond of me! That I could ever believe she was!"

"She made a show of it," said Tackleton. "She made such a show of it, that, to tell you the truth, it was the origin of my misgivings."

And here he asserted the superiority of May Fielding, who certainly made no sort of show of being fond of him.

"She has tried," said the poor Carrier with greater emotion than he had exhibited yet; "I only now begin to know how hard she has tried, to be my dutiful and zealous wife. How good she has been; how much she has done; how brave and strong a heart she has; let the happiness I have known under this roof bear witness! It will be some help and comfort to me when I am here alone."

"Here alone?" said Tackleton. "Oh! Then you do mean to take some notice of this?"

"I mean," returned the Carrier, "to do her the greatest kindness, and make her the best reparation, in my power. I can release her from the daily pain of an unequal marriage, and the struggle to conceal it. She shall be as free as I can render her."

"Make her reparation!" exclaimed Tackleton, twisting and turning his great ears with his hands. "There must be something wrong here. You didn't say that, of course."

The Carrier set his grip upon the collar of the toy merchant, and shook him like a reed.

"Listen to me!" he said. "And take care that you hear me right. Listen to me. Do I speak plainly?"

"Very plainly indeed," answered Tackleton.

"As if I meant it?"

"Very much as if you meant it."

"I sat upon that hearth, last night, all night," exclaimed the Carrier. "On the spot where she has often sat beside me, with her sweet face looking into mine. I called up her whole life day by day. I had her dear self, in its every passage, in review before me. And, upon my soul, she is innocent, if there is One to judge the innocent and guilty!"

Staunch Cricket on the Hearth! Loyal Household Fairies!

"Passion and distrust have left me!" said the Carrier; "and nothing but my grief remains. In an unhappy moment some old lover, better suited to her tastes and years than I, forsaken, perhaps, for me, against her will, returned. In an unhappy moment, taken by surprise, and wanting time to think of what she did, she made herself a party to his treachery by concealing it. Last night she saw him, in the interview we witnessed. It was wrong. But, otherwise than this, she is innocent, if there is truth on earth!"

"If that is your opinion --  -- " Tackleton began.

"So, let her go!" pursued the Carrier. "Go, with my blessing for the many happy hours she has given me, and my forgiveness for any pang she has caused me. Let her go, and have the peace of mind I wish her! She'll never hate me. She'll learn to like me better when I'm not a drag upon her, and she wears the chain I have riveted more lightly. This is the day on which I took her, with so little thought for her enjoyment, from her home. To-day she shall return to it, and I will trouble her no more. Her father and mother will be here to-day -- we had made a little plan for keeping it together -- and they shall take her home. I can trust her there, or anywhere. She leaves me without blame, and she will live so I am sure. If I should die -- I may perhaps while she is still young; I have lost some courage in a few hours -- she'll find that I remembered her, and loved her to the last! This is the end of what you showed me. Now, it's over!"

"Oh no, John, not over! Do not say it's over yet! Not quite yet. I have heard your noble words. I could not steal away, pretending to be ignorant of what has affected me with such deep gratitude. Do not say it's over till the clock has struck again!"

She had entered shortly after Tackleton, and had remained there. She never looked at Tackleton, but fixed her eyes upon her husband. But she kept away from him, setting as wide a space as possible between them; and, though she spoke with most impassioned earnestness, she went no nearer to him even then. How different in this from her old self!

"No hand can make the clock which will strike again for me the hours that are gone," replied the Carrier with a faint smile. "But let it be so, if you will, my dear. It will strike soon. It's of little matter what we say. I'd try to please you in a harder case than that."

"Well!" muttered Tackleton. "I must be off, for, when the clock strikes again, it'll be necessary for me to be upon my way to church. Good morning, John Peerybingle. I'm sorry to be deprived of the pleasure of your company. Sorry for the loss, and the occasion of it too!"

"I have spoken plainly?" said the Carrier, accompanying him to the door.

"Oh, quite!"

"And you'll remember what I have said?"

"Why, if you compel me to make the observation," said Tackleton, previously taking the precaution of getting into his chaise, "I must say that it was so very unexpected, that I'm far from being likely to forget it."

"The better for us both," returned the Carrier. "Good-bye. I give you joy!"

"I wish I could give it to you," said Tackleton. "As I can't, thankee. Between ourselves (as I told you before, eh?) I don't much think I shall have the less joy in my married life because May hasn't been too officious about me, and too demonstrative. Good-bye! Take care of yourself."

The Carrier stood looking after him until he was smaller in the distance than his horse's flowers and favours near at hand; and then, with a deep sigh, went strolling like a restless, broken man, among some neighbouring elms; unwilling to return until the clock was on the eve of striking.

His little wife, being left alone, sobbed piteously; but often dried her eyes and checked herself, to say how good he was, how excellent he was! and once or twice she laughed; so heartily, triumphantly, and incoherently (still crying all the time), that Tilly was quite horrified.

"Ow, if you please, don't!" said Tilly. "It's enough to dead and bury the Baby, so it is if you please."

"Will you bring him sometimes to see his father, Tilly," inquired her mistress, drying her eyes, -- "when I can't live here, and have gone to my old home?"

"Ow, if you please, don't!" cried Tilly, throwing back her head, and bursting out into a howl -- she looked at the moment uncommonly like Boxer. "Ow, if you please, don't! Ow, what has everybody gone and been and done with everybody, making everybody else so wretched? Ow-w-w-w!"

The soft-hearted Slowboy tailed off at this juncture into such a deplorable howl, the more tremendous from its long suppression, that she must infallibly have awakened the Baby, and frightened him into something serious (probably convulsions), if her eyes had not encountered Caleb Plummer leading in his daughter. This spectacle restoring her to a sense of the proprieties, she stood for some few moments silent, with her mouth wide open; and then, posting off to the bed on which the Baby lay asleep, danced in a weird, St. Vitus manner on the floor, and at the same time rummaged with her face and head among the bedclothes, apparently deriving much relief from those extraordinary operations.

"Mary!" said Bertha. "Not at the marriage!"

"I told her you would not be there, mum," whispered Caleb. "I heard as much last night. But bless you," said the little man, taking her tenderly by both hands, "I don't care for what they say. I don't believe them. There an't much of me, but that little should be torn to pieces sooner than I'd trust a word against you!"

He put his arms about her neck and hugged her, as a child might have hugged one of his own dolls.

"Bertha couldn't stay at home this morning," said Caleb. "She was afraid, I know, to hear the bells ring, and couldn't trust herself to be so near them on their wedding-day. So we started in good time, and came here. I have been thinking of what I have done," said Caleb after a moment's pause; "I have been blaming myself till I hardly knew what to do, or where to turn, for the distress of mind I have caused her; and I've come to the conclusion that I'd better, if you'll stay with me, mum, the while, tell her the truth. You'll stay with me the while?" he inquired, trembling from head to foot. "I don't know what effect it may have upon her; I don't know what she'll think of me; I don't know that she'll ever care for her poor father afterwards. But it's best for her that she should be undeceived, and I must bear the consequences as I deserve!"

"Mary," said Bertha, "where is your hand? Ah! Here it is; here it is!" pressing it to her lips with a smile, and drawing it through her arm. "I heard them speaking softly among themselves last night of some blame against you. They were wrong."

The Carrier's wife was silent. Caleb answered for her.

"They were wrong," he said.

"I knew it!" cried Bertha, proudly. "I told them so. I scorned to hear a word! Blame her with justice!" she pressed the hand between her own, and the soft cheek against her face. "No, I am not so blind as that."

Her father went on one side of her, while Dot remained upon the other, holding her hand.

"I know you all," said Bertha, "better than you think. But none so well as her. Not even you, father. There is nothing half so real and so true about me as she is. If I could be restored to sight this instant, and not a word were spoken, I could choose her from a crowd! My sister!"

"Bertha, my dear!" said Caleb. "I have something on my mind I want to tell you while we three are alone. Hear me kindly! I have a confession to make to you, my darling!"

"A confession, father?"

"I have wandered from the truth, and lost myself, my child," said Caleb with a pitiable expression in his bewildered face. "I have wandered from the truth, intending to be kind to you; and have been cruel."

She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him, and repeated "Cruel!"

"He accuses himself too strongly, Bertha," said Dot. "You'll say so presently. You'll be the first to tell him so."

"He cruel to me!" cried Bertha with a smile of incredulity.

"Not meaning it, my child," said Caleb. "But I have been: though I never suspected it till yesterday. My dear blind daughter, hear me and forgive me. The world you live in, heart of mine, doesn't exist as I have represented it. The eyes you have trusted in have been false to you."

She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him still; but drew back, and clung closer to her friend.

"Your road in life was rough, my poor one," said Caleb, "and I meant to smooth it for you. I have altered objects, changed the characters of people, invented many things that never have been, to make you happier. I have had concealments from you, put deceptions on you, God forgive me! and surrounded you with fancies."

"But living people are not fancies?" she said hurriedly, and turning very pale, and still retiring from him. "You can't change them."

"I have done so, Bertha," pleaded Caleb. "There is one person that you know, my dove --  -- "

"Oh, father! why do you say, I know?" she answered in a term of keen reproach. "What and whom do I know? I who have no leader! I so miserably blind!"

In the anguish of her heart, she stretched out her hands, as if she were groping her way; then spread them, in a manner most forlorn and sad, upon her face.

"The marriage that takes place to-day," said Caleb, "is with a stern, sordid, grinding man. A hard master to you and me, my dear, for many years. Ugly in his looks, and in his nature. Cold and callous always. Unlike what I have painted him to you in everything, my child. In everything."

"Oh, why," cried the Blind Girl, tortured, as it seemed, almost beyond endurance, "why did you ever do this? Why did you ever fill my heart so full, and then come in like Death, and tear away the objects of my love? O Heaven, how blind I am! How helpless and alone!"

Her afflicted father hung his head, and offered no reply but in his penitence and sorrow.

She had been but a short time in this passion of regret when the Cricket on the Hearth, unheard by all but her, began to chirp. Not merrily, but in a low, faint, sorrowing way. It was so mournful, that her tears began to flow; and, when the Presence which had been beside the Carrier all night, appeared behind her, pointing to her father, they fell down like rain.

She heard the Cricket-voice more plainly soon, and was conscious, through her blindness, of the Presence hovering about her father.

"Mary," said the Blind Girl, "tell me what my home is. What it truly is."

"It is a poor place, Bertha; very poor and bare indeed. The house will scarcely keep out wind and rain another winter. It is as roughly shielded from the weather, Bertha," Dot continued in a low, clear voice, "as your poor father in his sackcloth coat."

The Blind Girl, greatly agitated, rose, and led the Carrier's little wife aside.

"Those presents that I took such care of; that came almost at my wish, and were so dearly welcome to me," she said, trembling; "where did they come from? Did you send them?"

"No."

"Who, then?"

Dot saw she knew already, and was silent. The Blind Girl spread her hands before her face again. But in quite another manner now.

"Dear Mary, a moment. One moment. More this way. Speak softly to me. You are true I know. You'd not deceive me now; would you?"

"No, Bertha, indeed!"

"No, I am sure you would not. You have too much pity for me. Mary, look across the room to where we were just now -- to where my father is -- my father, so compassionate and loving to me -- and tell me what you see."

"I see," said Dot, who understood her well, "an old man sitting in a chair, and leaning sorrowfully on the back, with his face resting on his hand. As if his child should comfort him, Bertha."

"Yes, yes. She will. Go on."

"He is an old man, worn with care and work. He is a spare, dejected, thoughtful, grey-haired man. I see him now, despondent and bowed down, and striving against nothing. But, Bertha, I have seen him many times before, and striving hard in many ways, for one great sacred object. And I honour his grey head, and bless him!"

The Blind Girl broke away from her; and, throwing herself upon her knees before him, took the grey head to her breast.

"It is my sight restored. It is my sight!" she cried. "I have been blind, and now my eyes are open. I never knew him! To think I might have died, and never truly seen the father who has been so loving to me!"

There were no words for Caleb's emotion.

"There is not a gallant figure on this earth," exclaimed the Blind Girl, holding him in her embrace, "that I would love so dearly, and would cherish so devotedly, as this! The greyer, and more worn, the dearer, father! Never let them say I am blind again. There's not a furrow in his face, there's not a hair upon his head, that shall be forgotten in my prayers and thanks to Heaven!"

Caleb managed to articulate, "My Bertha!"

"And in my blindness I believed him," said the girl, caressing him with tears of exquisite affection, "to be so different. And having him beside me day by day, so mindful of me always, never dreamed of this!"

"The fresh smart father in the blue coat, Bertha," said poor Caleb. "He's gone!"

"Nothing is gone," she answered. "Dearest father, no! Everything is here -- in you. The father that I loved so well; the father that I never loved enough, and never knew; the benefactor whom I first began to reverence and love, because he had such sympathy for me, -- all are here in you. Nothing is dead to me. The soul of all that was most dear to me is here -- here, with the worn face, and the grey head. And I am NOT blind, father, any longer!"

Dot's whole attention had been concentrated, during this discourse, upon the father and daughter; but looking, now, towards the little Hay-maker in the Moorish meadow, she saw that the clock was within a few minutes of striking, and fell, immediately, into a nervous and excited state.

"Father!" said Bertha, hesitating. "Mary!"

"Yes, my dear," returned Caleb. "Here she is."

"There is no change in her. You never told me anything of her that was not true?"

"I should have done it, my dear, I'm afraid," returned Caleb, "if I could have made her better than she was. But I must have changed her for the worse, if I had changed her at all. Nothing could improve her, Bertha."

Confident as the Blind Girl had been when she asked the question, her delight and pride in the reply, and her renewed embrace of Dot, were charming to behold.

"More changes than you think for may happen, though, my dear," said Dot. "Changes for the better, I mean; changes for great joy to some of us. You mustn't let them startle you too much, if any such should ever happen, and affect you. Are those wheels upon the road? You've a quick ear, Bertha. Are they wheels?"

"Yes. Coming very fast."

"I -- I -- I know you have a quick ear," said Dot, placing her hand upon her heart, and evidently talking on as fast as she could, to hide its palpitating state, "because I have noticed it often, and because you were so quick to find out that strange step last night. Though why you should have said, as I very well recollect you did say, Bertha, 'Whose step is that?' and why you should have taken any greater observation of it than of any other step, I don't know. Though, as I said just now, there are great changes in the world: great changes: and we can't do better than prepare ourselves to be surprised at hardly anything."

Caleb wondered what this meant; perceiving that she spoke to him, no less than to his daughter. He saw her, with astonishment, so fluttered and distressed that she could scarcely breathe; and holding to a chair, to save herself from falling.

"They are wheels indeed!" she panted. "Coming nearer! Nearer! Very close! And now you hear them stopping at the garden-gate! And now you hear a step outside the door -- the same step, Bertha, is it not? -- and now --  -- !"

She uttered a wild cry of uncontrollable delight; and running up to Caleb, put her hands upon his eyes, as a young man rushed into the room, and, flinging away his hat into the air, came sweeping down upon them.

"Is it over?" cried Dot.

"Yes!"

"Happily over?"

"Yes!"

"Do you recollect the voice, dear Caleb? Did you ever hear the like of it before?" cried Dot.

"If my boy in the Golden South Americas was alive --  -- !" said Caleb, trembling.

"He is alive!" shrieked Dot, removing her hands from his eyes, and clapping them in ecstasy. "Look at him! See where he stands before you, healthy and strong! Your own dear son. Your own dear living, loving brother, Bertha!"

All honour to the little creature for her transports! All honour to her tears and laughter, when the three were locked in one another's arms! All honour to the heartiness with which she met the sunburnt sailor-fellow, with his dark streaming hair, half-way, and never turned her rosy little mouth aside, but suffered him to kiss it freely, and to press her to his bounding heart!

And honour to the Cuckoo too -- why not? -- for bursting out of the trap-door in the Moorish Palace like a housebreaker, and hiccoughing twelve times on the assembled company, as if he had got drunk for joy!

The Carrier, entering, started back. And well he might, to find himself in such good company.

"Look, John!" said Caleb, exultingly, "look here! My own boy from the Golden South Americas! My own son! Him that you fitted out, and sent away yourself! Him that you were always such a friend to!"

The Carrier advanced to seize him by the hand; but, recoiling, as some feature in his face awakened a remembrance of the Deaf Man in the Cart, said:

"Edward! Was it you?"

"Now tell him all!" cried Dot. "Tell him all, Edward; and don't spare me, for nothing shall make me spare myself in his eyes, ever again."

"I was the man," said Edward.

"And could you steal, disguised, into the house of your old friend?" rejoined the Carrier. "There was a frank boy once -- how many years is it, Caleb, since we heard that he was dead, and had it proved, we thought? -- who never would have done that."

"There was a generous friend of mine once; more a father to me than a friend," said Edward; "who never would have judged me, or any other man, unheard. You were he. So I am certain you will hear me now."

The Carrier, with a troubled glance at Dot, who still kept far away from him, replied, "Well! that's but fair. I will."

"You must know that when I left here a boy," said Edward, "I was in love, and my love was returned. She was a very young girl, who perhaps (you may tell me) didn't know her own mind. But I knew mine, and I had a passion for her."

"You had!" exclaimed the Carrier. "You!"

"Indeed I had," returned the other. "And she returned it. I have ever since believed she did, and now I am sure she did."

"Heaven help me!" said the Carrier. "This is worse than all."

"Constant to her," said Edward, "and returning, full of hope, after many hardships and perils, to redeem my part of our old contract, I heard, twenty miles away, that she was false to me; that she had forgotten me; and had bestowed herself upon another and a richer man. I had no mind to reproach her; but I wished to see her, and to prove beyond dispute that this was true. I hoped she might have been forced into it against her own desire and recollection. It would be small comfort, but it would be some, I thought, and on I came. That I might have the truth, the real truth, observing freely for myself, and judging for myself, without obstruction on the one hand, or presenting my own influence (if I had any) before her, on the other, I dressed myself unlike myself -- you know how; and waited on the road -- you know where. You had no suspicion of me; neither had -- had she," pointing to Dot, "until I whispered in her ear at that fireside, and she so nearly betrayed me."

"But when she knew that Edward was alive, and had come back," sobbed Dot, now speaking for herself, as she had burned to do, all through this narrative; "and when she knew his purpose, she advised him by all means to keep his secret close; for his old friend John Peerybingle was much too open in his nature, and too clumsy in all artifice -- being a clumsy man in general," said Dot, half laughing and half crying -- "to keep it for him. And when she -- that's me, John," sobbed the little woman -- "told him all, and how his sweetheart had believed him to be dead; and how she had at last been over-persuaded by her mother into a marriage which the silly, dear old thing called advantageous; and when she -- that's me again, John -- told him they were not yet married (though close upon it), and that it would be nothing but a sacrifice if it went on, for there was no love on her side; and when he went nearly mad with joy to hear it, -- then she -- that's me again -- said she would go between them, as she had often done before in old times, John, and would sound his sweetheart, and be sure that what she -- me again, John -- said and thought was right. And it WAS right, John! And they were brought together, John! And they were married, John, an hour ago! And here's the Bride! And Gruff and Tackleton may die a bachelor! And I'm a happy little woman, May, God bless you!"

She was an irresistible little woman, if that be anything to the purpose; and never so completely irresistible as in her present transports. There never were congratulations so endearing and delicious as those she lavished on herself and on the Bride.

Amid the tumult of emotions in his breast, the honest Carrier had stood confounded. Flying, now, towards her, Dot stretched out her hand to stop him, and retreated as before.

"No, John, no! Hear all! Don't love me any more, John, till you've heard every word I have to say. It was wrong to have a secret from you, John. I'm very sorry. I didn't think it any harm, till I came and sat down by you on the little stool last night. But when I knew, by what was written in your face, that you had seen me walking in the gallery with Edward, and when I knew what you thought, I felt how giddy and how wrong it was. But oh, dear John, how could you, could you think so?"

Little woman, how she sobbed again! John Peerybingle would have caught her in his arms. But no; she wouldn't let him.

"Don't love me yet, please, John! Not for a long time yet! When I was sad about this intended marriage, dear, it was because I remembered May and Edward such young lovers; and knew that her heart was far away from Tackleton. You believe that, now, don't you, John?"

John was going to make another rush at this appeal; but she stopped him again.

"No; keep there, please, John! When I laugh at you, as I sometimes do, John, and call you clumsy and a dear old goose, and names of that sort, it's because I love you, John, so well, and take such pleasure in your ways, and wouldn't see you altered in the least respect to have you made a king to-morrow."

"Hooroar!" said Caleb with unusual vigour. "My opinion!"

"And when I speak of people being middle-aged and steady, John, and pretend that we are a humdrum couple, going on in a jog-trot sort of way, it's only because I'm such a silly little thing, John, that I like, sometimes, to act as a kind of Play with Baby, and all that: and make believe."

She saw that he was coming; and stopped him again. But she was very nearly too late.

"No, don't love me for another minute or two, if you please, John! What I want most to tell you, I have kept to the last. My dear, good, generous John, when we were talking the other night about the Cricket, I had it on my lips to say, that at first I did not love you quite so dearly as I do now; when I first came home here, I was half afraid that I mightn't learn to love you every bit as well as I hoped and prayed I might -- being so very young, John! But, dear John, every day and hour I loved you more and more. And if I could have loved you better than I do, the noble words I heard you say this morning would have made me. But I can't. All the affection that I had (it was a great deal, John) I gave you, as you well deserve, long, long ago, and I have no more left to give. Now, my dear husband, take me to your heart again! That's my home, John; and never, never think of sending me to any other!"

You never will derive so much delight from seeing a glorious little woman in the arms of a third party as you would have felt if you had seen Dot run into the Carrier's embrace. It was the most complete, unmitigated, soul-fraught little piece of earnestness that ever you beheld in all your days.

You may be sure the Carrier was in a state of perfect rapture; and you may be sure Dot was likewise; and you may be sure they all were, inclusive of Miss Slowboy, who wept copiously for joy, and, wishing to include her young charge in the general interchange of congratulations, handed round the Baby to everybody in succession, as if it were something to drink.

But, now, the sound of wheels was heard again outside the door; and somebody exclaimed that Gruff and Tackleton was coming back. Speedily that worthy gentleman appeared, looking warm and flustered.

"Why, what the Devil's this, John Peerybingle?" said Tackleton. "There's some mistake. I appointed Mrs. Tackleton to meet me at the church, and I'll swear I passed her on the road, on her way here. Oh! here she is! I beg your pardon, sir; I haven't the pleasure of knowing you; but, if you can do me the favour to spare this young lady, she has rather a particular engagement this morning."

"But I can't spare her," returned Edward. "I couldn't think of it."

"What do you mean, you vagabond?" said Tackleton.

"I mean that, as I can make allowance for your being vexed," returned the other with a smile, "I am as deaf to harsh discourse this morning as I was to all discourse last night."

The look that Tackleton bestowed upon him, and the start he gave!

"I am sorry, sir," said Edward, holding out May's left hand, and especially the third finger, "that the young lady can't accompany you to church; but, as she has been there once this morning, perhaps you'll excuse her."

Tackleton looked hard at the third finger, and took a little piece of silver paper, apparently containing a ring, from his waistcoat pocket.

"Miss Slowboy," said Tackleton, "will you have the kindness to throw that in the fire? Thankee."

"It was a previous engagement, quite an old engagement, that prevented my wife from keeping her appointment with you, I assure you," said Edward.

"Mr. Tackleton will do me the justice to acknowledge that I revealed it to him faithfully; and that I told him, many times, I never could forget it," said May, blushing.

"Oh, certainly!" said Tackleton. "Oh, to be sure! Oh, it's all right, it's quite correct! Mrs. Edward Plummer, I infer?"

"That's the name," returned the bridegroom.

"Ah! I shouldn't have known you, sir," said Tackleton, scrutinising his face narrowly, and making a low bow. "I give you joy, sir!"

"Thankee."

"Mrs. Peerybingle," said Tackleton, turning suddenly to where she stood with her husband; "I'm sorry. You haven't done me a very great kindness, but, upon my life, I am sorry. You are better than I thought you. John Peerybingle, I am sorry. You understand me; that's enough. It's quite correct, ladies and gentlemen all, and perfectly satisfactory. Good morning!"

With these words he carried it off, and carried himself off too: merely stopping at the door to take the flowers and favours from his horse's head, and to kick that animal once in the ribs, as a means of informing him that there was a screw loose in his arrangements.

Of course, it became a serious duty now to make such a day of it as should mark these events for a high Feast and Festival in the Peerybingle Calendar for evermore. Accordingly, Dot went to work to produce such an entertainment as should reflect undying honour on the house and on every one concerned; and, in a very short space of time, she was up to her dimpled elbows in flour, and whitening the Carrier's coat, every time he came near her, by stopping him to give him a kiss. That good fellow washed the greens, and peeled the turnips, and broke the plates, and upset iron pots full of cold water on the fire, and made himself useful in all sorts of ways: while a couple of professional assistants, hastily called in from somewhere in the neighbourhood, as on a point of life or death, ran against each other in all the doorways and round all the corners, and everybody tumbled over Tilly Slowboy and the Baby, everywhere. Tilly never came out in such force before. Her ubiquity was the theme of general admiration. She was a stumbling-block in the passage at five-and-twenty minutes past two; a man-trap in the kitchen at half-past two precisely; and a pitfall in the garret at five-and-twenty minutes to three. The Baby's head was, as it were, a test and touchstone for every description of matter, animal, vegetable, and mineral. Nothing was in use that day that didn't come, at some time or other, into close acquaintance with it.

Then there was a great Expedition set on foot to go and find out Mrs. Fielding; and to be dismally penitent to that excellent gentlewoman; and to bring her back, by force, if needful, to be happy and forgiving. And when the Expedition first discovered her, she would listen to no terms at all, but said, an unspeakable number of times, that ever she should have lived to see the day! and couldn't be got to say anything else, except "Now carry me to the grave": which seemed absurd, on account of her not being dead, or anything at all like it. After a time she lapsed into a state of dreadful calmness, and observed that, when that unfortunate train of circumstances had occurred in the Indigo Trade, she had foreseen that she would be exposed, during her whole life, to every species of insult and contumely; and that she was glad to find it was the case; and begged they wouldn't trouble themselves about her, -- for what was she? -- oh dear! a nobody! -- but would forget that such a being lived, and would take their course in life without her. From this bitterly sarcastic mood she passed into an angry one, in which she gave vent to the remarkable expression that the worm would turn if trodden on; and, after that, she yielded to a soft regret, and said, if they had only given her their confidence, what might she not have had it in her power to suggest! Taking advantage of this crisis in her feelings, the Expedition embraced her; and she very soon had her gloves on, and was on her way to John Peerybingle's in a state of unimpeachable gentility; with a paper parcel at her side containing a cap of state, almost as tall, and quite as stiff, as a mitre.

Then, there were Dot's father and mother to come in another little chaise; and they were behind their time; and fears were entertained; and there was much looking out for them down the road; and Mrs. Fielding always would look in the wrong and morally impossible direction; and, being apprised thereof, hoped she might take the liberty of looking where she pleased. At last they came; a chubby little couple, jogging along in a snug and comfortable little way that quite belonged to the Dot family; and Dot and her mother, side by side, were wonderful to see. They were so like each other.

Then Dot's mother had to renew her acquaintance with May's mother; and May's mother always stood on her gentility; and Dot's mother never stood on anything but her active little feet. And old Dot -- so to call Dot's father, I forgot it wasn't his right name, but never mind -- took liberties, and shook hands at first sight, and seemed to think a cap but so much starch and muslin, and didn't defer himself at all to the Indigo Trade, but said there was no help for it now; and, in Mrs. Fielding's summing up, was a good-natured kind of man -- but coarse, my dear.

I wouldn't have missed Dot, doing the honours in her wedding-gown, my benison on her bright face! for any money. No! nor the good Carrier, so jovial and so ruddy, at the bottom of the table. Nor the brown, fresh sailor-fellow, and his handsome wife. Nor any one among them. To have missed the dinner would have been to miss as jolly and as stout a meal as man need eat; and to have missed the overflowing cups in which they drank The Wedding Day would have been the greatest miss of all.

After dinner Caleb sang the song about the Sparkling Bowl. As I'm a living man, hoping to keep so for a year or two, he sang it through.

And, by-the-bye, a most unlooked-for incident occurred, just as he finished the last verse.

There was a tap at the door; and a man came staggering in, without saying with your leave, or by your leave, with something heavy on his head. Setting this down in the middle of the table, symmetrically in the centre of the nuts and apples, he said:

"Mr. Tackleton's compliments, and, as he hasn't got no use for the cake himself, p'raps you'll eat it."

And, with those words, he walked off.

There was some surprise among the company, as you may imagine. Mrs. Fielding, being a lady of infinite discernment, suggested that the cake was poisoned, and related a narrative of a cake which, within her knowledge, had turned a seminary for young ladies blue. But she was overruled by acclamation; and the cake was cut by May with much ceremony and rejoicing.

I don't think any one had tasted it, when there came another tap at the door, and the same man appeared again, having under his arm a vast brown-paper parcel.

"Mr. Tackleton's compliments, and he's sent a few toys for the Babby. They ain't ugly."

After the delivery of which expressions, he retired again.

The whole party would have experienced great difficulty in finding words for their astonishment, even if they had had ample time to seek them. But they had none at all; for the messenger had scarcely shut the door behind him, when there came another tap, and Tackleton himself walked in.

"Mrs. Peerybingle!" said the toy merchant, hat in hand, "I'm sorry. I'm more sorry than I was this morning. I have had time to think of it. John Peerybingle! I am sour by disposition; but I can't help being sweetened, more or less, by coming face to face with such a man as you. Caleb! This unconscious little nurse gave me a broken hint last night, of which I have found the thread. I blush to think how easily I might have bound you and your daughter to me, and what a miserable idiot I was when I took her for one! Friends, one and all, my house is very lonely to-night. I have not so much as a Cricket on my Hearth. I have scared them all away. Be gracious to me: let me join this happy party!"

He was at home in five minutes. You never saw such a fellow. What had he been doing with himself all his life, never to have known before his great capacity of being jovial? Or what had the Fairies been doing with him, to have effected such a change?

"John! you won't send me home this evening, will you?" whispered Dot.

He had been very near it, though.

There wanted but one living creature to make the party complete; and, in the twinkling of an eye, there he was, very thirsty with hard running, and engaged in hopeless endeavours to squeeze his head into a narrow pitcher. He had gone with the cart to its journey's end, very much disgusted with the absence of his master, and stupendously rebellious to the Deputy. After lingering about the stable for some little time, vainly attempting to incite the old horse to the mutinous act of returning on his own account, he had walked into the taproom, and laid himself down before the fire. But, suddenly yielding to the conviction that the Deputy was a humbug, and must be abandoned, he had got up again, turned tail, and come home.

There was a dance in the evening. With which general mention of that recreation, I should have left it alone, if I had not some reason to suppose that it was quite an original dance, and one of a most uncommon figure. It was formed in an odd way; in this way.

Edward, that sailor-fellow -- a good free dashing sort of fellow he was -- had been telling them various marvels concerning parrots, and mines, and Mexicans, and gold dust, when all at once he took it in his head to jump up from his seat and propose a dance; for Bertha's harp was there, and she such a hand upon it as you seldom hear. Dot (sly little piece of affectation when she chose) said her dancing days were over; I think because the Carrier was smoking his pipe, and she liked sitting by him best. Mrs. Fielding had no choice, of course, but to say her dancing days were over, after that; and everybody said the same, except May; May was ready.

So, May and Edward get up, amid great applause, to dance alone; and Bertha plays her liveliest tune.

Well! if you'll believe me, they had not been dancing five minutes, when suddenly the Carrier flings his pipe away, takes Dot round the waist, dashes out into the room, and starts off with her, toe and heel, quite wonderfully. Tackleton no sooner sees this than he skims across to Mrs. Fielding, takes her round the waist, and follows suit. Old Dot no sooner sees this than up he is, all alive, whisks off Mrs. Dot into the middle of the dance, and is foremost there. Caleb no sooner sees this than he clutches Tilly Slowboy by both hands, and goes off at score; Miss Slowboy, firm in the belief that diving hotly in among the other couples, and effecting any number of concussions with them, is your only principle of footing it.

Hark! how the Cricket joins the music with its Chirp, Chirp, Chirp; and how the kettle hums!

*   *   *   *   *

But what is this? Even as I listen to them blithely, and turn towards Dot, for one last glimpse of a little figure very pleasant to me, she and the rest have vanished into air, and I am left alone. A Cricket sings upon the Hearth; a broken child's toy lies upon the ground: and nothing else remains.

<eob>

Bonnie Prince Charlie: A Tale Of Fontenoy And Culloden

By

G. A. Henty



CHAPTER I: The Return of a Prodigal.


It was a dull evening in the month of September, 1728. The apprentices had closed and barred the shutters and the day's work was over. Supper was laid in the long room over the shop, the viands were on the table, and round it were standing Bailie Anderson and his wife, his foreman John Gillespie, and his two apprentices. The latter were furtively eying the eatables, and wondering how much longer the grace which their master was delivering would be. Suddenly there was a knock at the door below. No one stirred until the bailie had finished his grace, before which time the knock had been twice repeated.

"Elspeth, woman," the bailie said when he had brought the grace to an end, "go down below and see who knocks so impatiently; look through the grille before you open the door; these are nor times when one opens to the first stranger who knocks."

The old servant, who had been standing behind her mistress, went downstairs. The door was opened, and they heard an exclamation of surprise at the answer to her question, "Who is it that's knocking as if the house belonged to him?"

Those gathered up stairs heard the bolts withdrawn. There was a confused sound of talking and then a heavy step was heard ascending the stairs, and without introduction a tall man, wrapped in a cloak and carrying a child of some two years old, strode into the room. He threw his hat on to a settle and advanced straight towards the bailie, who looked in surprise at this unceremonious entry.

"Don't you know me, Andrew?"

"Heaven preserve us," the bailie exclaimed, "why it's Malcolm!"

"Malcolm himself," the visitor repeated, "sound in wind and limb."

"The Lord be praised!" the bailie exclaimed as he grasped the other's hand and wrung it warmly. "I had thought you dead years and years ago. Janet, this is my brother Malcolm of whom you have often heard me speak."

"And of whom you can have heard little good, mistress, if my brother has spoken the truth concerning me. I was ever a ne'er do well, while Andrew struck hard and fast to our father's trade."

"My husband has ever spoken with affection of you," Janet Anderson said. "The bailie is not given to speak ill of any, much less of his own flesh and blood."

"And now sit down, Malcolm. Supper is waiting, and you are, I doubt not, ready for it. It is ill talking to a fasting man. When you have done you shall tell me what you have been doing for the last fifteen years, and how it comes that you thus suddenly come back among us with your boy."

"He is no boy of mine," Malcolm said; "but I will tell you all about it presently. First let me lay him down on that settle, for the poor little chap is fast asleep and dead tired out. Elspeth, roll up my cloak and make a pillow for him. That's right, he will do nicely now. You are changed less than any of us, Elspeth. Just as hard to look at, and, I doubt not, just as soft at heart as you used to be when you tried to shield me when I got into scrapes. And now to supper."

Little was said during the meal; fortunately the table was bounteously spread, for the newcomer's appetite was prodigious; but at last he was satisfied, and after a long drink at the horn beside him, which Elspeth had kept filled with ale, he said:

"There's nothing like a Scottish meal after all, Andrew. French living is well enough for a time, but one tires of it; and many a time when I have been lying down supperless on the sod, after marching and fighting the whole day, I have longed for a bowl of porridge and a platter well filled with oatmeal cakes."

Supper over, John and the apprentices retired. Elspeth went off to prepare the guest's chamber and to make up a little bed for the child.

"Now, brother, let us hear your story; but, first of all, perhaps you want to light your pipe?"

"That do I," Malcolm replied, "if Mistress Janet has no objection thereto."

"She is accustomed to it," the bailie said, answering for her. "I smoke myself; I deem that tobacco, like other things, was given for our use, and methinks that with a pipe between the lips men's brains work more easily and that it leadeth to pleasant converse."

Janet went to a cupboard, brought out two long pipes and a jar of tobacco, placed two tumblers, a flat bottle, and a jug of water on the table.

"That is right," the bailie said. "I do not often touch strong waters. The habit, as I see too plainly, is a harmful one, and in this good city of Glasgow there are many, even of those so placed that they should be an example to their fellows, who are given nightly to drink more than is good for them; but on an occasion like the present I deem it no harm to take a glass."

"I should think not," Malcolm said heartily; "it is long since I tasted a glass of real Scotch spirit, and I never need an excuse for taking a glass of whatever it be that comes in my way. Not, Mistress Janet, that I am a toper. I don't say that at the sack of a town, or at times when liquor is running, so to speak, to waste, I am more backward than the rest; but my hand wouldn't be as steady as it is if I had been one of those who are never so happy as when they are filling themselves with liquor. And now, Andrew, to my story. You know that when I saw you last -- just when the troubles in '15 began -- in spite of all your warnings to the contrary, I must needs throw myself into the thick of them. You, like a wise man, stuck to your shop, and here you are now a bailie of Glasgow; while I, who have been wandering over the face of the earth fighting for the cause of France and risking my life a thousand times in a matter which concerned me in no way, have returned just as penniless as I set out."

"It is said, brother Malcolm," Janet said mildly, "that a rolling stone gathers no moss."

"That is true enough," Malcolm assented; "and yet do you know there are few rolling stones who, if their time were to come over again, would remain fixed in their bed. Of course we have not the pleasures of home, of wives and children; but the life of adventure has its own joys, which I, for one, would not change for the others. However, brother, as you know, I threw myself heart and soul into that business.

"The last time I saw you was just as I was starting with a score of others to make our way to join the Earl of Mar's army at Perth. I have seen many an army since, but never did I see sixteen thousand finer fighting men than were there assembled. The Laird of Mackintosh brought five hundred clansmen from Inverness shire, the Marquis of Huntly had five hundred horse and two thousand foot, and the Earl Marischal had a thousand men. The Laird of Glenlyon brought five hundred Campbells, and the Marquis of Tullibardine fourteen hundred, and a score of other chiefs of less power were there with their clansmen. There were enough men there to have done anything had they been properly armed and led; but though arms and ammunition had been promised from France, none came, and the Earl of Mar had so little decision that he would have wrecked the finest army that ever marched.

"The army lay doing nothing for weeks, and just before we were expecting a movement, the company I belonged to was sent with a force of Highlanders under Mackintosh to join the army under the Lords Derwentwater, Kenmure, and Nithsdale. Lord Derwentwater had risen with a number of other gentlemen, and with their attendants and friends had marched against Newcastle. They had done nothing there but remained idle near Hexham till, joined by a force raised in the Lowlands of Scotland by the Earls of Nithsdale, Carnwath, and Wintoun, the united army marched north again to Kelso, where we joined them.

"We Scots soon saw that we had gained nothing by the change of commanders. Lord Derwentwater was ignorant of military affairs, and he was greatly swayed by a Mr. Forster, who was somehow at the head of the business, and who was not only incompetent, but proved to be a coward, if not, as most folks believed, a traitor. So dissension soon broke out, and four hundred Highlanders marched away north. After a long delay it was resolved to move south, where, it was said, we should be joined by great numbers in Lancashire; but by this time all had greatly lost spirit and hope in the enterprise. We crossed the border and marched down through Penrith, Appleby, and Kendal to Lancaster, and then on to Preston.

"I was little more than a lad, Andrew, but even to me it seemed madness thus to march into England with only two thousand men. Of these twelve hundred were foot, commanded by Brigadier Mackintosh; the others were horse. There were two troops of Stanhope's dragoons quartered in Preston, but these retired when we neared the town, and we entered without opposition. Next day, which was, I remember, the 10th of November, the Chevalier was proclaimed king, and some country gentlemen with their tenants came in and joined us.

"I suppose it would have come to the same thing in the end, but never were things so badly managed as they were by Mr. Forster.

"Preston was a strong natural position; an enemy coming from the south could only reach it by crossing a narrow bridge over the river Ribble a mile and a half away, and this could have been held by a company against an army. From the bridge to the town the road was so narrow that in several places two men could not ride abreast. It ran between two high and steep banks, and it was here that Cromwell was nearly killed when he attacked Charles's troops.

"Well, all these places, where we might certainly have defended ourselves, were neglected, and we were all kept in the town, where we formed four main posts. One was in the churchyard, and this was commanded by Brigadier Mackintosh. In support of this was the volunteer horse under Derwentwater and the three other lords. Lord Charles Murray was in command at a barricade at a little distance from the churchyard. Colonel Mackintosh had charge of a post at a windmill; and the fourth was in the centre of the town.

"Lord Derwentwater was a poor general, but he was a brave man. He and his two brothers, the Ratcliffs, rode about everywhere, setting an example of coolness, animating the soldiers, and seeing to the work on the barriers. Two days after we reached the town we heard that General Wilde was approaching. Colonel Farquharson was sent forward with a portion of Mackintosh's battalion to hold the bridge and the pass; but Mr. Forster, who went out on horseback, no sooner saw the enemy approaching than he gave orders to Farquharson and his men to retreat to the town. If I had been in Farquharson's place I would have put a bullet through the coward's head, and would have defended the bridge till the last.

"After that everything was confusion; the Highlanders came back into the town furious and disheartened. The garrison prepared to receive the enemy. Mr. Forster was seen no more, and in fact he went straight back to the house where he was lodging and took his bed, where he remained till all was over. The enemy came on slowly. They could not understand why strong posts should be left undefended, and feared falling in an ambuscade. I was at the post commanded by Brigadier Mackintosh. I had joined a company commanded by Leslie of Glenlyon, who had brought with him some twenty men, and had made up his company with men who, like myself, came up without a leader. His company was attached to Mackintosh's regiment.

"Presently the English came in sight, and as soon as they ascertained that we were still there, which they had begun to doubt, they attacked us. We beat them back handsomely, and Derwentwater with his cavalry charged their dragoons so fiercely that he drove them out of the town. It was late in the afternoon when the fight began, and all night the struggle went on. At each of our posts we beat them back over and over again. The town was on fire in half a dozen places, but luckily the night was still and the flames did not spread. We knew that it was a hopeless fight we were making; for, from some prisoners, we learned that three regiments of dragoons were also coming up against us, and had already arrived at Clitheroe. From some inhabitants, I suppose, the enemy learned that the street leading to Wigan had nor been barricaded, and Lord Forrester brought up Preston's regiment by this way, and suddenly fell on the flank of our barrier. It was a tough fight, but we held our own till the news came that Forster had agreed to capitulate.

"I don't say that our case wasn't hopeless. We were outnumbered and had no leader; sooner or later we must have been overpowered. Still, no capitulation should have been made except on the terms of mercy to all concerned. But Forster no doubt felt safe about himself, and that was all he cared for; and the end showed that he knew what he was about, for while all the brave young noblemen, and numbers of others, were either executed or punished in other ways, Forster, who had been the leading spirit who had persuaded them to rise, and led them into this strait, was after a short imprisonment suffered to go free. I tell you, brother Andrew, if I were to meet him now, even if it were in a church, I would drive my dagger into his heart.

"However, there we were. So furious were we that it was with difficulty the officers could prevent us from sallying out sword in hand and trying to cut our way through the enemy. As to Forster, if he had appeared in the streets he would have been hewn to pieces. However, it was useless to resist now; the English troops marched in and we laid down our arms, and our battalions marched into a church and were guarded as prisoners. It was not a great army they had taken, for there were but one thousand four hundred and ninety captured, including noblemen, gentlemen, and officers.

"Many of us were wounded more or less. I had got a slice on the shoulder from a dragoon's sword. This I gained when rushing out to rescue Leslie, who had been knocked down, and would have been slain by three dragoons had I not stood over him till some of our men rushed out and carried him in. He was not badly hurt, the sword having turned as it cut through his bonnet. My action won his regard, and from that time until a month since we have never been separated. Under a strong escort of soldiers we were marched south. In most places the country people mocked us as we passed; but here and there we saw among the crowds who gathered in the streets of the towns through which we passed, faces which we passed, faces which expressed pity and sympathy

"We were not badly treated on the march by our guard, and had little to complain of. When we reached Barnet we fell out as usual when the march was over, and I went up to the door of a house and asked a woman, who looked pityingly at us, for a drink of water. She brought me some, and while I drank she said:

"'We are Catholics and well wishers of the Chevalier; if you can manage to slip in here after it is dark we will furnish you with a disguise, and will direct you to friends who will pass you on until you can escape.

"'Can you give me disguises for two?' I asked. 'I will not go without my captain.'

"'Yes,' she said, 'for two, but no more.'

"'I will steal away after dark,' I said as I gave her back the jug.

"I told Leslie what had happened, and he agreed to join me in time to escape, for there was no saying what fate might befall us in London; and, indeed, the very next morning severities commenced, the whole of the troops being obliged to suffer the indignity of having their arms tied behind them, and so being marched into London.

"After it was dark Leslie and I managed to steal away from our guards, who were not very watchful, for our uniform would at once have betrayed us, and the country people would have seized and handed us over. The woman was on the watch, and as soon as we neared the door she opened it. Her husband was with her and received us kindly. He at once furnished us with the attire of two countrymen, and, letting us out by a back way, started with us across the country.

"After walking twenty miles he brought us to the house of another adherent of the Chevalier, where we remained all day. So we were passed on until we reached the coast, where we lay hid for some days until an arrangement was made with the captain of a fishing boat to take us to sea, and either to land us at Calais or to put us on board a French fishing boat. So we got over without trouble.

"Long before that, as you know, the business had virtually come to an end here. The Earl of Mar's army lay week after week at Perth, till at last it met the enemy under Argyle at Sheriffmuir.

"You know how that went. The Highland clans in the right and centre carried all before them, and drove the enemy from the field, but on the left they beat us badly. So both parties claimed the victory. But, victory or defeat, it was fatal to the cause of the Chevalier. Half the Highland clans went off to their homes that night, and Mar had to fall back to Perth.

"Well, that was really the end of it. The Chevalier landed, and for a while our hopes rose. He did nothing, and our hopes fell. At last he took ship and went away, and the affair was over, except for the hangings and slaughterings.

"Leslie, like most of the Scottish gentlemen who succeeded in reaching France, took service with the French king, and, of course, I did the same. It would have done your heart good to see how the Scottish regiments fought on many a field; the very best troops of France were never before us, and many a tough field was decided by our charge. Leslie was a cornet. He was about my age; and you know I was but twenty when Sheriffmuir was fought. He rose to be a colonel, and would have given me a pair of colours over and over again if I would have taken them; but I felt more comfortable among our troopers than I should have done among the officers, who were almost all men of good Highland family; so I remained Leslie's right hand.

"A braver soldier never swung a leg over saddle; but he was always in some love affair or another. Why he didn't marry I couldn't make out. I suppose he could never stick long enough to one woman. However, some four years ago he got into an affair more serious than any he had been in before, and this time he stuck to it in right earnest. Of course she was precisely one of the women he oughtn't to have fallen in love with, though I for one couldn't blame him, for a prettier creature wasn't to be found in France. Unfortunately she was the only daughter of the Marquis de Recambours, one of the wealthiest and most powerful of French nobles, and there was no more chance of his giving his consent to her throwing herself away upon a Scottish soldier of fortune than to her going into a nunnery; less, in fact. However, she was as much in love with Leslie as he was with her, and so they got secretly married. Two years ago this child was born, but she managed somehow to keep it from her father, who was all this time urging her to marry the Duke de Chateaurouge.

"At last, as ill luck would have it, he shut her up in a convent just a week before she had arranged to fly with Leslie to Germany, where he intended to take service until her father came round. Leslie would have got her out somehow; but his regiment was ordered to the frontier, and it was eighteen months before we returned to Paris, where the child had been in keeping with some people with whom he had placed it. The very evening of his return I was cleaning his arms when he rushed into the room.

"'All is discovered,' he said; 'here is my signet ring, go at once and get the child, and make your way with it to Scotland; take all the money in the escritoire, quick!'

"I heard feet approaching, and dashed to the bureau, and transferred the bag of louis there to my pocket. An official with two followers entered.

"'Colonel Leslie,' he said, 'it is my duty to arrest you by order of his gracious majesty;' and he held out an order signed by the king.

"'I am unconscious of having done any wrong, sir, to his majesty, whom I have served for the last sixteen years. However, it is not for me to dispute his orders;' thereupon he unbuckled his sword and handed it to the officers. 'You will look after the things till I return, Malcolm. As I am sure I can clear myself of any charge that may be brought against me, I trust to be speedily back again.

"'Your trooper need not trouble himself,' the officer said; 'the official with me will take charge of everything, and will at once affix my seal to all your effects.'

"I went down stairs and saw the colonel enter a carriage with the two officials, then I went straight to the major. 'Colonel Leslie has been arrested, sir, on what charge I know not. He has intrusted a commission to me. Therefore, if you find I am absent from parade in the morning you will understand I am carrying out his orders.'

"The major was thunderstruck at the news, but told me to do as the colonel had ordered me, whatever it might be. I mounted the colonel's horse at once and rode to the house where the child was in keeping. The people knew me well, as I had often been there with messages from the colonel. When I showed them the signet ring, and told them that I had orders to take the child to his father, they made no opposition. I said I would return for him as soon as it was dusk. I then went and purchased a suit of civilian clothes, and returning to the house attired myself in these, and taking the child on the saddle before me, rode for the frontier.

"Following unfrequented roads, travelling only at night, and passing a day in a wood, I passed the frontier unmolested, and made my way to Ostend, where I sold the horse and took passage in the first ship sailing for Leith. I arrived there two days ago, and have walked here, with an occasional lift in a cart; and here I am, brother Andrew, to ask you for hospitality for a while for myself and Leslie's boy. I have a hundred louis, but these, of course, belong to the child. As for myself, I confess I have nothing; saving has never been in my line."

"You are heartily welcome, Malcolm, as long as you choose to stop; but I trust that ere long you will hear of Colonel Leslie."

"I trust so," Malcolm said; "but if you knew the court of France as well as I do you would not feel very sanguine about it. It is easier to get into a prison than out of one."

"But the colonel has committed no crime!" the bailie said.

"His chance would be a great deal better if he had," Malcolm laughed. "A colonel of one of his majesty's Scottish regiments can do a good deal in the way of crime without much harm befalling him; but when it comes to marrying the daughter of a nobleman who is a great personage at court, without his consent, it is a different affair altogether, I can tell you. Leslie has powerful friends, and his brother officers will do what they can for him; but I can tell you services at the court of France go for very little. Influence is everything, and as the nobleman the marquis intended to be the husband of his daughter is also a great personage at court and a friend of Louis's, there is no saying how serious a matter they may make of it. Men have been kept prisoners for life for a far less serious business than this."

"But supposing he is released, does he know where to communicate with you?"

"I am afraid he doesn't," Malcolm said ruefully. "He knows that I come from Glasgow, but that is all. Still, when he is freed, no doubt he will come over himself to look for his son, and I am sure to hear of his being here."

"You might do, and you might not," the bailie said. "Still, we must hope for the best, Malcolm. At any rate I am in no haste for the colonel to come. Now I have got you home again after all these years, I do not wish to lose you again in a hurry."

Malcolm only remained for a few weeks at his brother's house. The restraint of life at the bailie's was too much for him. Andrew's was a well ordered household. The bailie was methodical and regular, a leading figure in the kirk, far stricter than were most men of his time as to undue consumption of liquor, strong in exhortation in season and out of season. His wife was kindly but precise, and as outspoken as Andrew himself. For the first day or two the real affection which Andrew had for his younger brother, and the pleasure he felt at his return, shielded Malcolm from comment or rebuke; but after the very first day the bailie's wife had declared to herself that it was impossible that Malcolm could long remain an inmate of the house. She was not inhospitable, and would have made great sacrifices in some directions for the long missing brother of her husband; but his conduct outraged all the best feelings of a good Scotch housewife.

Even on that first day he did not come punctually to his meals. He was away about the town looking up old acquaintance, came in at dinner and again at supper after the meal had already begun, and dropped into his place and began to eat without saying a word of grace. He stamped about the house as if he had cavalry spurs still on his heels; talked in a voice that could be heard from attic to basement; used French and Flemish oaths which horrified the good lady, although she did not understand them; smoked at all hours of the day, whereas Andrew always confined himself to his after supper pipe, and, in spite of his assertions on the previous evening, consumed an amount of liquor which horrified the good woman.

At his meals he talked loudly, kept the two apprentices in a titter with his stories of campaigning, spoke slightingly of the city authorities, and joked the bailie with a freedom and roughness which scandalized her. Andrew was slow to notice the incongruity of his brother's demeanour and bearing with the atmosphere of the house, although he soon became dimly conscious that there was a jarring element in the air. At the end of a week Malcolm broached the subject to him.

"Andrew," he said, "you are a good fellow, though you are a bailie and an elder of the kirk, and I thank you for the hearty welcome you have given me, and for your invitation to stay for a long time with you; but it will not do. Janet is a good woman and a kindly, but I can see that I keep her perpetually on thorns. In good truth, fifteen years of campaigning are but an indifferent preparation for a man as an inmate of a respectable household. I did not quite know myself how thoroughly I had become a devil may care trooper until I came back to my old life here. The ways of your house would soon be as intolerable to me as my ways are to your good wife, and therefore it is better by far that before any words have passed between you and me, and while we are as good friends as on the evening when I returned, I should get out of this. I met an old friend today, one of the lads who went with me from Glasgow to join the Earl of Mar at Perth. He is well to do now, and trades in cattle, taking them in droves down into England. For the sake of old times he has offered me employment, and methinks it will suit me as well as any other."

"But you cannot surely be going as a drover, Malcolm!"

"Why not? The life is as good as any other. I would not sit down, after these years of roving, to an indoor life. I must either do that or cross the water again and take service abroad. I am only six and thirty yet, and am good for another fifteen years of soldiering, and right gladly would I go back if Leslie were again at the head of his regiment, but I have been spoiled by him. He ever treated me as a companion and as a friend rather than as a trooper in his regiment, and I should miss him sorely did I enter any other service. Then, too, I would fain be here to be ready to join him again if he sends for me or comes, and I should wish to keep an eye always on his boy. You will continue to take charge of him, won't you, Andrew? He is still a little strange, but he takes to Elspeth, and will give little trouble when he once learns the language."

"I don't like it at all, Malcolm," the bailie said.

"No, Andrew, but you must feel it is best. I doubt not that ere this your wife has told you her troubles concerning me."

As the bailie on the preceding night had listened to a long string of complaints and remonstrances on the part of his wife as to his brother's general conduct he could not deny the truth of Malcolm's supposition.

"Just so, Andrew," Malcolm went on; "I knew that it must be so. Mistress Janet has kept her lips closed firm to me, but I could see how difficult it was for her sometimes to do so. It could not be otherwise. I am as much out of place here as a wolf in a sheepfold. As to the droving, I shall not mention to all I meet that I am brother to one of the bailies of Glasgow. I shall like the life. The rough pony I shall ride will differ in his paces from my old charger, but at least it will be life in the saddle. I shall be earning an honest living; if I take more than is good for me I may get a broken head and none be the wiser, whereas if I remain here and fall foul of the city watch it would be grief and pain for you."

The bailie was silenced. He had already begun to perceive that Malcolm's ways and manners were incompatible with the peace and quiet of a respectable household, and that Janet's complaints were not altogether unreasonable. He had seen many of his acquaintances lift their eyebrows in disapprobation at the roystering talk of his brother, and had foreseen that it was probable trouble would come.

At the same rime he felt a repugnance to the thought that after so many years of absence his brother should so soon quit his house. It seemed a reflection alike on his affection and hospitality.

"You will take charge of the child, won't you?" Malcolm pleaded. "There is a purse of a hundred louis, which will, I should say, pay for any expense to which he may put you for some years."

"As if I would take the bairn's money!" Andrew exclaimed angrily. "What do you take me for, Malcolm? Assuredly I will take the child. Janet and I have no bairn of our own, and it's good for a house to have a child in it. I look upon it as if it were yours, for it is like enough you will never hear of its father again. It will have a hearty welcome. It is a bright little fellow, and in time I doubt not that Janet will take greatly to it. The charge of a child is a serious matter, and we cannot hope that we shall not have trouble with it, but there is trouble in all things. At any rate, Malcolm, we will do our best, and if at the end of a year I find that Janet has not taken to it we will see about some other arrangement. And, Malcolm, I do trust that you will stay with us for another week or two. It would seem to me as if I had turned you out of my house were you to leave me so soon."

So Malcolm made a three weeks' stay at his brother's, and then started upon his new occupation of driving Highland cattle down into Lancashire. Once every two or three months he came to Glasgow for a week or two between his trips. In spite of Andrew's entreaties he refused on these occasions to take up his abode with him, but took a lodging not far off, coming in the evening for an hour to smoke a pipe with his brother, and never failing of a morning to come in and take the child for a long walk with him, carrying him upon his shoulder, and keeping up a steady talk with him in his native French, which he was anxious that the boy should nor forget, as at some time or other he might again return to France.

Some weeks after Malcolm's return to Scotland, he wrote to Colonel Leslie, briefly giving his address at Glasgow; but making no allusion to the child, as, if the colonel were still in prison, the letter would be sure to be opened by the authorities. He also wrote to the major, giving him his address, and begging him to communicate it to Colonel Leslie whenever he should see him; that done, there was nothing for it but to wait quietly. The post was so uncertain in those days that he had but slight hope that either of his letters would ever reach their destination. No answer came to either of his letters.

Four years later Malcolm went over to Paris, and cautiously made inquiries; but no one had heard anything of Colonel Leslie from the day he had been arrested. The regiment was away fighting in the Low Countries, and the only thing Malcolm could do was to call upon the people who had had charge of the child, to give them his address in case the colonel should ever appear to inquire of them. He found, however, the house tenanted by other people. He learned that the last occupants had left years before. The neighbors remembered that one morning early some officers of the law had come to the house, and the man had been seized and carried away. He had been released some months later, only to find that his wife had died of grief and anxiety, and he had then sold off his goods and gone no one knew whither. Malcolm, therefore, returned to Glasgow, with the feeling that he had gained nothing by his journey.



CHAPTER II: The Jacobite Agent.


So twelve years passed. Ronald Leslie grew up a sturdy lad, full of fun and mischief in spite of the sober atmosphere of the bailie's house; and neither flogging at school nor lecturing at home appeared to have the slightest effect in reducing him to that state of sober tranquillity which was in Mrs. Anderson's eyes the thing to be most desired in boys. Andrew was less deeply shocked than his wife at the discovery of Ronald's various delinquencies, but his sense of order and punctuality was constantly outraged. He was, however, really fond of the lad; and even Mrs. Anderson, greatly as the boy's ways constantly disturbed and ruffled her, was at heart as fond of him as was her husband. She considered, and not altogether wrongly, that his wilderness, as she called it, was in no slight degree due to his association with her husband's brother.

Ronald looked forward to the periodical visits of the drover with intense longing. He was sure of a sympathetic listener in Malcolm, who listened with approval to the tales of the various scrapes into which he had got since his last visit; of how, instead of going to school, he had played truant and with another boy his own age had embarked in a fisherman's boat and gone down the river and had not been able to get back until next day; how he had played tricks upon his dominie, and had conquered in single combat the son of Councillor Duff, the butcher, who had spoken scoffing words at the Stuarts. Malcolm was, in fact, delighted to find, that in spite of repression and lectures his young charge was growing up a lad of spirit. He still hoped that some day Leslie might return, and he knew how horrified he would be were he to find that his son was becoming a smug and well conducted citizen. No small portion of his time on each of his visits to Glasgow Malcolm spent in training the boy in the use of arms.

"Your father was a gentleman," he would say to him, "and it is fitting that you should know how to handle a gentleman's arms. Clubs are well enough for citizens' apprentices, but I would have you handle rapier and broadsword as well as any of the young lairds. When you get old enough, Ronald, you and I will cross the seas, and together we will try and get to the bottom of the mystery of your father's fate, and if we find that the worst has come to the worst, we will seek our your mother. She will most likely have married again. They will be sure to have forced her into it; but even if she dare not acknowledge you as her son, her influence may obtain for you a commission in one of the king's regiments, and even if they think I'm too old for a trooper I will go as your follower. There are plenty of occasions at the court of France when a sharp sword and a stout arm, even if it be somewhat stiffened by age, can do good service."

The lessons began as soon as Ronald was old enough to hold a light blade, and as between the pauses of exercise Malcolm was always ready to tell stories of his adventures in the wars of France, the days were full of delight to Ronald. When the latter reached the age of fourteen Malcolm was not satisfied with the amount of proficiency which the lad was able to gain during his occasional visits, and therefore took him for further instruction to a comrade who had, like himself, served in France, and had returned and settled down in Glasgow, where he opened a fencing school, having been a maitre d'armes among the Scotch regiments.

The arrangement was, however, kept a profound secret from Andrew and his wife; but on half holidays, and on any other days when he could manage to slip away for an hour, Ronald went to his instructor and worked hard and steadily with the rapier. Had Mrs. Anderson had an idea of the manner in which he spent his time she would have been horrified, and would certainly have spared her encomiums on his improved conduct and the absence of the unsatisfactory reports which had before been so common.

The cloud of uncertainty which hung over his father's fate could not but have an influence upon the boy's character, and the happy carelessness and gaiety which were its natural characteristics were modified by the thought that his father might be languishing in a dungeon. Sometimes he would refuse to accompany his school fellows on their rambles or fishing expeditions, and would sit for hours thinking over all sorts of wild plans by which he might penetrate to him and aid him to escape. He was never tired of questioning Malcolm Anderson as to the prisons in which, if still alive, his father would be likely to be confined. He would ask as to their appearance, the height of their walls, whether they were moated or not, and whether other houses abutted closely upon them. One day Malcolm asked him the reason of these questions, and he replied, "Of course I want to see how it will be possible to get my father out." And although Malcolm tried to impress upon him that it would be an almost impossible task even to discover in which prison his father was kept, he would not allow himself to be discouraged.

"There must be some way of finding out, Malcolm. You tell me that prisoners are not even known by their name to the warders, but only under a number. Still someone must know -- there must be lists kept of those in prison, and I shall trust to my mother to find out for me. A great lady as she is must be able to get at people if she sets about it, and as certainly she must have loved my father very very much, or she never would have married him secretly, and got into such trouble for it. I am sure she will do her best when she finds that you and I have come over to get him out. When we know that, I think we ought to be able to manage. You could get employment as a warder, or I could go disguised as a woman, or as a priest, or somehow. I feel sure we shall succeed if we do but find out that he is alive and where he is."

Malcolm knew too much about the strong and well guarded prisons of France to share in the boy's sanguine hopes, but he did not try to discourage him. He thought that with such an object in life before him the boy would devote himself all the more eagerly to exercises which would strengthen his arm, increase his skill with weapons, and render him a brave and gallant officer, and in this he was right. As the time went on Ronald became more and more serious. He took no part whatever in the school boy games and frolics in which he had been once a leader. He worked hard at his school tasks the sooner to be done with them, and above all devoted himself to acquiring a mastery of the sword with a perseverance and enthusiasm which quite surprised his instructor.

"I tell you, Malcolm, man," he said one day to his old comrade, after Ronald had been for upwards of two years his pupil, "if I had known, when you first asked me to teach the lad to handle a sword, how much of my time he was going to occupy, I should have laughed in your face, for ten times the sum you agreed to pay me would not have been enough; but, having begun it for your sake, I have gone on for the lad's. It has been a pleasure to teach him, so eager was he to learn -- so ready to work heart and soul to improve. The boy's wrist is as strong as mine and his eye as quick. I have long since taught him all I know, and it is practice now, and not teaching, that we have every day. I tell you I have work to hold my own with him; he knows every trick and turn as well as I do, and is quicker with his lunge and riposte. Were it not that I have my extra length of arm in my favour I could not hold my own. As you know, I have many of the officers of the garrison among my pupils, and some of them have learned in good schools, but there is not one of them could defend himself for a minute against that boy. If it were not that the matter has to be kept secret I would set him in front of some of them, and you would see what short work he would make of them. Have you heard the rumours, Malcolm, that the young Chevalier is likely to follow the example of his father, thirty years back, and to make a landing in Scotland?"

"I have heard some such rumours," Malcolm replied, "though whether there be aught in them I know not. I hope that if he does so he will at any rate follow the example of his father no further. As you know, I hold to the Stuarts, but I must own they are but poor hands at fighting. Charles the First ruined his cause; James the Second threw away the crown of Ireland by galloping away from the battle of the Boyne; the Chevalier showed here in '15 that he was no leader of men; and unless this lad is made of very different stuff to his forefathers he had best stay in France."

"But if he should come, Malcolm, I suppose you will join him? I am afraid I shall be fool enough to do so, even with my fifty years on my head. And you?"

"I suppose I shall be a fool too," Malcolm said. "The Stuarts are Scotch, you see, and with all their faults I would rather a thousand times have a Scottish king than these Germans who govern us from London. If the English like them let them keep them, and let us have a king of our own. However, nought may come of it; it may be but a rumour. It is a card which Louis has threatened to play a score of times, whenever he wishes to annoy England. It is more than likely that it will come to nought, as it has so often done before."

"But they tell me that there are agents travelling about among the Highland clans, and that this time something is really to be done."

"They have said so over and over again, and nothing has come of it. For my part, I don't care which way it goes. After the muddle that was made of it thirty years ago it does not seem to me more likely that we shall get rid of the Hanoverians now. Besides, the hangings and slaughterings then, would, I should think, make the nobles and the heads of clans think twice ere they risked everything again."

"That is true, but when men's blood is up they do not count the cost; besides, the Highland clans are always ready to fight. If Prince Charles comes you will see there will not be much hanging back whatever the consequences may be. Well, you and I have not much to lose, except our lives."

"That is true enough, old friend; and I would rather die that way than any other. Still, to tell you the truth, I would rather keep my head on my shoulders for a few years if I can."

"Well, nothing may come of it; but if it does I shall strike a blow again for the old cause."

At home Ronald heard nothing but expressions of loyalty to the crown. The mere fact that the Highlanders espoused the cause of the Stuarts was sufficient in itself to make the Lowlanders take the opposite side. The religious feeling, which had always counted for so much in the Lowlands, and had caused Scotland to side with the Parliament against King Charles, had not lost its force. The leanings of the Stuarts were, it was known, still strongly in favour of the Catholic religion, and although Prince Charles Edward was reported to be more Protestant in feelings than the rest of his race, this was not sufficient to counterbalance the effect of the hereditary Catholic tendency. Otherwise there was no feeling of active loyalty towards the reigning king in Scotland. The first and second Georges had none of the attributes which attract loyal affection. The first could with difficulty speak the language of the people over whom he ruled. Their feelings and sympathies were Hanoverian rather than English, and all court favours were bestowed as fast as possible upon their countrymen. They had neither the bearing nor manner which men associate with royalty, nor the graces and power of attraction which distinguished the Stuarts. Commonplace and homely in manner, in figure, and in bearing, they were not men whom their fellows could look up to or respect; their very vices were coarse, and the Hanoverian men and women they gathered round them were hated by the English people.

Thus neither in England nor Scotland was there any warm feeling of loyalty for the reigning house; and though it was possible that but few would adventure life and property in the cause of the Stuarts, it was equally certain that outside the army there were still fewer who would draw sword for the Hanoverian king. Among the people of the Lowland cities of Scotland the loyalty which existed was religious rather than civil, and rested upon the fact that their forefathers had fought against the Stuarts, while the Highlanders had always supported their cause. Thus, although in the household and in kirk Ronald had heard King George prayed for regularly, he had heard no word concerning him calculated to waken a boyish feeling of loyalty, still less of enthusiasm. Upon the other hand he knew that his father had fought and suffered for the Stuarts and was an exile in their cause, and that Hanoverians had handed over the estate of which he himself would now be the heir to one of their adherents.

"It is no use talking of these matters to Andrew," Malcolm impressed upon him; "it would do no good. When he was a young man he took the side of the Hanoverians, and he won't change now; while, did Mistress Janet guess that your heart was with the Stuarts, she would say that I was ruining you, and should bring you to a gallows. She is not fond of me now, though she does her best to be civil to her husband's brother; but did she know that you had become a Jacobite, like enough she would move Andrew to put a stop to your being with me, and there would be all sorts of trouble."

"But they could nor prevent my being with you," Ronald said indignantly. "My father gave me into your charge, not into theirs."

"That's true enough, laddie; but it is they who have cared for you and brought you up. When you are a man you can no doubt go which way it pleases you; but till then you owe your duty and respect to them, and not to me, who have done nought for you but just carry you over here in my cloak."

"I know they have done everything for me," Ronald said penitently. "They have been very good and kind, and I love them both; but for all that it is only natural that my father should be first, and that my heart should be in the cause that he fought for."

"That is right enough, Ronald, and I would not have it otherwise, and I have striven to do my best to make you as he would like to see you. Did he never come back again I should be sorry indeed to see Colonel Leslie's son growing up a Glasgow tradesman, as my brother no doubt intends you to be, for I know he has long since given up any thought of hearing from your father; but in that you and I will have a say when the time comes. Until then you must treat Andrew as your natural guardian, and there is no need to anger him by letting him know that your heart is with the king over the water, any more than that you can wield a sword like a gentleman. Let us have peace as long as we can. You are getting on for sixteen now; another two years and we will think about going to Paris together. I am off again tomorrow, Ronald; it will not be a long trip this time, but maybe before I get back we shall have news from France which will set the land on fire."

A short time after this conversation, as Ronald on his return from college (for he was now entered at the university) passed through the shop, the bailie was in conversation with one of the city magistrates, and Ronald caught the words:

"He is somewhere in the city. He came down from the Highlands, where he has been going to and fro, two days since. I have a warrant out against him, and the constables are on the lookout. I hope to have him in jail before tonight. These pestilent rogues are a curse to the land, though I cannot think the clans would be fools enough to rise again, even though Charles Stuart did come."

Ronald went straight up to his room, and for a few minutes sat in thought. The man of whom they spoke was doubtless an emissary of Prince Charles, and his arrest might have serious consequences, perhaps bring ruin on all with whom he had been in communication. Who he was or what he was like Ronald knew not; but he determined at any rate to endeavour to defeat the intentions of the magistrate to lay hands on him. Accordingly a few minutes later, while the magistrate was still talking with Andrew, he again went out.

Ronald waited about outside the door till he left, and then followed him at a short distance. The magistrate spoke to several acquaintances on the way, and then went to the council chamber. Waiting outside, Ronald saw two or three of the magistrates enter. An hour later the magistrate he was watching came out; but he had gone but a few paces when a man hurrying up approached him. They talked earnestly for a minute or two. The magistrate then re-entered the building, remained there a few minutes, and then joined the man who was waiting outside. Ronald had stolen up and taken his stand close by.

"It is all arranged," the magistrate said; "as soon as night has fallen a party will go down, surround the house, and arrest him. It is better not to do it in daylight. I shall lead the party, which will come round to my house, so if the men you have left on watch bring you news that he has changed his hiding place, let me know at once.

The magistrate walked on. Ronald stood irresolute. He had obtained no clue as to the residence of the person of whom they were in search, and after a moment's thought he determined to keep an eye upon the constable, who would most likely join his comrade on the watch. This, however, he did not do immediately. He had probably been for some time at work, and now took the opportunity of going home for a meal, for he at once made his way to a quiet part of the city, and entered a small house.

It was half an hour before he came out again, and Ronald fidgeted with impatience, for it was already growing dusk. When he issued out Ronald saw that he was armed with a heavy cudgel. He walked quickly now, and Ronald, following at a distance, passed nearly across the town, and down a quiet street which terminated against the old wall running from the Castle Port to a small tower. When he got near the bottom of the street a man came out from an archway, and the two spoke together. From their gestures Ronald felt sure that it was the last house on the left hand side of the street that was being watched. He had not ventured to follow far down the street, for as there was no thoroughfare he would at once be regarded with suspicion. The question now was how to warn the man of his danger. He knew several men were on the watch, and as only one was in the street, doubtless the others were behind the house. If anything was to be done there was no time to be lost, for the darkness was fast closing in.

After a minute's thought he went quickly up the street, and then started at a run, and then came down upon a place where he could ascend the wall, which was at many points in bad repair. With some difficulty he climbed up, and found that he was exactly opposite the house he wished to reach. It was dark now. Even in the principal streets the town was only lit by oil lamps here and there, and there was no attempt at illumination in the quiet quarters, persons who went abroad after nightfall always carrying a lantern with them. There was still sufficient light to show Ronald that the house stood at a distance of some fourteen feet from the wall. The roof sloped too steeply for him to maintain his holding upon it; but halfway along the house was a dormer window about three feet above the gutter. It was unglazed, and doubtless gave light to a granary or store room.

Ronald saw that his only chance was to alight on the roof close enough to this window to be able to grasp the woodwork. At any other moment he would have hesitated before attempting such a leap. The wall was only a few feet wide, and he could therefore get but little run for a spring. His blood was, however, up, and having taken his resolution he did not hesitate. Drawing back as far as he could he took three steps, and then sprang for the window. Its sill was some three feet higher than the edge of the wall from which he sprang.

The leap was successful; his feet struck just upon the gutter, and the impetus threw forward his body, and his hands grasped the woodwork of the window. In a moment he had dragged himself inside. It was quite dark within the room. He moved carefully, for the floor was piled with disused furniture, boxes, sacking, and rubbish. He was some time finding the door, but although he moved as carefully as he could he knocked over a heavy chest which was placed on a rickety chair, the two falling with a crash on the floor. At last he found the door and opened it. As he did so a light met his eyes, and he saw ascending the staircase a man with a drawn sword, and a woman holding a light above her head following closely. The man uttered an exclamation on seeing Ronald appear.

"A thief!" he said. "Surrender, or I will run you through at once."

"I am no thief," Ronald replied. "My name is Ronald Leslie, and I am a student at the university. I have come here to warn someone, whom I know not, in this house that it is watched, and that in a few minutes at the outside a band of the city watch will be here to capture him."

The man dropped the point of his sword, and taking the light from the woman held it closer to Ronald's face.

"How came you here?" he asked. "How did you learn this news?"

"The house is watched both sides below," Ronald said, "and I leapt from the wall through the dormer window. I heard a magistrate arranging with one of the constables for a capture, and gathered that he of whom they were in search was a Jacobite, and as I come of a stock which has always been faithful to the Stuarts, I hastened to warn him."

The woman uttered a cry of alarm.

"I thank you with all my heart, young sir. I am he for whom they are in search, and if I get free you will render a service indeed to our cause; but there is no time to talk now, if what you tell me be true. You say the house is watched from both sides?"

"Yes; there are two men in the lane below, one or more, I know not how many, behind."

"There is no escape behind," the man said; "the walls are high, and other houses abut upon them. I will sally out and fight through the men in front."

"I can handle the sword," Ronald put in; "and if you will provide me with a weapon I will do my best by your side."

"You are a brave lad," the man said, "and I accept your aid."

He led the way down stairs and entered a room, took down a sword from over the fireplace, and gave it to Ronald.

As he took it in his hand there was a loud knocking at the door.

"Too late!" the man exclaimed. "Quick, the light, Mary! At any rate I must burn my papers."

He drew some letters from his pocket, lit them at the lamp, and threw them on the hearth; then opening a cabinet he drew forth a number of other papers and crumpling them up added them to the blaze.

"Thank God that is safe!" he said; "the worst evil is averted."

"Can you not escape by the way by which I came hither?" Ronald said. "The distance is too great to leap; but if you have got a plank, or can pull up a board from the floor, you could put it across to the wall and make your escape that way. I will try to hold the stairs till you are away."

"I will try at least," the man said. "Mary, bring the light, and aid me while our brave friend does his best to give us time."

So saying he sprang upstairs, while Ronald made his way down to the door.

"Who is making such a noise at the door of a quiet house at this time of night?" he shouted.

"Open in the king's name," was the reply; "we have a warrant to arrest one who is concealed here."

"There is no one concealed here," Ronald replied, "and I doubt that you are, as you say, officers of the peace; but if so, pass your warrant through the grill, and if it be signed and in due form I will open to you."

"I will show my warrant when need be," the voice answered. "Once more, open the door or we will break it in."

"Do it at your peril," Ronald replied. "How can I tell you are not thieves who seek to ransack the house, and that your warrant is a pretence? I warn you that the first who enters I will run him through the body."

The reply was a shower of blows on the door, and a similar attack was begun by a party behind the house. The door was strong, and after a minute or two the hammering ceased, and then there was a creaking, straining noise, and Ronald knew they were applying a crowbar to force it open. He retreated to a landing halfway up the stairs, placed a lamp behind him so that it would show its light full on the faces of those ascending the stairs, and waited. A minute later there was a crash; the lock had yielded, but the bar still held the door in its place. Then the blows redoubled, mingled with the crashing of wood; then there was the sound of a heavy fall, and a body of men burst in.

There was a rush at the stairs, but the foremost halted at the sight of Ronald with his drawn sword.

"Keep back," he shouted, "or beware! The watch will be here in a few minutes, and then you will all be laid by the heels."

"Fools! We are the watch," one of the men exclaimed, and, dashing up the stairs, aimed a blow at Ronald. He guarded it and ran the man through the shoulder. He dropped his sword and fell back with a curse.

At this moment the woman ran down stairs from above and nodded to Ronald to signify that the fugitive had escaped.

"You see I hold to my word," Ronald said in a loud voice. "If ye be the watch, which I doubt, show me the warrant, or if ye have one in authority with you let him proclaim himself."

"Here is the warrant, and here am I, James M'Whirtle, a magistrate of this city."

"Why did you not say so before?" Ronald exclaimed, lowering his sword. "If it be truly the worshipful Mr. M'Whirtle let him show himself, for surely I know him well, having seen him often in the house of my guardian, Bailie Anderson."

Mr. M'Whirtle, who had been keeping well in the rear, now came forward.

"It is himself." Ronald said. "Why did you not say you were here at once, Mr. M'Whirtle, instead of setting your men to break down the door, as if they were Highland caterans on a foray?"

"We bade you open in the king's name," the magistrate said, "and you withstood us, and it will be hanging matter for you, for you have aided the king's enemies."

"The king's enemies!" Ronald said in a tone of surprise. "How can there be any enemies of the king here, seeing there are only myself and the good woman up stairs? You will find no others."

"Search the house," the magistrate said furiously, "and take this malapert lad into custody on the charge of assisting the king's enemies, of impeding the course of justice, of withstanding by force of arms the issue of a lawful writ, and with grievously wounding one of the city watch."

Ronald laughed.

"It is a grievous list, worshipful sir; but mark you, as soon as you showed your warrant and declared yourself I gave way to you. I only resisted so long as it seemed to me you were evildoers breaking into a peaceful house."

Two of the watch remained as guard over Ronald; one of the others searched the house from top to bottom. No signs of the fugitive were discovered.

"He must be here somewhere," the magistrate said, "since he was seen to enter, and the house has been closely watched ever since. See, there are a pile of ashes on the hearth as if papers had been recently burned. Sound the floors and the walls."

The investigation was particularly sharp in the attic, for a board was here found to be loose, and there were signs of its being recently wrenched out of its place, but as the room below was unceiled this discovery led to nothing. At last the magistrate was convinced that the fugitive was not concealed in the house, and, after placing his seals on the doors of all the rooms and leaving four men in charge, he left the place, Ronald, under the charge of four men, accompanying him.

On the arrival at the city Tolbooth Ronald was thrust into a cell and there left until morning. He was then brought before Mr. M'Whirtle and two other of the city magistrates. Andrew Anderson was in attendance, having been notified the night before of what had befallen Ronald. The bailie and his wife had at first been unable to credit the news, and were convinced that some mistake had been made. Andrew had tried to obtain his release on his promise to bring him up in the morning, but Mr. M'Whirtle and his colleagues, who had been hastily summoned together, would not hear of it.

"It's a case of treason, man. Treason against his gracious majesty; aiding and abetting one of the king's enemies, to say nought of brawling and assaulting the city watch."

The woman found in the house had also been brought up, but no precise charge was made against her. The court was crowded, for Andrew, in his wrath at being unable to obtain Ronald's release, had not been backward in publishing his grievance, and many of his neighbours were present to hear this strange charge against Ronald Leslie.

The wounded constable and another first gave their evidence.

"I myself can confirm what has been said," Mr. M'Whirtle remarked, "seeing that I was present with the watch to see the arrest of a person against whom a warrant had been issued."

"Who is that person?" Ronald asked. "Seeing that I am charged with aiding and abetting his escape it seems to me that I have a right to know who he is."

The magistrates looked astounded at the effrontery of the question, but after a moment's consultation together Mr. M'Whirtle said that in the interest of justice it was unadvisable at the present moment to state the name of the person concerned.

"What have you to say, prisoner, to the charge made against you? In consideration of our good friend Bailie Anderson, known to be a worthy citizen and loyal subject of his majesty, we would be glad to hear what you have to say anent this charge."

"I have nothing to say," Ronald replied quietly. "Being in the house when it was attacked, with as much noise as if a band of Border ruffians were at the gate, I stood on the defence. I demanded to see what warrant they had for forcing an entry, and as they would show me none, I did my best to protect the house; but the moment Mr. M'Whirtle proclaimed who he was I lowered my sword and gave them passage."

There was a smile in the court at the boy's coolness.

"But how came ye there, young sir? How came ye to be in the house at all, if ye were there for a good motive?"

"That I decline to say," Ronald answered. "It seems to me that any one may be in a house by the consent of its owners, without having to give his reasons therefor."

"It will be the worse for you if you defy the court. I ask you again how came you there?"

"I have no objection to tell you how I came there," Ronald said. "I was walking on the old wall, which, as you know, runs close by the house, when I saw an ill looking loon hiding himself as if watching the house, looking behind I saw another ruffianly looking man there." Two gasps of indignation were heard from the porch at the back of the court. "Thinking that there was mischief on hand I leapt from the wall to the dormer window to warn the people of the house that there were ill doers who had designs upon the place, and then remained to see what came of it. That is the simple fact."

There was an exclamation of incredulity from the magistrates.

"If you doubt me," Ronald said, "you can send a man to the wall. I felt my feet loosen a tile and it slid down into the gutter."

One of the magistrates gave an order, and two of the watch left the court.

"And who did you find in the house?"

"I found this good woman, and sorely frightened she was when I told her what kind of folk were lurking outside."

"And was there anyone else there?"

"There was a man there," Ronald said quietly, "and he seemed alarmed too."

"What became of him?"

"I cannot say for certain," Ronald replied; "but if you ask my opinion I should say, that having no stomach for meeting people outside, he just went out the way I came in, especially as I heard the worshipful magistrate say that a board in the attic had been lifted."

The magistrates looked at each other in astonishment; the mode of escape had not occurred to any, and the disappearance of the fugitive was now explained.

"I never heard such a tale," one of the magistrates said after a pause. "It passes belief that a lad, belonging to the family of a worthy and respectable citizen, a bailie of the city and one who stands well with his fellow townsmen, should take a desperate leap from the wall through a window of a house where a traitor was in hiding, warn him that the house was watched, and give him time to escape while he defended the stairs. Such a tale, sure, was never told in a court. What say you, bailie?"

"I can say nought," Andrew said. "The boy is a good boy and a quiet one; given to mischief like other boys of his age, doubtless, but always amenable. What can have possessed him to behave in such a wild manner I cannot conceive, but it seems to me that it was but a boy's freak."

"It was no freak when he ran his sword through Peter Muir's shoulder," Mr. M'Whirtle said. "Ye will allow that, neighbour Anderson."

"The man must have run against the sword," the bailie said, "seeing the boy scarce knows one end of a weapon from another."

"You are wrong there, bailie," one of the constables said; "for I have seen him many a time going into the school of James Macklewain, and I have heard a comrade say, who knows James, that the lad can handle a sword with the best of them."

"I will admit at once," Ronald said, "that I have gone to Macklewain's school and learned fencing of him. My father, Colonel Leslie of Glenlyon, was a gentleman, and it was right that I should wield a sword, and James Macklewain, who had fought in the French wars and knew my father, was good enough to teach me. I may say that my guardian knew nothing of this."

"No, indeed," Andrew said. "I never so much as dreamt of it. If I had done so he and I would have talked together to a purpose."

"Leslie of Glenlyon was concerned in the '15, was he not?" Mr. M'Whirtle said; "and had to fly the country; and his son seems to be treading in his steps, bailie. I doubt ye have been nourishing a viper in your bosom."

At this moment the two constables returned, and reported that certainly a tile was loose as the prisoner had described, and there were scratches as if of the feet of someone entering the window, but the leap was one that very few men would undertake.

"Your story is so far confirmed, prisoner; but it does not seem to us that even had you seen two men watching a house it would be reasonable that you would risk your neck in this way without cause. Clearly you have aided and abetted a traitor to escape justice, and you will be remanded. I hope, before you are brought before us again, you will make up your mind to make a clean breast of it, and throw yourself on the king's mercy."

Ronald was accordingly led back to the cell, the bailie being too much overwhelmed with surprise at what he had heard to utter any remonstrance.



CHAPTER III: Free.


After Ronald had been removed from the court the woman was questioned. She asserted that her master was away, and was, she believed, in France, and that in his absence she often let lodgings to strangers. That two days before, a man whom she knew not came and hired a room for a few days. That on the evening before, hearing a noise in the attic, she went up with him, and met Ronald coming down stairs. That when Ronald said there were strange men outside the house, and when immediately afterwards there was a great knocking at the door, the man drew his sword and ordered her to come up stairs with him. That he then made her assist him to pull up a plank, and thrust it from the attic to the wall, and ordered her to replace it when he had gone. She supposed he was a thief flying from justice, but was afraid to refuse to do his bidding.

"And why did you not tell us all this, woman, when we came in?" Mr. M'Whirtle asked sternly. "Had ye told us we might have overtaken him."

"I was too much frightened," the woman answered. "There were swords out and blood running, and men using words contrary both to the law and Scripture. I was frighted enough before, and I just put my apron over my head and sat down till the hubbub was over. And then as no one asked me any questions, and I feared I might have done wrong in aiding a thief to escape, I just held my tongue."

No cross questioning could elicit anything further from the woman, who indeed seemed frightened almost out of her senses, and the magistrate at last ordered her to return to the house and remain there under the supervision of the constable until again sent for.

Andrew Anderson returned home sorely disturbed in his mind. Hitherto he had told none, even of his intimates, that the boy living in his house was the son of Colonel Leslie, but had spoken of him as the child of an old acquaintance who had left him to his care. The open announcement of Ronald that he was the son of one of the leaders in the last rebellion, coming just as it did when the air was thick with rumours of another rising, troubled him greatly; and there was the fact that the boy had, unknown to him, been learning fencing; and lastly this interference, which had enabled a notorious emissary of the Pretender to escape arrest.

"The boy's story may be true as far as it goes," he said to his wife when relating to her the circumstances, "for I have never known him to tell a lie; but I cannot think it was all the truth. A boy does not take such a dreadful leap as that, and risk breaking his neck, simply because he sees two men near the house. He must somehow have known that man was there, and went to give him warning. Now I think of it, he passed through the shop when Peter M'Whirtle was talking to me about it, though, indeed, he did not know then where the loon was in hiding. The boy went out soon afterwards, and must somehow have learned, if indeed he did not know before. Janet, I fear that you and I have been like two blind owls with regard to the boy, and I dread sorely that my brother Malcolm is at the bottom of all this mischief."

This Mrs. Anderson was ready enough to credit, but she was too much bewildered and horrified to do more than to shake her head and weep.

"Will they cut off his head, Andrew?" she asked at last.

"No, there's no fear of that; but they may imprison him for a bit, and perhaps give him a good flogging -- the young rascal. But there, don't fret over it, Janet. I will do all I can for him. And in truth I think Malcolm is more to blame than he is; and we have been to blame too for letting the lad be so much with him, seeing that we might be sure he would put all sorts of notions in the boy's head."

"But what is to be done, Andrew? We cannot let the poor lad remain in prison."

"We have no choice in the matter, Janet. In prison he is, and in prison he has to remain until he is let out, and I see no chance of that. If it had only been a brawl with the watch it could have been got over easily enough; but this is an affair of high treason -- aiding and abetting the king's enemies, and the rest of it. If it were in the old times they would put the thumb screws on him to find out all he knew about it, for they will never believe he risked his life in the plot; and the fact that his father before him was in arms for the Chevalier tells that way. I should not be surprised if an order comes for him to be sent to London to be examined by the king's councillors; but I will go round now and ask the justices what they think of the matter."

His tidings when he returned were not encouraging; the general opinion of the magistrates being that Ronald was certainly mixed up in the Jacobite plot, that the matter was altogether too serious to be disposed of by them, being of the nature of high treason, and that nothing could be done until instructions were received from London. No clue had been obtained as to the whereabouts of the man who had escaped, and it was thought probable that he had at once dropped beyond the walls and made for the west.

Malcolm arrived ten days later from a journey in Lancashire, and there was a serious quarrel between him and Andrew on his presenting himself at the house.

"It is not only that you led the lad into mischief, Malcolm, but that you taught him to do it behind my back."

"You may look at it in that way if you will, Andrew, and it's natural enough from your point of view; but I take no blame to myself. You treated the boy as if he had been your son, and I thank you with all my heart for your kindness to him; but I could not forget Leslie of Glenlyon, and I do not blame myself that I have kept the same alive in his mind also. It was my duty to see that the young eagle was not turned into a barn door fowl; but I never thought he was going to use his beak and his claws so soon."

"A nice thing you will have to tell his father, that owing to your teachings his son is a prisoner in the Tower, maybe for life. But there -- there's no fear of that. You will never have to render that account, for there's no more chance of your ever hearing more of him than there is of my becoming king of Scotland. It's bad enough that you have always been a ne'er do well yourself without training that unfortunate boy to his ruin."

"Well, well, Andrew, I will not argue with you, and I don't blame you at being sore and angry over the matter; nor do I deny what you have said about myself; it's true enough, and you might say worse things against me without my quarreling with ye over it. However, the less said the better. I will take myself off and think over what's to be done."

"You had better come up and have your supper with us," Andrew said, mollified by his brother's humility.

"Not for twenty golden guineas, Andrew, would I face Mistress Janet. She has borne with me well, though I know in her heart she disapproves of me altogether; but after this scrape into which I have got the boy I daren't face her. She might not say much, but to eat with her eye upon me would choke me."

Malcolm proceeded at once to the establishment of his friend Macklewain.

"This is a nice kettle of fish, Malcolm, about young Leslie. I have had the justices down here, asking me all sorts of questions, and they have got into their minds that I taught him not only swordplay but treason, and they have been threatening to put me in the stocks as a vagabond; but I snapped my fingers in their faces, saying I earned my money as honestly as they did, and that I concern myself in no way in politics, but teach English officers and the sons of Glasgow tradesmen as well as those of Highland gentlemen. They were nicely put out, I can tell you; but I didn't care for that, for I knew I was in the right of it. But what on earth made the young cock meddle in this matter? How came he to be mixed up in a Jacobite plot? Have you got your finger in it?"

"Not I, James; and how it happens that he is concerned in it is more than I can guess. I know, of course, his heart is with the king over the water; but how he came to get his hand into the pie is altogether beyond me."

"The people here are well nigh mad about it. I know not who the gallant who has escaped is; but it is certain that his capture was considered a very important one, and that the justices here expected to have gained no small credit by his arrest, whereas now they will be regarded as fools for letting him slip through their fingers."

"I cannot for the life of me make out how he came to be mixed up in such a matter. No one but you and I could have known that he was a lad of mettle, who might be trusted in such a business. It can hardly be that they would have confided any secrets to him; still, the fact that he was in the house with the man they are in search of, and that he drew and risked his life and certain imprisonment to secure his escape, shows that he must have been heart and soul in the plot."

"And what do you think of doing, Malcolm?"

"I shall get him out somehow. I can lay hands on a score or two or more of our old comrades here in Glasgow, and I doubt not that they will all strike a blow with me for Leslie's son, to say nothing of his being a follower of the Stuarts."

"You are not thinking, man, of attacking the jail! That would be a serious matter. The doors are strong, and you would have the soldiers, to say nought of the town guard and the citizens, upon you before you had reached him."

"No, no, James, I am thinking of no such foolishness. I guess that they will not be trying him for withstanding the watch, that's but a small matter; they will be sending him south for the king's ministers to get out of him what he knows about the Jacobite plot and the names of all concerned, and it's upon the road that we must get him out of their hands. Like enough they will only send four troopers with him, and we can easily master them somewhere in the dales."

"It's more like, Malcolm, they will send him by ship. They will know well enough that if the lad knows aught there will be plenty whose interest it is to get him out of their hands. I think they will take the safer way of putting him on board ship."

"Like enough they will," Malcolm agreed, "and in that case it will be a harder job than I deemed it. But at any rate I mean to try. Ronald's not the lad to turn traitor; he will say nothing whatever they do to him, you may be sure, and he may lie for years in an English prison if we do not get him out of their hands before he gets there. At any rate what we have got to do now is to mark every ship in the port sailing for London, and to find out whether passages are taken for a prisoner and his guard in any of them. I will make that my business, and between times get a score of trusty fellows together in readiness to start if they should send him by land; but I doubt not that you are right, and that he will be taken off by ship."

The days of waiting passed slowly to Ronald, and Andrew Anderson once or twice obtained permission to see him. The bailie wisely abstained from any reproaches, and sought only to persuade him to make a clean breast of the business, and to tell all he knew about a plot which could but end in failure and ruin to all concerned. Although his belief in Ronald's truthfulness was great he could not credit that the story which he had told contained all the facts of the matter. To the bailie it seemed incredible that merely from an abstract feeling in favour of the Stuarts Ronald would have risked his life and liberty in aiding the escape of a Jacobite agent, unless he was in some way deeply involved in the plot; and he regarded Ronald's assurances to the contrary as the outcome of what he considered an entirely mistaken sense of loyalty to the Stuart cause.

"It's all very well, Ronald," he said, shaking his head sadly; "but when they get you to London they will find means to make you open your mouth. They have done away with the thumb screws and the rack, but there are other ways of making a prisoner speak, and it would be far better for you to make a clean breast of it at once. Janet is grieving for you as if you were her own son, and I cannot myself attend to my business. Who would have thought that so young a lad should have got himself mixed up in such sair trouble!"

"I have really told you all, bailie, though you will not believe me, and I am sorry indeed for the trouble I have brought upon you and my aunt" -- for Ronald had from the first been taught to address the bailie and his wife as if Malcolm Anderson had been his real father; "anyhow I wish they would settle it. I would rather know the worst than go on from day to day expecting something that never happens."

"You have to wait, Ronald, till word comes from London. If they write from there that your case can be dealt with merely for the assault upon the watch I can promise you that a few weeks in jail are all that you are like to have; but I fear that there is little chance of that. They are sure to send for you to London, and whether you will ever come back alive the gude Lord only knows. We know what came of treason thirty years ago, and like enough they will be even more severe now, seeing that they will hold that folks have all the less right to try and disturb matters so long settled."

"Have you seen Malcolm?" Ronald asked, to change the conversation.

"Ay, lad, I have seen him, and the meeting was not altogether a pleasant one for either of us."

"I hope you have not quarrelled with him on my account!" Ronald said eagerly.

"We have not exactly quarrelled, but we have had words. I could not but tell him my opinion as to his learning you to take such courses, but we parted friends; but I doubt it will be long before Janet can see him with patience."

The jailer, who was present at the interview, here notified that the bailie's time was up.

"I shall see you again, Ronald, before they take you south. I would that I could do more to help you besides just coming to see you."

"I know you cannot, uncle. I have got into the scrape and must take the consequences; but if I were placed in the same position I should do it again."

A few days afterwards, as he was eating his ration of prison bread, Ronald found in it a small pellet of paper, and on opening it read the words: "Keep up your courage, friends are at work for you. You will hear more yet of M. A."

Ronald was glad to know that his old friend was thinking of him, but, knowing how strong was the prison, he had little hopes that Malcolm would be able to effect anything to help him. Still the note gave him comfort.

Three days later Andrew called again to bid him goodbye, telling him that orders had been received from London that he was to be sent thither by ship.

"I should like to have seen Malcolm before I went, if I could," Ronald said.

"I have not seen him for several days," the bailie said. "I have sent down several times to the house where he lodges, but he is always away; but, whether or no, there would be no chance of your seeing him. I myself had difficulty in getting leave to see you, though a bailie and known to be a loyal citizen. But Malcolm knows that there would be no chance of one with such a character as his getting to see you, and that it would draw attention to him even to ask such a thing, which, if he has a hand in this mad brain plot, he would not wish."

"Malcolm would not mind a straw whether they kept a watch on him or not," Ronald said. "Will you tell him, when you see him next, that I got his message?"

"What message? I have given you no message that I know of."

"He will know what I mean. Tell him, whether aught comes of it or not I thank him, and for all his kindness to me, as I do you and Aunt Janet."

At the same time with the order that Ronald should be sent to London the authorities of Glasgow received an intimation that the ministers felt great surprise at the lukewarmness which had been shown in allowing so notorious and important an enemy of his majesty to escape, and that the king himself had expressed marked displeasure at the conduct of the city authorities in the matter. Greatly mortified at the upshot of an affair from which they had hoped to obtain much credit from government, and believing it certain that there were many greatly interested in getting Ronald out of the hands of his captors, the authorities took every precaution to prevent it. He was taken down to the river side under a strong escort, and in addition to the four warders who were to be in charge of the prisoner as far as London, they put on board twelve men of the city guard. These were to remain with the ship until she was well out at sea, and then to return in a boat which the vessel was to tow behind her.

Ronald could not but smile when he saw all these formidable preparations for his safety. At the same time he felt that any hope he had entertained that Malcolm might, as the message hinted, make an attempt at rescue were blighted. The vessel dropped down with the tide. The orders of the justices had been so strict and urgent that the whole of the men placed on board kept a vigilant watch.

Just as they were abreast of Dumbarton the sound of oars was heard, and presently a boat was seen approaching. As it got nearer two men were seen to be rowing, and two others seated in the stern; but as the craft was a large one there was room for others to be lying in the bottom. The constable in charge shouted to the boat to keep them off.

"Stop rowing," he cried, "and come no nearer. If you do we fire, and as I don't want to shed your blood I warn you that I have sixteen armed men here."

As his words were emphasized by the row of men, who with levelled muskets ranged themselves along at the side of the ship, the boat ceased rowing.

"What are you afraid of?" one of the men in the stern shouted. "Cannot a fisherman's boat row out without being threatened with shooting? What are you and your sixteen armed men doing on board? Are you expecting a French fleet off the coast? And do you think you will beat them off if they board you? How long have the Glasgow traders taken to man their ships with fighting men?"

Ronald was in the cabin under the poop; it opened on to the waist, and received its light from an opening in the door, at which two armed men had stationed themselves when the boat was heard approaching. Had the cabin possessed a porthole through which he could have squeezed himself he would long before have jumped overboard and tried to make his escape by swimming under cover of the darkness. He now strove to force the door open, for he recognized Malcolm's voice, and doubted not that his friend had spoken in order to let him know that he was there, that he might if possible leap over and swim to the boat; but it was fastened strongly without, and the guards outside shouted that they would fire unless he remained quiet.

No reply was made to the taunts of the man in the boat, and slowly, for the wind was but just filling her sails, the vessel dropped down the river, and the boat was presently lost sight of.

In the morning the breeze freshened. It was not till the ship was eight miles beyond the mouth of the river that the boat was pulled up alongside, and the guard, taking their places on board, hoisted sail and started on their return to Glasgow.

Once fairly at sea Ronald was allowed to leave his cabin. Now that he was enjoying the fresh air his spirits soon recovered the tone which they had lost somewhat during his three weeks' confinement in prison, and he thoroughly enjoyed his voyage. The man who was in charge of the guard had at first wished to place some restriction on his going about on board as he chose; but the crew sided with the young prisoner, and threw such ridicule on the idea that four warders and a head constable were afraid, even for a moment, to lose sight of a boy on board a ship at sea, that he gave way, and allowed Ronald free liberty of action, although he warned his subordinates that they must nor relax their caution for a moment.

"The crew are all with him. They think it a shame that a lad like this should be hauled to London as a prisoner charged with treasonable practices; and sailors, when they once get an idea into their head, are as obstinate as Highland cattle. I have told them that he drew a sword and held the staircase against us all while a noted traitor made his escape, and that he ran one of us through the shoulder, and they only shouted with laughter, and said he was a brave young cock. Like as not, if they had a chance, these men would aid him to escape, and then we should have to answer for it, and heavily too; loss of place and imprisonment would be the least of what we might expect; so though, while at sea and in full daylight he can do as he pleases, we must be doubly vigilant at night, or in port if the vessel should have to put in."

Accordingly, to the great disgust of the sailors the watch by turns stood sentry outside Ronald's door at night, thereby defeating a plan which the sailors had formed of lowering a boat the first night they passed near land, and letting Ronald make his escape to shore.

The wind was favourable until the vessel rounded the Land's End. After that it became baffling and fickle, and it was more than three weeks after the date of her sailing from Glasgow that the vessel entered the mouth of the Thames. By this time Ronald's boyish spirits had allayed all suspicion on the part of his guards. He joked with the sailors, climbed about the rigging like a cat, and was so little affected by his position that the guards were convinced that he was free from the burden of any state secret, and that no apprehension of any serious consequence to himself was weighing upon him.

"Poor lad!" the head warder said; "he will need all his spirits. He will have hard work to make the king's council believe that he interfered in such a matter as this from pure love of adventure. He will have many a weary month to pass in prison before they free him, I reckon. It goes against my heart to hand over such a mere laddie as a prisoner; still it is no matter of mine. I have my duty to do, and it's not for me to question the orders I have received, or to argue whether a prisoner is innocent or guilty."

As the vessel anchored off Gravesend to wait for the turn of the tide to take her up, a boat rowed by a waterman, and with a man sitting in the stern, passed close by the ship. The head warder had now redoubled his vigilance, and one of the guards with loaded musket was standing on the deck not far from Ronald, who was standing on the taffrail. As the boat passed some twenty yards astern of the ship the man who was not rowing turned round for a moment and looked up at Ronald. It was but a momentary glance that the lad caught of his face, and he suppressed with difficulty a cry of surprise, for he recognized Malcolm Anderson. The rower continued steadily to ply his oars, and continued his course towards another ship anchored lower down the river. Ronald stood watching the boat, and saw that after making a wide sweep it was rowed back again to Gravesend.

Ronald had no doubt that Malcolm had come south in hopes of effecting his escape, and guessed that he had taken up his post at Gravesend with the intention of examining every ship as she passed up until the one in which he knew he had sailed made its appearance. What his next step would be he could not tell; but he determined to keep a vigilant lookout, and to avail himself instantly of any opportunity which might offer.

As the captain did nor care about proceeding up the river after dark it was not until the tide turned, just as morning broke, that the anchor was weighed. There was a light breeze which just sufficed to give the vessel steerage way, and a mist hung on the water. Ronald took his favourite seat on the taffrail, and kept a vigilant watch upon every craft which seemed likely to come near the vessel.

Greenwich was passed, and the vessel presently approached the crowded part of the Pool. It was near high tide now, and the captain was congratulating himself that he should just reach a berth opposite the Tower before it turned. Presently a boat with two rowers shot out from behind a tier of vessels and passed close under the stern of the Glasgow Lass. A man was steering whom Ronald instantly recognized.

"Jump!" he cried, and Ronald without a moment's hesitation leaped from the taffrail.

He came up close to the boat, and was instantly hauled on board by Malcolm. Just at that moment the guard, who had stood stupefied by Ronald's sudden action, gave a shout of alarm and discharged his piece. The ball struck the boat close to Ronald. It was already in motion; the men bent to their oars, and the boat glided towards the Surrey side of the river. Loud shouts arose from on board the vessel, and four bullets cut the water round the boat; but before the muskets could be reloaded Malcolm had steered the boat through a tier of vessels, whose crews, attracted by the firing, cheered the fugitives lustily.

A minute later they had reached some landing steps. Malcolm tossed some money to the rowers, and then sprang ashore with Ronald, and handed the latter a long coat which would reach to his heels and conceal the drenched state of his clothing from notice.

"We have tricked them nicely, dear boy," he said; "we are safe now. Long before they can lower a boat and get here we shall be safe in shelter, and our five Glasgow bodies will have something to do to look for us here."

Moderating his pace so as to avoid attracting attention, Malcolm proceeded along several streets and lanes, and presently stopped at the door of a little shop.

"I am lodging here," he said, "and have told the people of the house that I am expecting a nephew back from a cruise in the Mediterranean."

As he passed through the shop he said to the woman behind the counter:

"Here he is safe and sound. He's been some days longer than I expected, but I was nor so very far wrong in my calculations. The young scamp has had enough of the sea, and has agreed to go back again with me to his own people."

"That's right," the woman said. "My own boy ran away two years ago, and I hope he will have come to his senses by the time he gets back again."

When they were together in their room up stairs Malcolm threw his arms round Ronald's neck.

"Thank God, my dear boy, I have got you out of the clutches of the law! You do not know how I have been fretting since I heard you were caught, and thought that if ill came to you it would be all my fault. And now tell me how you got into this scrape, for it has been puzzling me ever since I heard it. Surely when I saw you last you knew nothing about any Jacobite goings on?"

Ronald related the whole particulars of his adventure, and said that even now he was absolutely ignorant who was the man whom he had aided to escape.

"I know no more than you do, Ronald, but they must have thought his capture an important one by the fuss they made over his escape. And now, to think that you have slipped out of their hands too!" and Malcolm broke into a loud laugh. "I would give a month's earnings to see the faces of the guard as they make their report that they have arrived empty handed. I was right glad when I saw you. I was afraid you might have given them the slip on the way, and then there would have been no saying when we might have found each other again."

"The sailors would have lowered a boat at night and let me make for the land," Ronald said, "but there was a good guard kept over me. The door was locked and a sentry always on watch, and I had quite given up all hope until I saw you at Gravesend. And now, what do you intend to do? Make our way back to Scotland?"

"No, no, lad, that would never do. There will be a hue and cry after you, and all the northern routes will be watched. No, I shall make a bargain with some Dutch skipper to take us across the water, and then we will make our way to Paris."

"But have you got money, Malcolm?"

"I have got your purse, lad. I went to Andrew and said that I wanted it for you, but that he was to ask no questions, so that whatever came of it he could say that he knew nothing. He gave it me at once, saying only:

"'Remember, Malcolm, you have done the boy some harm already with your teaching, see that you do him no further harm. I guess you are bent on some hare brained plan, but whatever it be I wish you success.'"



CHAPTER IV: In France.


The next day Malcolm went out alone, and on his return told Ronald that there were placards on the walls offering a reward of a hundred pounds for his apprehension.

"You don't think the people below have any suspicion, Malcolm?"

"Not they," Malcolm replied. "I was telling them last night after you had gone to bed all about the places you have been voyaging to, and how anxious your father, a snug farmer near Newcastle, was to have you back again. I had spoken to them before so as to prepare them for your coming, and the old woman takes quite an interest in you, because her son at sea is a lad just about your age. I have brought you in a suit of sailor clothes; we will go down and have a chat with them after the shop is closed of a night. You will remember Newcastle and the farm, and can tell them of your escape from Greek pirates, and how nearly you were taken by a French frigate near the straits."

The consternation of the watch at Ronald's escape was extreme. The shot which the man on guard had fired was their first intimation of the event, and seizing their muskets they had hastily discharged them in the direction of the fugitive, and had then shouted for a boat to be lowered. But never was a boat longer getting into the water than was that of the Glasgow Lass upon this occasion. The captain gave his orders in a leisurely way, and the crew were even slower in executing them. Then somehow the fall stuck and the boat wouldn't lower. When at last she was in the water it was found that the thole pins were missing; these being found she was rowed across the river, the five constables undergoing a running fire of jokes and hilarity from the sailors of the ships they passed near. In answer to their inquiries where the fugitives landed, some of the sailors shouted that she had pulled up the river behind the tier of vessels, others insisted that she had sunk with all hands close by.

Completely bewildered, the chief of the party told the sailors to put them ashore at the first landing. When the party gained the streets they inquired eagerly of all they met whether they had seen aught of the fugitives. Few of those they questioned understood the broad Scotch in which the question was asked, others laughed in their faces and asked how they were to know the man and boy they wanted from any others; and after vainly looking about for some time they returned to the stairs, only to find that the boat had returned to the ship.

A waterman's boat was now hired, and the rower, who had heard what had happened, demanded a sum for putting them on board which horrified them; but at last, after much bargaining, they were conveyed back to the ship. An hour later the chief of the party went ashore, and repairing to the Tower, where he had been ordered to conduct the prisoner, reported his escape. He was at once taken into custody on the charge of permitting the escape of his prisoner, and it was not until three days later, upon the evidence of his men and of the captain and officers of the ship, that he was released.

His four men were put on board a ship returning to Glasgow next day, while he himself was kept to identify the fugitive should he be caught.

A week later Malcolm told Ronald that he had made arrangements with the captain of a Dutch vessel to take them over to Holland.

"We are to go on board at Gravesend," he said, "for they are searching all ships bound for foreign ports. It is not for you especially, but there are supposed to be many Jacobites going to and fro, and they will lay hands on anyone who cannot give a satisfactory account of himself. So it is just as well for us to avoid questioning."

Accordingly the next day they walked down to Gravesend, and taking boat there boarded the Dutch vessel when she came along on the following day. The Dutch captain received them civilly; he had been told by Malcolm that they wished to leave the country privately, and guessed that they were in some way fugitives from the law, but as he was to be well paid this gave him no concern. There were no other passengers, and a roomy cabin was placed at their disposal. They passed down the river without impediment, and anchored that night off Sheerness.

"These Dutch traders are but slow craft," Malcolm said as he walked impatiently up and down the deck next morning, watching the slow progress which they made past the shore. "I wish we could have got a passage direct to France, but of course that is impossible now the two nations are at war."

"What is the war about, Malcolm? I heard at home that they were fighting, but yet that somehow the two countries were not at war."

"No, I don't know how that comes about," Malcolm said. "England has a minister still at Paris; but for all that King George is at the head of a number of British troops in Germany fighting against the French there."

"But what is it about, Malcolm?"

"Well, it is a matter which concerns Hanover more than England; in fact England has no interest in the matter at all as far as I can see, except that as France takes one side she takes the other, because she is afraid of France getting too strong. However, it is a German business, and England is mixed up in it only because her present king is a Hanoverian and not an Englishman. This is the matter as far as I can make it out. Charles VI., Emperor of Germany, died in October, 1740. It had been arranged by a sort of general agreement called the Pragmatic Sanction -- "

"What an extraordinary name, Malcolm! What does it mean?"

"I have not the least idea in the world, lad. However, that is what it is called. It was signed by a lot of powers, of whom England was one, and by it all parties agreed that Charles's daughter Maria Theresa was to become Empress of Austria. However, when the emperor was dead the Elector of Bavaria claimed to be emperor, and he was supported by France, by Spain, and by Frederick of Prussia, and they marched to Vienna, enthroned the elector as Duke of Austria, and drove Maria Theresa to take refuge in Hungary, where she was warmly supported.

"The English parliament voted a large sum to enable the empress to carry on the war, and last year sixteen thousand men under the Earl of Stair crossed the seas to cooperate with the Dutch, who were warm supporters of the empress, and were joined by six thousand Hessians and sixteen thousand Hanoverians in British pay; but after all nothing was done last year, for as in the last war the Dutch were not ready to begin, and the English army were in consequence kept idle."

"Then it seems that everyone was against the empress except England and these three little states."

"That is pretty nearly so," Malcolm said; "but at present the empress has bought off the Prussians, whose king joined in the affair solely for his own advantage, by giving him the province of Silesia, so that in fact at present it is England and Hanover, which is all the same thing, with the Dutch and Hessians, against France and Bavaria, for I don't think that at present Spain has sent any troops."

"Well, it seems to me a downright shame," Ronald said indignantly; "and though I have no great love for the English, and hate their Hanoverian George and his people, I shouldn't like to fight with one of the Scotch regiments in the French service in such a quarrel."

Malcolm laughed.

"My dear lad, if every soldier were to discuss the merits of the quarrel in which he is ordered to fight there would be an end of all discipline."

"Yes, I see that," Ronald agreed; "if one is once a soldier he has only to obey orders. But one need not become a soldier just at the time when he would be called upon to fight for a cause which he considers unjust."

"That is so, Ronald, and it's fortunate, if your feelings are in favour of Maria Theresa, that we are not thinking of enlisting just at present, for you would be puzzled which side to take. If you fought for her you would have to fight under the Hanoverian; if you fight against the Hanoverian you are fighting against Maria Theresa."

"Well, we don't want to fight at all," Ronald said. "What we want to do is to find out something about my father. I wish the voyage was at an end, and that we had our faces towards Paris."

"It will not be so easy to cross from Holland into France," Malcolm said. "I wish our voyage was at an end for another reason, for unless I mistake there is a storm brewing up."

Malcolm's prediction as to the weather was speedily verified. The wind rose rapidly, ragged clouds hurried across the sky, and the waves got up fast, and by nightfall the sea had become really heavy, dashing in sheets high in the air every time the bluff bowed craft plunged into it. Long before this Ronald had gone below prostrate with seasickness.

"It's just like the obstinacy of these Dutchmen," Malcolm muttered to himself as he held on by a shroud and watched the labouring ship. "It must have been clear to anyone before we were well out of the river that we were going to have a gale, and as the wind then was nearly due south, we could have run back again and anchored in shelter till it was over. Now it has backed round nearly into our teeth, with every sign of its getting into the north, and then we shall have the French coast on our lee. It's not very serious yet, but if the wind goes on rising as it has done for the last four or five hours we shall have a gale to remember before the morning."

Before the daylight, indeed, a tremendous sea was running, and the wind was blowing with terrible force from the north. Although under but a rag of canvas the brig was pressed down gunwale deep, and each wave as it struck her broadside seemed to heave her bodily to leeward. Malcolm on coming on deck made his way aft and glanced at the compass, and then took a long look over the foaming water towards where he knew the French coast must lie. The wind was two or three points east of north, and as the clumsy craft would not sail within several points of the wind she was heading nearly east.

"She is making a foot to leeward for every one she forges ahead," he said to himself. "If she has been at this work all night we cannot be far from the coast."

So the Dutch skipper appeared to think, for a few minutes afterwards he gave orders to bring her about on the other tack. Three times they tried and failed; each time the vessel slowly came up into the wind, but the heavy waves forced her head off again before the headsails filled. Then the skipper gave orders to wear her. Her head payed off to the wind until she was nearly before it. Two or three great seas struck her stern and buried her head deeply, but at last the boom swung over and her head came up on the other tack. During the course of these manoeuvres she had made fully two miles leeway, and when she was fairly under sail with her head to the west Malcolm took another long look towards the south.

"Just as I thought," he said. "There is white water there and a dark line behind it. That is the French coast, sure enough."

It would have been useless to speak, but he touched the arm of the skipper and pointed to leeward. The skipper looked in this direction for a minute and then gave the order for more sail to be put on the ship, to endeavour to beat out in the teeth of the gale. But even when pressed to the utmost it was evident to Malcolm that the force of the waves was driving her faster towards the coast than she could make off it, and he went below and told Ronald to come on deck.

"I would rather lie here," Ronald said.

"Nonsense, lad! The wind and spray will soon knock the sickness out of you; and you will want all your wits about you, for it won't be many hours before we are bumping on the sands, and stoutly built as the craft is she won't hold together long in such a sea as this."

"Do you really mean it, Malcolm, or are you only trying to get me on deck?"

"I mean it, lad. We are drifting fast upon the French coast, and there is no hope of her clawing off in the teeth of such a gale as this."

The news aroused Ronald effectually. He had not suffered at all on the voyage down from Glasgow, and he was already beginning to feel better when Malcolm went down to call him. He was soon on deck holding on by the bulwark.

"There it is, that long low black line; it looks a long way off because the air is full of spray and the coast is low, but it's not more than three or four miles; look at that broad belt of foam."

For some hours the Dutch skipper did his best to beat to windward, but in vain, the vessel drove nearer and nearer towards the shore; the anchors were got in readiness, and when within a quarter of a mile of the line of breakers the vessel's head was brought up into the wind, and the lashings of the two anchors cut simultaneously.

"Will they hold her, do you think?" Ronald asked.

"Not a chance of it, Ronald. Of course the captain is right to try; but no cables were ever made would hold such a bluff bowed craft as this in the teeth of such a wind and sea."

The cables ran out to the bitts. Just as they tightened a great sea rolled in on the bow. Two dull reports were heard, and then her head payed off. The jib was run up instantly to help her round, and under this sail the brig was headed directly towards the shore. The sea was breaking round them now; but the brig was almost flat bottomed and drew but little water. All on board hung on to the shrouds and bulwarks, momentarily expecting a crash, but she drove on through the surf until within a hundred yards of the shore. Then as she went down in the trough of a wave there was a mighty crash. The next wave swept her forward her own length.

Then there was another crash even more tremendous than the first, and her masts simultaneously went over the side. The next wave moved her but a few feet; the one which followed, finding her immovable, piled itself higher over her, and swept in a cataract down her sloping deck. Her stern had swung round after the first shot, and she now lay broadside to the waves. The Dutch skipper and his crew behaved with the greatest calmness; the ship lay over at such an angle that it was impossible to stand on the deck; but the captain managed to get on the upper rail, and although frequently almost washed off by the seas, contrived to cut the shrouds and ropes that still attached the masts to the ship there. Then he joined the crew, who were standing breast high in the water on the lee side, the floating masts were pulled in until within a few yards of the vessel, and such of the crew as could swim made towards them.

The skipper cut the last rope that bound them, and then plunged in and joined his men. The distance was little over fifty yards to the shore, and the wreck formed a partial shelter. A crowd of people were assembled at the edge of the beach with ropes in readiness to give any assistance in their power. Malcolm and Ronald were among those who had swum to the masts, but when within a short distance of the shore the former shouted in the latter's ear:

"Swim off, lad, the masts might crush us."

As soon as they neared the shore a number of ropes were thrown. Most of the sailors, seeing the danger of being crushed, followed the example of Malcolm, and left the masts. Malcolm and Ronald swam just outside the point where the waves broke until a line fell in the water close to them. They grasped it at once.

"Give it a twist round your arm," Malcolm shouted, "or the backwash will tear you from it."

The sailors on shore watched their opportunity, and the instant a wave passed beneath the two swimmers ran up the beach at full speed with the rope. There was a crash. Ronald felt himself shot forward with great rapidity, then as he touched the ground with his feet they were swept from under him, and so great was the strain that he felt as if his arm was being pulled from the socket. A few seconds later he was lying at full length upon the sands, and before the next wave reached him a dozen men had rushed down and seized him and Malcolm, and carried them beyond its influence. For a minute or two Ronald felt too bruised and out of breath to move. Then he heard Malcolm's voice:

"Are you hurt, Ronald?"

"No; I think not, Malcolm," he replied, making an effort to sit up. "Are you?"

"No, lad; bruised a bit, but no worse."

One by one the sailors were brought ashore, one with both legs broken from the force with which he was dashed down by the surf, and one man who stuck to the mast was crushed to death as it was rolled over and over on to the beach. The captain and three sailors were, like Malcolm and Ronald, unhurt. There still remained four men on the wreck. Fortunately she had struck just at high tide, and so stoutly was she built that she held together in spite of the tremendous seas, and in an hour the four sailors were able to wade breast high to the shore.

They found that the spot where the vessel had struck was half a mile west of Gravelines. They were taken to the town, and were hospitably entertained. A small body of soldiers were quartered there, and the officer in command told the Dutch skipper, that as the two nations were at war he and his crew must be detained until he received orders respecting them. On learning from Malcolm that he and Ronald were passengers, and were Scotsmen making their way from England to escape imprisonment as friends of the Stuarts, and that he had for twelve years served in one of the Scotch regiments of Louis, and was now bound for Paris, the officer said that they were free to continue their journey at once.

It was two or three days before they started, for they found the next morning that they were both too severely bruised to set out at once on the journey. As Malcolm had taken care to keep the purse containing Ronald's money securely fastened to a belt under his clothes they had no lack of funds; but as time was no object they started for Paris on foot. Ronald greatly enjoyed the journey. Bright weather had set in after the storm. It was now the middle of May, all nature was bright and cheerful, the dresses of the peasantry, the style of architecture so different to that to which he was accustomed in Scotland, and everything else were new and strange to him. Malcolm spoke French as fluently as his own language, and they had therefore no difficulty or trouble on the way.

They arrived at Paris without any adventure. Malcolm went to a cabaret which had at the time when he was in the French service been much frequented by Scotch soldiers, being kept by a countryman of their own, an ex-sergeant in one of the Scottish regiments.

"Ah! Sandy Macgregor," Malcolm exclaimed as the proprietor of the place approached to take their order. "So you are still in the flesh, man! Right glad am I to see you again.

"I know your face," Sandy replied; "but I canna just say what your name might be."

"Malcolm Anderson, of Leslie's Scotch regiment. It's fourteen years since I left them now; but I was here again four years later, if you can remember, when I came over to try and find out if aught had been heard of the colonel."

"Ay, ay," Sandy said, grasping Malcolm's outstretched hand warmly. "It all comes back to me now. Right glad am I to see you. And who is the lad ye have brought with you? A Scot by his face and bearing, I will be bound, but young yet for the service if that be what he is thinking of."

"He is the colonel's son, Sandy. You will remember I told you I had carried him back to Scotland with me; but I need not tell ye that this is betwixt ourselves, for those who have so badly treated his father might well have a grudge against the son, and all the more that he is the rightful heir to many a broad acre here in France."

"I give you a hearty welcome, young sir," Sandy said. "Many a time I have seen your brave father riding at the head of his regiment, and have spoken to him too, for he and his officers would drop in here and crack a cup together in a room I keep upstairs for the quality. Well, well, and to think that you are his son! But what Malcolm said is true, and it were best that none knew who ye are, for they have an unco quick way here of putting inconvenient people out of the way."

"Have you ever heard aught of my father since?" Ronald asked eagerly.

"Not a word," Sandy replied. "I have heard it talked over scores of times by men who were in the regiment that was once his, and none doubted that if he were still alive he was lying in the Bastille, or Vincennes, or one of the other cages where they keep those whose presence the king or his favourites find inconvenient. It's just a stroke of the pen, without question or trial, and they are gone, and even their best friends darena ask a question concerning them. In most cases none know why they have been put away; but there is no doubt why Leslie was seized. Three or four of his fellow officers were in the secret of his marriage, and when he had disappeared these talked loudly about it, and there was sair grief and anger among the Scottish regiment at Leslie's seizure. But what was to be done? It was just the king's pleasure, and that is enough in France. Leslie had committed the grave offence of thwarting the wishes of two of the king's favourites, great nobles, too, with broad lands and grand connections. What were the likings of a Scottish soldier of fortune and a headstrong girl in comparison! In Scotland in the old times a gallant who had carried off a daughter of a Douglas or one of our powerful nobles would have made his wife a widow ere many weeks were over, and it is the same thing here now. It wouldna have been an easy thing for his enemies to kill Leslie with his regiment at his back, and so they got an order from the king, and as surely got rid of him as if they had taken his life."

"You have never heard whether my mother has married again?" Ronald asked.

"I have never heard her name mentioned. Her father is still at court, but his daughter has never been seen since, or I should have heard of it; but more than that I cannot say."

"That gives me hopes that my father is still alive," Ronald said. "Had he been dead they might have forced her into some other marriage."

"They might so; but she was plainly a lassie who had a will of her own and may have held out."

"But why did they not kill him instead of putting him in prison if he was in their way?"

"They might, as I said, have done it at once; but once in prison he was beyond their reach. The king may grant a lettre de cachet, as these orders are called, to a favourite; but even in France men are not put to death without some sort of trial, and even Chateaurouge and De Recambours could not ask Louis to have a man murdered in prison to gratify their private spite, especially when that man was a brave Scottish officer whose fate had already excited much discontent among his compatriots in the king's service. Then again much would depend upon who was the governor of the prison. These men differ like others. Some of them are honourable gentlemen, to whom even Louis himself would not venture to hint that he wanted a prisoner put out of the way; but there are others who, to gratify a powerful nobleman, would think nothing of telling a jailer to forget a fortnight to give food to a prisoner. So you see we cannot judge from this. And now what are you thinking of doing, Malcolm, and why are you over here?"

"In the first place we are over here because young Leslie took after his father and aided a Jacobite, whom George's men were in search of, to escape, and drew his sword on a worshipful justice of Glasgow and the city watch."

"He has begun early," Sandy said, laughing; "and how did he get away?"

"They brought him down a prisoner to London, to interrogate him as to the plot. I had a boat in the Thames and he jumped over and swam for it; so here we are. There are rumours in Scotland that King Louis is helping Prince Charlie, and that an army is soon going to sail for Scotland."

"It is talked of here, but so far nothing is settled; but as King George is interfering in Louis's affairs, and is fighting him in Germany, I think it more than likely that King Louis is going to stir up a coil in Scotland to give George something to do at home."

"Then if there's nothing to be done here I shall find out the old regiment. There will be many officers in it still who have fought under Leslie, and some of them may know more about him than you do, and will surely be able to tell me what has become of the lad's mither."

"That may well be so; but keep a quiet tongue, Malcolm, as to Leslie's son, save to those on whose discretion you can rely. I tell you, if it were known that he is alive and in France his life would not be worth a week's purchase. They would not take the trouble to get a lettre de cachet for him as they did for his father; it would be just a pistol bullet or a stab on a dark night or in a lonely place. There would be no question asked about the fate of an unknown Scotch laddie."

"I will be careful, Sandy, and silent. The first thing is to find out where the old regiment is lying."

"That I can tell you at once. It is on the frontier with the Duc de Noailles, and they say that there is like to be a great battle with English George and his army."

"Well, as we have nothing else to do we will set out and find them," Malcolm said; "but as time is not pressing we will stop a few days here in Paris and I will show the lad the sights. I suppose you can put us up."

"That can I. Times are dull at present. After '15 Paris swarmed with Scotsmen who had fled to save their heads; but of late years but few have come over, and the Scotch regiments have difficulty in keeping up their numbers. Since the last of them marched for the frontier I have been looking after empty benches, and it will be good news for me when I hear that the war is over and they are on their way back."

For some days Malcolm and Ronald wandered about the narrow streets of Paris. Ronald was somewhat disappointed in the city of which he had heard so much. The streets were ill paved and worse lighted, and were narrow and winding. In the neighbourhood of the Louvre there were signs of wealth and opulence. The rich dresses of the nobles contrasted strongly indeed with the sombre attire of the Glasgow citizens, and the appearance and uniform of the royal guards filled him with admiration; but beyond the fashionable quarter it did not appear to him that Paris possessed many advantages over Glasgow, and the poorer class were squalid and poverty stricken to a far greater degree than anything he had seen in Scotland. But the chief points of attraction to him were the prisons. The Bastille, the Chatelet, and the Temple were points to which he was continually turning; the two former especially, since, if he were in Paris, it was in one of these that his father was most probably lying.

The various plans he had so often thought over, by which, in some way or other, he might communicate with his father and aid his escape, were roughly shattered at the sight of these buildings. He had reckoned on their resembling in some respect the prison in Glasgow, and at the sight of these formidable fortresses with their lofty walls and flanking towers, their moats and vigilant sentries, his hopes fell to zero. It would, he saw at once, be absolutely impossible to open communication with a prisoner of whose whereabouts he was wholly ignorant and of whose very existence he was doubtful. The narrow slits which lighted the cell in which he was confined might look into an inner court, or the cell itself might be below the surface of the soil. The legend of the troubadour who discovered King Richard of England's place of captivity by singing without the walls had always been present in his mind, but no such plan would be practicable here. He knew no song which his father, and his father only, would recognize; and even did he know such a song, the appearance of anyone loitering in the open space outside the moat round the Bastille singing at intervals at different points would have instantly attracted the attention of the sentries on the walls. Nor, even did he discover that his father was lying a prisoner in one of the cells facing outwards in the fortress, did he see any possibility of compassing his escape. The slits were wide enough only for the passage of a ray of light or the flight of an arrow. No human being could squeeze himself through them, and even if he could do so he would need a long rope to descend into the moat.

One day Ronald talked over his ideas with Malcolm, who declared at once that they were impossible of execution.

"There is scarcely a case on record," he said, "of an escape from either the Bastille or the Chatelet, and yet there have been scores of prisoners confined in them with friends of great influence and abundant means. If these have been unable, by bribing jailers or by other strategy, to free their friends, how could a stranger, without either connection, influence, or wealth, hope to effect the escape of a captive were he certain that he was within the walls. Do not waste your thought on such fancies, Ronald. If your father is still in prison it is by influence only, and influence exerted upon the king and exceeding that of your father's enemies, that his release can be obtained.

"Such influence there is no possibility of our exerting. Your father's comrades and countrymen, his position and services, availed nothing when he was first imprisoned; and in the time which has elapsed the number of those who know him and would venture to risk the king's displeasure by pleading his cause must have lessened considerably. The only possibility, mind I say possibility, of success lies in your mother.

"So far it is clear that she has been powerless; but we know not under what circumstances she has been placed. She may all this time have been shut up a prisoner in a convent; she may be dead; but it is possible that, if she is free, she may have powerful connections on her mother's side, who might be induced to take up her cause and to plead with the king for your father's liberty. She may have been told that your father is dead. She is, no doubt, in ignorance of what has become of you, or whether you are still alive. If she believes you are both dead she would have had no motive for exerting any family influence she may have, and may be living a broken hearted woman, firm only in the resolution to accept no other husband."

"Yes, that is possible," Ronald agreed. "At any rate, Malcolm, let us lose no further time, but set out tomorrow for the frontier and try to find out from my father's old comrades what has become of my mother."



CHAPTER V: Dettingen.


After walking two or three miles Malcolm and Ronald came upon the rear of a train of waggons which had set out from Paris an hour earlier. Entering into conversation with one of the drivers they found that the convoy was bound for the frontier with ammunition and supplies for the army.

"This is fortunate," Malcolm said; "for to tell you the truth, Ronald, I have looked forward to our meeting with a good many difficulties by the way. We have no passes or permits to travel, and should be suspected of being either deserters or thieves. We came down from the north easy enough; but there they are more accustomed to the passage of travellers to or from the coast. Going east our appearance if alone would be sure to incite comment and suspicion. It is hard if among the soldiers with the convoy I do not know someone who has friends in the old regiment. At any rate we can offer to make ourselves useful in case of any of the drivers falling ill or deserting by the way."

As they walked along towards the head of the long line of waggons Malcolm closely scrutinized the troopers who formed the escort, but most of them were young soldiers, and he therefore went on without accosting them until he reached the head of the column. Here two officers were riding together, a captain and a young lieutenant. Malcolm saluted the former.

"I am an old soldier of the 2d Regiment of Scottish Calvary, and am going with my young friend here, who has relations in the regiment, to join them. Will you permit us, sir, to journey with your convoy? We are ready, if needs be, to make ourselves useful in case any of your drivers are missing, no uncommon thing, as I know, on a long journey."

The officer asked a few questions about his services, and said: "What have you been doing since you left, as you say, fourteen years ago?"

"I have been in Scotland, sir. I took this lad, who was then an infant, home to my people, having had enough of soldiering, while my brother, his father, remained with the regiment. We do not know whether he is alive or dead, but if the former the lad wants to join as a trumpeter, and when old enough to fight in the ranks."

"Very well," the officer said. "You can march along with us, and if any of these fellows desert you shall take their places, and of course draw their pay."

It was a short time indeed before Malcolm's services were called into requisition, for the very first night several of the drivers, who had been pressed into the service, managed to elude the vigilance of the guard and slipped away.

The next morning Malcolm, with Ronald as his assistant, took charge of one of the heavy waggons, loaded with ammunition, and drawn by twelve horses.

"This is better than walking after all, Ronald. In the first place it saves the legs, and in the second one is partly out of the dust."

"But I think we should get on faster walking, Malcolm."

"Yes, if we had no stoppages. But then, you see, as we have no papers we might be detained for weeks by some pig headed official in a little country town; besides, we are sure to push on as fast as we can, for they will want the ammunition before a battle is fought. And after all a few days won't make much difference to us; the weather is fine, and the journey will not be unpleasant."

In fact Ronald enjoyed the next three weeks greatly as the train of waggons made its way across the plains of Champagne, and then on through the valleys of Lorraine and Alsace until it reached Strasbourg. Malcolm had speedily made friends with some of the soldiers of the escort, and of an evening when the day's work was over he and Ronald sat with them by the fires they made by the roadside, and Malcolm told tales of the campaigns in which he had been engaged, and the soldiers sang songs and chatted over the probabilities of the events of the war. None of them had served before, having been but a few months taken from their homes in various parts of France. But although, doubtless, many had at first regretted bitterly being dragged away to the wars, they were now all reconciled to their lot, and looked forward eagerly to joining their regiment, which was at the front, when the duty of looking after the convoy would be at an end.

Little was known in Paris as to the position of the contending armies beyond the fact that Lord Stair, who commanded the English army, sixteen thousand strong, which had for the last year been lying inactive in Flanders, had marched down with his Hanoverian allies towards the Maine, and that the Duc de Noailles with sixty thousand men was lying beyond the Rhine. But at Strasbourg they learned that the French army had marched north to give battle to Lord Stair, who had at present with him but twenty-eight thousand men, and was waiting to be joined by twelve thousand Hanoverians and Hessians who were on their way.

The convoy continued its journey, pushing forward with all speed, and on the 26th of July joined the army of De Noailles. The French were on the south side of the river, but having arrived on its banks before the English they had possession of the bridges. As soon as the waggons had joined the army, Malcolm obtained from the officer commanding the escort a discharge, saying that he and Ronald had fulfilled their engagement as drivers with the waggons to the front, and were now at liberty to return to France.

"Now we are our own masters again, Ronald," Malcolm said. "I have taken part in a good many battles, but have never yet had the opportunity of looking on at one comfortably. De Noailles should lose no time in attacking, so as to destroy the English before they receive their reinforcements. As he holds the bridges he can bring on the battle when he likes, and I think that tomorrow or next day the fight will take place."

It was known in the camp that evening that the English had established their chief magazines at Hanau, and were marching up the river towards Aschaffenburg. In the early morning a portion of the French troops crossed the river at that town, and took up a strong position there. Ronald and Malcolm climbed a hill looking down upon the river from the south side, and thence commanded the view of the ground across which the English were marching. On the eastern side of the river spurs of the Spessart Mountains came down close to its bank, inclosing a narrow flat between Aschaffenburg and Dettingen. At the latter place the heights approached so closely to the river as to render it difficult for an army to pass between them. While posting a strong force at Aschaffenburg to hold the passage across a stream running into the Maine there, De Noailles marched his main force down the river; these movements were hidden by the nature of the ground from the English, who were advancing unconscious of their danger towards Dettingen.

"De Noailles will have them in a trap," Malcolm said, for from their position on the hill they could see the whole ground on the further bank, Hanau lying some seven miles beyond Dettingen, which was itself less than seven miles from Aschaffenburg.

"I am afraid so," Ronald said.

"Afraid!" Malcolm repeated. "Why, you should rejoice, Ronald."

"I can't do that," Ronald replied. "I should like to see the Stuarts instead of the Hanoverians reigning over us; but after all, Malcolm, England and Scotland are one nation."

"But there are Scotch regiments with the French army, and a brigade of Irish."

"That may be," Ronald said. "Scotchmen who have got into political trouble at home may enter the service of France, and may fight heartily against the Germans or the Flemings, or other enemies of France; but I know that I should feel very reluctant to fight against the English army, except, of course, at home for the Stuarts."

"It will benefit the Stuarts' cause if the English are defeated here," Malcolm said.

"That may be or it may not," Ronald replied. "You yourself told me that Louis cared nothing for the Stuarts, and would only aid them in order to cripple the English strength at home. Therefore, if he destroys the English army here he will have less cause to fear England and so less motive for helping the Chevalier."

"That is true enough," Malcolm agreed. "You are fast becoming a politician, Ronald. Well, I will look on as a neutral then, because, although the English are certainly more nearly my countrymen than are the French, you must remember that for twelve years I fought under the French flag. However, there can be no doubt what is going to take place. See, the dark mass of the English army are passing through the defile of Dettingen, and the French have begun to cross at Seligenstadt in their rear. See, they are throwing three or four bridges across the river there."

In utter ignorance of their danger the English marched on along the narrow plain by the river bank towards Aschaffenburg.

"Look at their cavalry scouting ahead of them," Malcolm said. "There, the French are opening fire!" And as he spoke puffs of musketry rose up from the line of the stream held by the French.

The English cavalry galloped back, but the columns of infantry still advanced until within half a mile of the French position, and were there halted, while some guns from the French lines opened fire. The bridges at Seligenstadt were now completed, and masses of troops could be seen pouring over. King George and the Duke of Cumberland had joined the Earl of Stair just as the army passed through Dettingen, and were riding at the head of the column when the French fire opened. A short time was spent in reconnoitring the position of the enemy in front. The English believed that the entire French army was there opposed to them, and that the advance of the army into Franconia, which was its main objective was therefore barred. After a short consultation it was resolved to fall back at once upon the magazines at Hanau, which, from their ignorance of the near proximity of the French, had been left but weakly guarded. Believing that as they fell back they would be hotly pursued by the French army, the king took the command of the rear as the post of danger, and the columns, facing about, marched towards Dettingen.

But the French had been beforehand with them. De Noailles had sent 23,000 men under his nephew the Duke de Grammont across the river to occupy Dettingen. He himself with his main army remained on the south side, with his artillery placed so as to fire across the river upon the flank of the English as they approached Dettingen; while he could march up and cross at Aschaffenburg should the English, after being beaten back at Dettingen, try to retreat up the river.

De Grammont's position was a very strong one behind a swamp and a deep ravine hollowed out by a stream from the hill. There seemed no possibility of escape for the English army, who were as yet absolutely in ignorance of the position of the French. As the head of the column approached Dettingen, Grammont's artillery opened upon them in front, while that of De Noailles smote them in flank. As soon as the king found that his retreat was cut off he galloped from the rear of the column to its head. His horse, alarmed by the fire of the artillery and whistling of balls, ran away with him, and was with difficulty stopped just as he reached the head of the column. He at once dismounted and announced his intention of leading his troops on foot.

There was a hasty council held between him, Lord Stair, and the Duke of Cumberland, and it was agreed that the only escape from entire destruction was by fighting their way through the force now in front of them. This would indeed have been impossible had De Grammont held his position; but when that officer saw the English troops halt he believed he had only the advanced guard in front of him, and resolving to overwhelm these before their main body arrived, he abandoned his strong position, led the troops across the swamp, and charged the English in front.

De Noailles, from the opposite bank, seeing the error his nephew had made, hurried his troops towards the bridges in order to cross the river and render him assistance; but it was too late.

The English infantry, headed by the king in person, hurled themselves upon the troops of De Grammont.

Every man felt that the only hope of escape from this trap into which they had fallen lay in cutting their way through the enemy, and so furiously did they fight that De Grammont's troops were utterly overthrown, and were soon in full flight towards the bridges in the rear, hotly pursued by the English. Before they could reach the bridges they left behind them on the field six thousand killed and wounded. King George, satisfied with his success, and knowing that the French army was still greatly superior to his own, wisely determined to get out of his dangerous position as soon as possible, and pushed on that night to Hanau.

Although Malcolm and Ronald were too far off to witness the incidents of the battle, they made out the tide of war rolling away from them, and saw the black masses of troops pressing on through Dettingen in spite of the French artillery which thundered from the opposite bank of the river.

"They have won!" Ronald said, throwing up his cap. "Hurrah, Malcolm! Where is the utter destruction of the English now? See, the plain beyond Dettingen is covered by a confused mass of flying men. The English have broken out of the trap, and instead of being crushed have won a great victory."

"It looks like it certainly," Malcolm said. "I would not have believed it if I had not seen it; their destruction seemed certain. And now let us go round to the camp again."

On their way down Malcolm said:

"I think, on the whole, Ronald, that you are perhaps right, and the French defeat will do good rather than harm to the Stuart cause. Had they conquered, Louis would have been too intent on pushing forward his own schemes to care much for the Stuarts. He has no real interest in them, and only uses them as cat's paws to injure England. If he had beaten the English and Hanoverians he would not have needed their aid. As it is, it seems likely enough that he will try to create a diversion, and keep the English busy at home by aiding the Stuarts with men and money to make a landing in Scotland."

"In that case, Malcolm, we need not grieve over the defeat today. You know my sympathies are with the brave Empress of Austria rather than with her enemies, and this defeat should go far towards seating her securely on the throne. Now, what will you do, Malcolm? Shall we try and find my father's friends at once?"

"Nor for another few days," Malcolm said. "Just after a defeat men are not in the best mood to discuss bygone matters. Let us wait and see what is done next."

The next morning a portion of the French army which had not been engaged crossed the river and collected the French and English wounded, for the latter had also been left behind. They were treated by the French with the same care and kindness that was bestowed upon their own wounded. De Noailles was about to advance against the English at Hanau, when he received the news that the French army in Bavaria had been beaten back by Prince Charles, and had crossed the Rhine into Alsace. As he would now be exposed to the whole brunt of the attack of the allies he decided to retreat at once.

The next day the retreat recommenced. Many of the drivers had fled at the first news of the defeat, and Malcolm without question assumed the post of driver of one of the abandoned teams. For another week the army retired, and then crossing the Rhine near Worms were safe from pursuit.

"Now, Ronald, I will look up the old regiment, and we will see what is to be done."

The 2d Scotch Dragoons were posted in a little village a mile distant from the main camp which had now been formed. Malcolm did nor make any formal transfer of the waggon to the authorities, thinking it by no means improbable that they would insist upon his continuing his self adopted avocation as driver; but after seeing to the horses, which were picketed with a long line of transport animals, he and Ronald walked quietly away without any ceremony of adieu.

"We must not come back again here," he said, "for some of the teamsters would recognize me as having been driving lately, and I should have hard work to prove that I was not a deserter; we must take to the old regiment now as long as we are here."

On reaching the village they found the street full of troopers, who were busy engaged in cleaning their arms, grooming their horses, and removing all signs of weather and battle. Ronald felt a thrill of pleasure at hearing his native language spoken. He had now so far improved the knowledge of French as to be able to converse without difficulty, for Malcolm had from his childhood tried to keep up his French, and had lately always spoken in that language to him, unless it was necessary to speak in English in order to make him understand.

These occasions had become more and more rare, and two months of constant conversation with Malcolm and others had enabled Ronald by this time to speak with some fluency in the French tongue. None of the soldiers paid any attention to the newcomers, whose dress differed in no way from that of Frenchmen, as after the shipwreck they had, of course, been obliged to rig themselves out afresh. Malcolm stopped before an old sergeant who was diligently polishing his sword hilt.

"And how fares it with you all these years, Angus Graeme?"

The sergeant almost dropped his sword in his surprise at being so addressed in his own tongue by one whose appearance betokened him a Frenchman.

"You don't know me, Angus," Malcolm went on with a smile; "and yet you ought to, for if it hadn't been for me the sword of the German hussar who carved that ugly scar across your cheek would have followed it up by putting an end to your soldiering altogether."

"Heart alive, but it's Malcolm Anderson! Eh, man, but I am glad to see you! I thought you were dead years ago, for I have heard nae mair of you since the day when you disappeared from among us like a spook, the same day that puir Colonel Leslie was hauled off to the Bastille. A sair day was that for us a'! And where ha' ye been all the time?"

"Back at home, Angus, at least in body, for my heart's been with the old regiment. And who, think you, is this? But you must keep a close mouth, man, for it must nor be talked of. This is Leslie's son. By his father's last order I took him off to Scotland with me to be out of reach of his foes, and now I have brought him back again to try if between us we can gain any news of his father."

"You don't say so, Malcolm! I never as much heard that the colonel had a son, though there was some talk in the regiment that he had married a great lady, and that it was for that that he had been hid away in prison. And this is Leslie's boy! Only to think, now! Well, young sir, there isn't a man in the regiment but wad do his best for your father's son, for those who have joined us since, and in truth that's the great part of us, have heard many a tale of Colonel Leslie, though they may not have served under him, and not a tale but was to his honour, for a braver officer nor a kinder one never stepped the earth. But come inside, Malcolm. I have got a room to myself and a stoup of good wine; let's talk over things fair and gentle, and when I know what it is that you want you may be sure that I will do all I can, for the sake baith of the colonel and of you, auld comrade."

The trio were soon seated in the cottage, and Malcolm then gave a short sketch of all that had taken place since he had left the regiment.

"Well, well!" the sergeant said when he had ended; "and so the lad, young as he is, has already drawn his sword for the Stuarts, and takes after his father in loyalty as well as in looks, for now that I know who he is I can see his father's face in his plain enough; and now for your plans, Malcolm."

"Our plans must be left to chance, Angus. We came hither to see whether any of the colonel's friends are still in the regiment, and to learn from them whether they have any news whatever of him; and secondly, whether they can tell us aught of his mother."

"Ay, there are six or eight officers still in the regiment who served with him. Hume is our colonel now; you will remember him, Malcolm, well, for he was captain of our troop; and Major Macpherson was a captain too. Then there are Oliphant, and Munroe, and Campbell, and Graham, all of whom were young lieutenants in your time, and are now old captains of troops."

"I will see the colonel and Macpherson," Malcolm said; "if they do not know, the younger men are not likely to. Will you go along with us, Angus, and introduce me, though Hume is like enough to remember me, seeing that I was so much with Leslie?"

"They will be dining in half an hour," the sergeant said; "we'll go after they have done the meal. It's always a good time to talk with men when they are full, and the colonel will have no business to disturb him then. Our own dinner will be ready directly; I can smell a goose that I picked up, as it might be by accident, at the place where we halted last night. There are four or five of us old soldiers who always mess together when we are not on duty with our troops, and if I mistake not, you will know every one of them, and right glad they will be to see you; but of course I shall say no word as to who the lad is, save that he is a friend of yours."

A few minutes later four other sergeants dropped in, and there was a joyful greeting between them and Malcolm as soon as they recognized his identity. The meal was a jovial one, as old jokes and old reminiscences were recalled. After an hour's sitting Angus said:

"Pass round the wine, lads, till we come back again. I am taking Anderson to the colonel, who was captain of his troop. We are not likely to be long, and when we come back we will make a night of it in honour of old times, or I am mistaken."

On leaving the cottage they waited for a while until they saw the colonel and major rise from beside the fire round which, with the other officers, they had been taking their meal, and walk to the cottage which they shared between them. Angus went up and saluted.

"What is it, Graeme?" the colonel asked.

"There's one here who would fain have a talk with you. It is Malcolm Anderson, whom you may remember as puir Colonel Leslie's servant, and as being in your own troop, and he has brought one with him concerning whom he will speak to you himself."

"Of course I remember Anderson," the colonel said. "He was devoted to Leslie. Bring him in at once. What can have brought him out here again after so many years? Been getting into some trouble at home, I suppose? He was always in some scrape or other when he was in the regiment, for, though he was a good soldier, he was as wild and reckless a blade as any in the regiment. You remember him, Macpherson?"

"Yes, I remember him well," the major said. "The colonel was very fond of him, and regarded him almost as a brother."

A minute later Angus ushered Malcolm and Ronald into the presence of the two officers, who had now taken seats in the room which served as kitchen and sitting room to the cottage, which was much the largest in the village.

"Well, Anderson, I am glad to see you again," Colonel Hume said, rising and holding out his hand. "We have often spoken of you since the day you disappeared, saying that you were going on a mission for the colonel, and have wondered what the mission was, and how it was that we never heard of you again."

"I came over to Paris four years later, colonel, but the regiment was away in Flanders, and as I found out from others what I had come to learn, there was no use in my following you. As to the colonel's mission, it was this;" and he put his hand on Ronald's shoulder.

"What do you mean, Anderson?" the colonel asked in surprise.

"This is Colonel Leslie's son, sir. He bade me fetch him straight away from the folk with whom he was living and take him off to Scotland so as to be out of reach of his foes, who would doubtless have made even shorter work with him than they did with the colonel."

"Good heavens!" the colonel exclaimed; "this is news indeed. So poor Leslie left a child and this is he! My lad," he said, taking Ronald's hand, "believe me that anything that I can do for you, whatever it be, shall be done, for the sake of your dear father, whom I loved as an elder brother."

"And I too," the major said. "There was not one of us but would have fought to the death for Leslie. And now sit down, my lad, while Anderson tells us your story."

Malcolm began at the account of the charge which Colonel Leslie had committed to him, and the manner in which he had fulfilled it. He told them how he had placed the child in the care of his brother, he himself having no fixed home of his own, and how the lad had received a solid education, while he had seen to his learning the use of his sword, so that he might be able to follow his father's career. He then told them the episode of the Jacobite agent, and the escape which had been effected in the Thames.

"You have done well, Anderson," the colonel said when he had concluded; "and if ever Leslie should come to see his son he will have cause to thank you, indeed, for the way in which you have carried out the charge he committed to you, and he may well be pleased at seeing him grown up such a manly young fellow. As to Leslie himself, we know not whether he be alive or dead. Every interest was made at the time to assuage his majesty's hostility, but the influence of the Marquis of Recambours was too strong, and the king at last peremptorily forbade Leslie's name being mentioned before him. You see, although the girl's father was, of course, at liberty to bestow her hand on whomsoever he pleased, he had, with the toadyism of a courtier, asked the king's approval of the match with Chateaurouge, which, as a matter of course, he received. His majesty, therefore, chose to consider it as a personal offence against himself that this Scottish soldier of fortune should carry off one of the richest heiresses of France, whose hand he had himself granted to one of his peers. At the same rime I cannot but think that Leslie still lives, for had he been dead we should assuredly have heard of the marriage of his widow with some one else. The duke has, of course, long since married, and report says that the pair are ill-matched; but another husband would speedily have been found for the widow."

"Since the duke has married," Ronald said, "he should no longer be so bitter against my father, and perhaps after so long an imprisonment the king might be moved to grant his release."

"As the duke's marriage is an unhappy one, I fear that you cannot count upon his hostility to your father being in any way lessened, as he would all the more regret the interference with his former plans."

"Have you any idea where my mother is, sir?"

"None," the colonel said. "But that I might find out for you. I will give you a letter to the Count de Noyes, who is on intimate terms with the Archbishop of Paris, who would, no doubt, be able to tell him in which convent the lady is residing. You must not be too sanguine, my poor boy, of seeing her, for it is possible that she has already taken the veil. Indeed, if your father has died, and she has still refused to accept any suitor whom the marquis may have found for her, you may be sure that she has been compelled to take the veil, as her estates would then revert to the nearest kinsman. This may, for aught we know, have happened years ago, without a word of it being bruited abroad, and the affair only known to those most concerned. However, we must look at the best side. We shall be able, doubtless, to learn through the archbishop whether she is still merely detained in the convent or has taken the veil, and you can then judge accordingly whether your father is likely to be alive or dead. But as to your obtaining an interview with your mother, I regard it as impossible in the one case as the other.

"At any rate it is of the highest importance that it should not be known that you are in France. If it is proved that your father is dead and your mother is secluded for life, we must then introduce you to her family, and try and get them to bring all their influence to bear to have you acknowledged openly as the legitimate heir of the marquis, and to obtain for you the succession to at least a portion of his estates -- say to that of those which she brought him as her dowry. In this you may be sure that I and every Scottish gentleman in the army will give you all the aid and influence we can bring to bear."

Ronald warmly thanked Colonel Hume for his kindness, and the next day, having received the letter to the Count de Noyes, set out for Paris with Malcolm. On his arrival there he lost no time in calling upon the count, and presenting his letter of introduction.

The count read it through twice without speaking.

"My friend Colonel Hume," he said at last, "tells me that you are the son, born in lawful wedlock, of Colonel Leslie and Amelie de Recambours. I am aware of the circumstances of the case, being distantly related to the lady's family, and will do that which Colonel Hume asks me, namely, discover the convent in which she is living. But I warn you, young man, that your position here is a dangerous one, and that were it known that Colonel Leslie's son is alive and in France, I consider your life would not be worth a day's purchase. When powerful people are interested in the removal of anyone not favoured with powerful protection the matter is easily arranged. There are hundreds of knives in Paris whose use can be purchased for a few crowns, of if seclusion be deemed better than removal, a king's favourite can always obtain a lettre-de-cachet, and a man may linger a lifetime in prison without a soul outside the walls knowing of his existence there.

"You are an obstacle to the plans of a great noble, and that is in France a fatal offence. Your wisest course, young man, would be to efface yourself, to get your friend Colonel Hume to obtain for you a commission in his regiment, and to forget for ever that you are the son of Colonel Leslie and Amelie de Recambours. However, in that you will doubtless choose for yourself; but believe me my advice is good. At any rate I will do what my friend Colonel Hume asks me, and will obtain for you the name of the convent where your mother is living. I do not see that you will be any the better off when you have it, for assuredly you will nor be able to obtain permission to see her. However, that again is your affair. If you will give me the address where you are staying in Paris I will write to you as soon as I obtain the information. Do not be impatient, the archbishop himself may be in ignorance on the point; but I doubt not, that to oblige me, he will obtain the information from the right quarter.

A week later, Ronald, on returning one day to Le Soldat Ecossais, found a note awaiting him. It contained only the words:

"She has not taken the veil; she is at the convent of Our Lady at Tours."

The next morning Ronald and Malcolm set out on their journey to Tours.



CHAPTER VI: The Convent of Our Lady.


Arrived at Tours, Malcolm took a quiet lodging in a retired street. Colonel Hume had furnished him with a regular discharge, testifying that the bearer, Malcolm Anderson, had served his time in the 2d Scotch Dragoons, and was now discharged as being past service, and that he recommended him as a steady man for any employment for which he might be suited. Malcolm showed this document to his landlord in order that the latter might, as required by law, duly give notice to the police of the name and occupation of his lodger, and at the same time mentioned that the relations of his wife lived near Tours, and that he hoped through them to be able to obtain some sort of employment.

As soon as they were settled in their lodgings they went out, and after a few inquiries found themselves in front of the convent of Our Lady. It was a massive building, in a narrow street near the river, to which its grounds, surrounded by a high wall, extended. None of the windows of the building looked towards the street, upon which the massive gate, with a small wicket entrance, opened.

"What building is this?" Malcolm, in a careless tone, asked a woman who was sitting knitting at her door nearly opposite the entrance. "I am a stranger in Tours."

"That needs no telling," the woman replied, "or you would have known that that is the convent of Our Lady, one of the richest in Touraine, and they say in all France. Though what they do with their riches is more than I can tell, seeing that the rules are of the strictest, and that no one ever comes beyond the gates. They have their own grounds down to the river, and there is a walk along the wall there where they take the air of an evening when the weather is fine. Poor things, I pity them from my soul."

"But I suppose they all came willingly," Malcolm said; "so there is no need for pity."

"I don't know about willingly," the woman said. "I expect most of them took the veil rather than marry the men their fathers provided for them, or because they were in the way of someone who wanted their lands, or because their lovers had been killed in the war, just as if grief for a lover was going to last one's life. Besides, they are not all sisters. They say there's many a lady of good family shut up there till she will do her father's will. 'Well, well,' I often says to myself, 'they may have all the riches of France inside those walls, but I would rather sit knitting at my door here than have a share of them.'"

"You are a wise woman," Malcolm said. "There is nothing like freedom. Give me a crust, and a sod for my pillow, rather than gold plates inside a prison. I have been a soldier all my life, and have had my share of hard knocks; but I never grumbled so long as I was on a campaign, though I often found it dull work enough when in garrison."

"Oh, you have been a soldier! I have a brother in the regiment of Touraine. Perhaps you know him?"

"I know the regiment of Touraine," Malcolm said; "and there are no braver set of men in the king's service. What is his name?"

"Pierre Pitou. I have not heard of him for the last two years. He is a tall man, and broad, with a scar over the left eye."

"To be sure, to be sure!" Malcolm said. "Of course, Pierre Pitou is one of my best friends; and now I think of it, madam, I ought to know without asking, so great is his resemblance to you. Why, his last words to me were, 'If you go to Tours, seek out my sister, who lives in a house nearly opposite the entrance to the convent of Our Lady;' and to think I should have forgotten all about it till I saw you!"

Malcolm remained for a quarter of an hour chatting with the woman about her brother, and then, promising to call again the next day in the evening to be introduced to her husband, he rejoined Ronald, who had been waiting at the corner of the lane, and had been fidgeting with impatience at the long interview between Malcolm and the woman.

"What have you been talking about all this time, Malcolm, and what could you have to say to a stranger?"

"I have been telling her all about her brother, Pierre Pitou of the Touraine regiment, and how he distinguished himself at Dettingen, and will surely be made a sergeant, with a hope some day of getting to be a captain. I have quite won her heart."

"But who is Pierre Pitou, and when did you know him?" Ronald asked surprised.

"He is a tall man with broad shoulders and a scar over his left eye," Malcolm said laughing, and he then related the whole conversation.

"But why did you pretend to this poor woman that you knew her brother?"

"Because she may be very useful to us, Ronald; and if you can't find a friend in court, it's just as well to have one near court. She is a gossiping woman, and like enough she may know some of the lay sisters, who are, in fact, the servants of the convent, and come out to buy supplies of food and other things, and who distribute the alms among the poor. I don't know what advantage will come of it yet, Ronald; but I can see I have done a great stroke of business, and feel quite an affection for my friend Pierre Pitou."

Malcolm followed up the acquaintance he had made, and soon established himself as a friend of the family. Ronald did not accompany him on any of his visits, for as the plan of proceeding was still undecided, he and Malcolm agreed that it was better that he should not show himself until some favourable opportunity offered.

Sometimes towards evening he and Malcolm would take a boat and float down the stream past the convent walls, and Ronald would wonder which of the figures whose heads he could perceive as they walked upon the terrace, was that of his mother. It was not until Malcolm had become quite at home with Madame Vipon that he again turned the conversation towards the convent. He learned that she had often been inside the walls, for before her marriage she had worked at a farm whence the convent drew a portion of its supplies; milk, butter, and eggs, and she had often carried baskets to the convent.

"Of course I never went beyond the outer court," she said; "but Farmer Miron's daughter -- it was he owned the farm -- is a lay sister there. She was crossed in love, poor girl. She liked Andre, the son of a neighbouring farmer, but it was but a small place by the side of that of Miron, and her father would not hear of it, but wanted her to marry Jacques Dubois, the rich miller, who was old enough to be her father. Andre went to the wars and was killed; and instead of changing when the news came, as her father expected, and taking up with the miller, she hated him worse than ever, and said that he was the cause of Andre's death; so the long and short of it was, she came as a lay sister to the convent here. Of course she never thought of taking the vows, for to do that here one must be noble and be able to pay a heavy dowry to the convent.

"So she is just a lay sister, a sort of servant, you know, but she is a favourite and often goes to market for them, and when she does she generally drops in here for a few minutes for a talk; for though she was only a child when I was at the farm we were great friends, and she hears from me how all the people she used to know are getting on."

"I suppose she knows all the ladies who reside in the convent as well as the sisters?"

"Oh, yes, and much better than the sisters! It is on them she waits. She does not see much of the sisters, who keep to their own side of the house, and have very little to do with the visitors, or as one might call them the prisoners, for that is what most of them really are."

"Now I think of it," Malcolm said, "one of the officers I served under had a relation, a lady, whom I have heard him say, when he was talking to another officer, is shut up here, either because she wouldn't marry some one her father didn't want her to, I forget exactly what it was now. Let me see, what was her name. Elise -- no, that wasn't it. Amelie -- Amelie de Recambours -- yes, that was it."

"Oh, yes, I know the name! I have heard Jeanne speak of her. Jeanne said it was whispered among them that she had really married somebody against her father's will. At any rate she has been there ever so many years, and they have not made her take the veil, as they do most of them if they are obstinate and won't give way. Poor thing! Jeanne says she is very pretty still, though she must be nearly forty now."

"That is very interesting," Malcolm said; "and if you will not mind, Madam Vipon, I will write to the officer of whom I spoke and tell him his cousin is alive and well. I was his servant in the regiment, and I know, from what I have heard him say, he was very much attached to her. There can be no harm in that, you know," he said, as Madam Vipon looked doubtful; "but if you would prefer it, of course I will not say how I have heard."

"Yes, that will be better," she agreed. "There is never any saying how things come round; and though there's no harm in what I have told you, still it's ill gossiping about what takes place inside convent walls."

"I quite agree with you, my dear Madam Vipon, and admire your discretion. It is singular how you take after your brother. Pierre Pitou had the reputation of being the most discreet man in the regiment of Touraine."

Ronald was very excited when he heard from Malcolm that he had actually obtained news at second hand as to his mother, and it was with difficulty that his friend persuaded him to allow matters to go on as he proposed.

"It will never do to hurry things now, Ronald; everything is turning out beyond our expectations. A fortnight ago it seemed absolutely hopeless that you should communicate with your mother; now things are in a good train for it."

Accordingly Malcolm made no further allusion to the subject to Madame Vipon until a fortnight had passed; then he said, on calling on her one day:

"Do you know, my dear Madam Vipon, I have had a letter from the gentleman of whom I was speaking to you. He is full of gratitude at the news I sent him. I did not tell him from whom I had heard the news, save that it was from one of the kindest of women, the sister of an old comrade of mine. He has sent me this" -- and he took out a small box which he opened, and showed a pretty gold broach, with earrings to match -- "and bid me to give it in his name to the person who had sent him this good news."

"That is beautiful," Madam Vipon said, clapping her hands; "and I have so often wished for a real gold broach! Won't my husband open his eyes when he sees them!"

"I think, if I might advise, my dear madam," Malcolm said, "I should not give him the exact history of them. He might take it into his head that you had been gossiping, although there is no woman in the world less given to gossiping than you are. Still, you know what husbands are. Therefore, if I were you I would tell him that your brother Pierre had sent them to you through me, knowing, you see, that you could not have read a letter even if he could have written one."

"Yes, perhaps that would be the best," Madam Vipon said; "but you had better write to Pierre and tell him. Otherwise when he comes home, and my husband thanks him for them, he might say he had never sent them, and there would be a nice affair."

"I will do so," Malcolm said; "but in any case I am sure your wit would have come to the rescue, and you would have said that you had in fact bought them from your savings; but that thinking your husband might grumble at your little economies you had thought it best to say that they came from your brother."

"Oh, fie, monsieur; I am afraid you are teaching me to tell stories."

"That is a very hard word, my dear madam. You know as well as I do that without a little management on both sides husbands and wives would never get on well together; but now I want to tell you more. Not only does my old master write to say how glad he is to hear of his cousin's welfare, but he has told me a great deal more about the poor lady, and knowing your kindness of heart I do not hesitate to communicate the contents of his letter to you. The Countess Amelie de Recambours was secretly married to a young officer, a great friend of my late master, and her father did not discover it until after the birth of a child -- a boy. Then she was shut up here. The father got the boy safely away to Scotland, but he has now come back to France. I do not suppose the poor lady has ever heard of her little son since, and it would be an act of kindness and mercy to let her know that he is alive and well."

"Yes, indeed, poor creature," Madame Vipon said sympathetically. "Only to think of being separated from your husband, and never hearing of your child for all these years!"

"I knew your tender heart would sympathize with her," Malcolm said; "she is indeed to be pitied."

"And what became of her husband?"

"I fancy he died years ago; but my master says nothing about him. He only writes of the boy, who it seems is so delighted with the news about his mother that he is coming here to see if it is possible to have an interview with her."

"But it is not possible," Madam Vipon exclaimed. "How can he see her, shut up as she is in that convent?"

"Yes, it is difficult," Malcolm agreed; "but nothing is impossible, my dear madam, when a woman of heart like yourself takes a matter in hand; and I rely, I can tell you, greatly on your counsel; as to your goodwill, I am assured of that beforehand."

"But it is quite, quite, quite impossible, I assure you, my good Monsieur Anderson."

"Well, let us see. Now I know that you would suggest that the first measure to be taken is to open communication between mother and son, and there I heartily agree with you."

"That would be the first thing of course, monsieur; but how is that to be done?"

"Now that is where I look to you, madam. Your friend Jeanne waits upon her, you see, and I know your quick wit will already have perceived that Jeanne might deliver a message. I am sure that she would never be your friend had she not a warm heart like your own, and it will need very little persuasion on your part, when you have told her this sad story, to induce her to bring gladness to this unfortunate lady."

"Yes; but think of the consequences, Monsieur Anderson: think what would happen if it were found out."

"Yes, if there were any talk of the countess running away from the convent I would not on any condition ask you to assist in such a matter; but what is this -- merely to give a message, a few harmless words."

"But you said an interview, Monsieur Anderson."

"An interview only if it is possible, my dear madam, that is quite another matter, and you know you said that it was quite impossible. All that we want now is just a little message, a message by word of mouth which not even the keenest eye can discover or prevent; there can be no harm in that."

"No, I don't think there can be much harm in that," Madam Vipon agreed; "at any rate I will talk to Jeanne. It will be her day for going to market tomorrow; I will tell her the story of the poor lady, and I think I can answer beforehand that she will do everything she can."

The following afternoon Malcolm again saw Madam Vipon, who told him that although she had not actually promised she had no doubt Jeanne would deliver the message.

"She will be out again on Saturday, monsieur, at nine in the morning, and if you will be here with the boy, if he has arrived by that time, you shall speak to her."

At the time appointed Malcolm, with Ronald, attired now as a young French gentleman, arrived at the house of Madam Vipon, who was warmly thanked by Ronald for the interest she had taken in him.

"My friend here has spoken to me in the highest terms of you, Madam Vipon, and I am sure that all that he has said is no more than the truth."

"I am sure I will do all I can," replied Madam Vipon, who was greatly taken by Ronald's appearance and manner; "it's a cruel thing separating a mother from a son so many years, and after all what I am doing is no hanging matter anyway."

A few minutes later Jeanne entered; she was a pleasant looking woman of five or six and twenty, and even her sombre attire as a lay sister failed to give a formal look to her merry face.

"So these are the gentlemen who want me to become a conspirator," she said, "and to run the risk of all sorts of punishment and penalties for meddling in their business?"

"Not so much my business as the business of my mother," Ronald said. "You who have such true heart of your own, for madam has told us something of your story, will, I am sure, feel for that poor lady shut up for fifteen years, and knowing not whether her child is dead or alive. If we could but see each other for five minutes, think what joy it would be to her, what courage her poor heart would take."

"See each other!" Jeanne repeated surprised. "You said nothing about that, Francoise; you only said take a message. How can they possibly see each other? That's a different thing altogether."

"I want you to take a message first," Ronald said. "If nothing more can be done that will be very much; but I cannot think but that you and my mother between you will be able to hit upon some plan by which we might meet."

"But how," Jeanne asked in perplexity, "how could it possibly be?"

"For example," Ronald suggested; "could I not come in as a lay sister? I am not much taller than you, and could pass very well as a girl."

Jeanne burst our laughing.

"You do not know what you are saying, monsieur; it would be altogether impossible. People do not get taken on as lay sisters in the convent of Our Lady unless they are known; besides, in other ways it would be altogether impossible, and even if it were not it might be years before you could get to speak to the countess, for there are only two or three of us who ever enter the visitors' rooms; and lastly, if you were found out I don't know what would be done to both of us. No, that would never do at all."

"Well, in the next place, I could climb on to the river terrace at night, and perhaps she could come and speak to me there."

"That is more possible," Jeanne said thoughtfully; "but all the doors are locked up at night."

"But she might get out of a window," Ronald urged; "with a rope ladder she could get down, and then return again, and none be the wiser."

Jeanne sat silent for a minute, and then she asked suddenly:

"Are you telling me all, monsieur, or are you intending that the countess shall escape with you?"

"No, indeed, on my honour!" Ronald exclaimed. "I have nowhere where I could take my mother. She would be pursued and brought back, and her position would be far worse than it is now. No; I swear to you that I only want to see her and to speak to her, and I have nothing else whatever in my mind."

"I believe you, monsieur," Jeanne said gravely. "Had it been otherwise I dare not have helped, for my punishment if I was discovered to have aided in an escape from the convent would be terrible -- terrible!" she repeated with a shudder. "As to the other, I will risk it; for a gentler and kinder lady I have never met. And yet I am sure she must be very, very brave to have remained firm for so many years. At any rate I will give her your message."

Ronald took from a small leather bag, which he wore round his neck, a tiny gold chain with a little cross.

"I had this round my neck when I was taken away as a child to Scotland. No doubt she put it there, and will recognize it. Say to her only: 'He whom you have not seen since he was an infant is in Tours, longing above all things to speak to you;' that is all my message. Afterwards, if you will, you can tell her what we have said, and how I long to see her. How high is her room from the ground? Because if it is high it will be better that I should climb to her window, than that she should descend and ascend again."

Jeanne shook her head.

"That could not be," she said. "The visitors have all separate cells, but the partitions do not go up to the ceiling; and even if you entered, not a word could be spoken without being overheard. But fortunately she is on the first floor, and I am sure she is not one to shrink from so little a matter as the descent of a ladder in order to have an interview with her son."

That same afternoon as Amelie de Recambours was proceeding from the refectory to her cell, following several of her fellow captives, her attendant Jeanne came out from one of the cells. Glancing behind to see that no one was following, she put her finger on her lips and then whispered: "Make some excuse not to go into the garden with the others this evening. It is most important." Then she glided back into the room from which she had come.

The countess followed the others in a state of almost bewilderment. For sixteen years nothing had occurred to break the monotony of her existence. At first occasional angry messages reached her from her father, with orders to join an application to the pope for a divorce; but when it had been found impossible to overcome her steady refusals the messages had at last ceased, and for years no word from the outer world had reached her, although she had learned from those who from time to time came to share her captivity what was passing outside. Whether her husband was alive or dead she knew not. They had told her over and over again that he was dead; but the fact that she had never had the option given her of accepting another husband or taking the final vows kept hope alive. For she was convinced that if he was really dead, efforts would be made to compel her to marry again.

What, then, she wondered to herself, could this communication so secretly given mean? She regarded the lay sister who attended upon her as a happy looking young woman whose face was in strong contrast to most of those within the walls of the convent; but she had exchanged but few words with her, knowing that she would be but a short time about her. For the policy of the abbess was to change the attendants upon the ladies in their charge frequently, in order to prevent them from being tampered with, or persuaded into conveying communications without the walls.

"You look pale, Amelie," one of the other ladies said as they gathered in a group for a moment before proceeding to their respective apartments, where they were supposed to pass the afternoon in working, reading, and meditation.

"It is the heat," the countess said. "I have a headache."

"You look it," the latter said. "It is not often that you have anything the matter with you. You know we all say that you must have a constitution of iron and the courage of a Roland to be sixteen years here and yet to have no wrinkle on your forehead, no marks of weeping round your eyes."

The countess smiled sadly.

"I wept the first six months almost without ceasing, and then I told myself that if I would be strong and resist I must weep no more. If a bird in a cage once takes to pining he is sure not to live long. There are few of us here the news of whose death would not give pleasure to those who shut us up, and I for one resolved that I would live in spite of all."

"Well, you must not get ill now, Amelie. We should miss you terribly in the one hour of the day when we really live, the hour when we walk and talk, and laugh if we can, on the river terrace.

"I don't think I shall be able to come this evening," the countess said. "I shall lie down and keep myself quiet. Tomorrow I hope to be myself again. It is a mere passing indisposition."

The hours passed slowly as Amelie lay on her couch and wondered over the coming interview. There were so many things which she might hear -- that her father was dead; that her family had hopes at last of obtaining her restoration to the world. That it could be a message from her husband she had no hope, for so long as her father lived she was sure that his release would never be granted. As to the child, she scarce gave it a thought. That it had somehow been removed and had escaped the search that had been made for it she was aware; for attempts had been made to obtain from her some clue as to where it would most likely have been taken. She was convinced that it had never been found, for if it had she would have heard of it. It would have been used as a lever to work upon her.

At last the hour when she was accustomed to go into the garden arrived, and as the convent bell struck seven she heard the doors of the other cells open, the sound of feet in the corridor, and then all became still. In a few minutes a step approached, and one of the sisters entered to inquire why she was not in the garden with the others.

She repeated that her head ached.

"You look pale," the sister said, "and your hand is hot and feverish. I will send you up some tisane. It is the heat, no doubt. I think that we are going to have thunder."

In a few minutes a step was again heard approaching, and Jeanne entered with the medicament. As she closed the door the countess started into a sitting position.

"What is it, Jeanne? What is it that you have to say to me?"

"Calm yourself, I pray you, countess," Jeanne said. "For both our sakes I pray you to hear what I have to say calmly. I expect Sister Felicia will be here directly. When she heard you were unwell she said she would come up and see what you needed. And now, I will begin my message. In the first place I was to hand you this." And she placed in Amelie's hand the little necklet and cross.

For a moment the countess looked at them wonderingly, and then there flashed across her memory a sturdy child in its nurse's arms, and a tall man looking on with a loving smile as she fastened a tiny gold chain round the child's neck. A low cry burst from her lips as she started to her feet.

"Hush, lady, hush!" Jeanne exclaimed. "This is my message: 'He whom you have not seen since he was an infant is in Tours, longing above all things to speak to you.'"

"My child! my child!" the countess cried. "Alive and here! My God, I thank thee that thou hast remembered a friendless mother at last. Have you seen him, Jeanne? What is he like? Oh, tell me everything!"

"He is a right proper young gentleman, madam. Straight and comely and tall, with brown waving hair and a bright pleasant face. A son such as any mother might be proud of."

The countess suddenly threw her arms around Jeanne's neck and burst into tears.

"You have made me so happy, Jeanne; happy as I never thought to be again. How can I thank you?"

"The best way at present, madam," Jeanne said with a smile, "will be by drinking up that tisane, and lying down quietly. Sister Felicia moves about as noiselessly as a cat, and she may pop in at any moment. Do you lie down again, and I will stand a little way off talking. Then if she comes upon us suddenly she will suspect nothing."

The countess seized the bowl of tisane and drank it off, and then threw herself on the couch.

"Go on, Jeanne, go on. Have pity on my impatience. Think how I am longing to hear of him. Did the message say he was longing to see me? But that is not possible."

"It is not quite impossible, madam; though it would be dangerous, very dangerous. Still it is not quite impossible."

"How then could it be done, Jeanne? You know what our life is here. How can I possibly see my boy?"

"What he proposes, madam, is this: that he should some night scale the river wall, and await you on the terrace, and that you should descend from your window by a rope ladder, and so return after seeing him."

"Oh, yes, that is possible!" the countess exclaimed; "I could knot my bed clothes and slide down. It matters not about getting back again, since we have no ladder."

"I can manage to bring in two light ropes," Jeanne said. "It would not do for you to be found in the garden, for it would excite suspicion, and you would never have a chance of doing it again. But it is not an easy thing to climb up a rope ladder with no one to help you, and you know I shall be at the other end of the house."

"That is nothing," the countess said. "Had I to climb ten times the height, do you think I should hesitate for a moment when it was to see my son? Oh, Jeanne, how good you are! And when will it be?"

"I will bring in the ropes next time I go out. Mind and place them in your bed. You will know that that night at eleven o'clock your son will be on the terrace awaiting you.

As Jeanne finished speaking she placed her finger on her lips, for she thought she heard a slight noise without. The countess closed her eyes and then lay down on her pillow, while Jeanne stood as if watching her. The next instant the door opened noiselessly and Sister Felicia entered. She moved with a noiseless step up to Jeanne.

"Is she asleep?" she whispered.

"Oh no!" Jeanne answered in a louder voice, guessing that the sister would have heard the murmur of voices. "She has only just closed her eyes."

The countess looked up.

"Ah! is it you, sister? I have taken the tisane Sister Angela sent up, but my hands are burning and my head aches. The heat in chapel was so great I thought I should have fainted."

"Your hands are indeed burning," the sister said, convinced, as soon as she touched them, that the countess was really indisposed. "Yes; and your pulse is beating quicker than I can count. Yes, you have a touch of fever. I will mix you a draught and bring it up to you at once. Hark! that is the first peal of thunder; we are going to have a storm. It will clear the air, and do you even more good than my medicine. I will leave you here for tonight; if you are not better tomorrow we will move you into the infirmary."

The next morning Sister Felicia found her patient much better, though she still seemed languid and weak, and was ordered to remain quietly in her apartment for a day or so, which was just what she desired, for she was so filled with her new born happiness that she feared that if she went about her daily tasks as usual she should not be able to conceal from the sharp eyes of the sisters the joyousness which was brimming over in her, while had she laughed she would have astonished the inmates of the gloomy convent.



CHAPTER VII: Mother!


When Jeanne, after accomplishing her errands the next time she went out, entered Madam Vipon's, she found Ronald and Malcolm awaiting her.

"You have told my mother?" the former asked eagerly as she entered.

"Yes, I have told her, and if I had been an angel from heaven, with a special message to her, the poor lady could not have looked more happy."

"And you have been like an angel to us!" Ronald exclaimed, taking her hand. "How can I thank you for your goodness?"

"For shame, sir!" Jeanne said, smiling and colouring as Ronald, in his delight, threw his arms round her and kissed her. "Remember I am a lay sister."

"I could not have helped it," Ronald said, "if you had been the lady superior. And now," he went on eagerly, "is all arranged? See, I have brought a ladder of silk rope, light and thin, but quite strong enough to bear her."

"You take all for granted then, sir. You know I said I would take your message, but that I would not engage to meddle further in it."

"I know you said so; but I was sure that having gone so far you would do the rest. You will, won't you, Jeanne?"

"I suppose I must," Jeanne said; "for what with the countess on one side and you on the other, I should get no peace if I said no. Well, then, it is all arranged. At eleven o'clock tonight you are to be on the terrace, and you can expect her there. If she does not come you will know that something has occurred to prevent her, and she will come the following night at the same hour."

Jeanne took the silken cords and wound them round her, under her lay sister's robe, and then, with a kindly nod at Ronald, and an injunction to be as noiseless as a mouse in climbing up the terrace, and above all not to raise his voice in speaking to his mother, she tripped away across the street to the convent.

Malcolm and Ronald sallied out from Tours before the city gates were closed at sunset, and sat down on the slope which rises from the other side of the river and waited till it was time to carry the plan into operation. Gradually the lights disappeared from the various windows and the sounds which came across the water ceased, and by ten o'clock everything was profoundly still. They had, in the course of the afternoon, hired a boat, saying they were going out for a night's fishing. This they had moored a short distance below the town, on the side of the river where they now were. They now made their way to it and rowed quietly across the stream; then they left it and waded through the water, which flowed knee deep at the foot of the walls.

Although Tours was still a walled town the habit of keeping sentry in time of peace had long since died out, and they had no fear, at that hour, of discovery. There was no moon, but the night was bright and clear, and they had no difficulty in finding that part of the wall which now formed the terrace of the convent.

They were provided with a rope knotted at every foot, and with a grapnel attached to one end. At the second attempt this caught on the parapet of the wall, and Ronald at once climbed it and stood on the terrace, where, a minute later, he was joined by Malcolm. The convent itself could not be seen, for a screen of trees at the foot of the wall shut it off from the view of people on the opposite bank of the river. They waited quietly until a sudden peal of the bells of the numerous churches announced that it was the hour. Then they moved towards the steps leading down into the garden. A minute later a figure was seen approaching. Malcolm fell back, and Ronald advanced towards it. As the countess approached she held our her arms, exclaiming:

"My boy, my boy!" and with a cry of "Mother!" Ronald sprang forward into her embrace.

For a short time not a word was spoken, and then the countess murmured:

"My God, I thank thee for this great happiness. And now, my son," she said, recovering herself, "tell me everything. First, have you news of your father?"

"Alas, no!" Ronald said. "Nothing has been heard of him since the fatal day when he was seized; but I am convinced that he is still alive, and since I have found you, surely I shall be able to find him."

"Who is that with you, Ronald?"

"That is Malcolm Anderson; it is to him I owe everything. He carried me off and took me away with him to Scotland the day my father was arrested. He has been my best friend ever since, and it is he who brought me here to you."

The countess advanced to Malcolm.

"My son has told me that we owe everything to you, my brave Malcolm!" she said, holding out her hand. "I guessed that it was to you that my husband had confided the care of the child when I learned that it had disappeared. I remember what confidence he had in your devotion, and how he confided everything to you."

"He was like a brother to me, madam," Malcolm replied; "and glad indeed am I that I have been able to befriend his son and to bring him back to you a gentleman who will be an honour even to his father's name and yours."

"And now let us sit down here," the countess said, taking a seat upon a bench. "It gets light very early, and you must not stay after two o'clock, and there is so much for me to hear."

For the next two hours Ronald sat holding his mother's hand, while he told her the story of his life. "And now, mother," he said, when he had concluded, "we have but an hour left, for it has just struck one, and we have not said a word yet about the principal thing of all. How are we to obtain your freedom? Cannot you arrange to escape with us? I do not, of course, mean tonight, for we have nothing prepared, and, moreover, I promised Jeanne that there should be no attempt at escape; but we can come again when everything is ready. We shall, of course, need a disguise for you, for there will be a hot pursuit when your escape is known. But we might manage to reach the coast and cross over to England, and so make our way north."

"No, my son," the countess said. "I have thought it over in every way since I knew you were here, and I am resolved to remain here. Were I to fly, the last hope that your father might be freed would be lost. My father would be more than ever incensed against him and me; and, moreover, although that is but a minor consideration, there would be no hope whatever of your ever recovering the rank and estate to which you are entitled. No, I am resolved to wait here, at any rate so long as my father lives. At his death doubtless there will be some change, for as heiress to his estates my existence must be in some way recognized, and my family may be enabled to obtain my release when his powerful opposition is removed; if not, it will be time to take the idea of flight into consideration; till then I remain here. Now that I have seen you, now that I know you as you are, for I can just make out your face by the light of the stars, I shall be as near contentment and happiness as I can be till I meet your father again. In the meantime your good friend here can advise you far better than I can as to what your course had better be. If you can obtain any high influence, use it for obtaining your father's release. If it be accompanied by a sentence of exile from France it matters not, so that he is freed. You can then return here, and I will gladly fly with you to join him in Scotland."

Malcolm now rose from his seat and left mother and son half an hour together. When two o'clock struck he returned to them.

"There is the signal," the countess said, rising, "and now we must part." She had already refused to accede to Ronald's entreaty that she would meet him there again.

"No, my son, we have been permitted to meet this once, but we must not tempt fortune again. Sooner or later something would be sure to occur which would lead to discovery, and bring ruin upon all our plans. It is hard to say no, and to refuse the chance of seeing you again now that we have come together, but I am fully resolved that I will not risk it."

"We will see you safe up the ladder, mother," Ronald said. "It is no easy matter to climb up a rope ladder swinging loosely."

"No, I discovered that in descending," the countess said; "but if you come with me you must take off your boots -- the print of a man's footstep in the garden would ruin us all; and mind, not a word must be spoken when we have once left the terrace."

Taking off their boots they accompanied her through the garden. There was a last passionate embrace at the foot of the ladder, then the countess mounted it while they held it steady. Directly she entered the window she undid the fastening of the rope inside and let the ladder drop down to them. Five minutes later Ronald descended the rope into the river. Malcolm shifted the grapnel so that it caught only on the edge of the parapet and could be shaken off from below when the strain on the rope was removed, then he slid down to Ronald's side. A sharp jerk brought down the grapnel, and they returned along the edge of the river as they had come, crossed in the boat, and waited for morning.

They waited two days longer in Tours in order that they might receive, through Jeanne from the countess, a list of the noble families to which she was related, with notes as to those persons of whom she had seen most before her marriage, and who she believed would be most disposed to exert their influence on her behalf.

"Jeanne," Ronald said, "I am troubled that I do not know what I can do to show you how grateful I am. I should so like to give you some souvenir, but what can I do -- you could not wear brooches, or earrings, or trinkets."

"That I could not, monsieur," Jeanne broke in with a smile; "and if I could I would not accept them from you. I have done what I have done because I pitied your mother and you, and I am content that if I have broken the rules I have done it with a good purpose."

"Well, Jeanne," Ronald said, "you may not be a lay sister all your life; you have taken no vows that will bind you for ever, and I have no doubt that the lady superior can absolve you from your engagements should you at any time wish to go back to the world; if so, and if I am still in France, I will come to dance at your wedding, and will promise you as pretty a necklace and earrings as are to be found in Touraine."

"Very well, that is a bargain," Jeanne said laughing; "and it is not impossible, young sir, that some day I may hold you to your promise, for only last market day I met my father, and he spoke more kindly to me than he used to, and even said that he missed me; and I hear that the miller has found someone who will put up with him for the sake of his money. I shouldn't be surprised if, when that comes off, father wants me home again; but I sha'n't go directly he asks me, you may be sure, but shall bargain that if there be again any question of a husband it will be for me to decide and not him."

The next day Ronald and his companion started for Paris. They were highly gratified with the success which had attended them, and Ronald felt his whole life brightened now that he had found the mother who had been so long lost to him. On arriving at Paris they found that Colonel Hume's regiment had returned to the capital. It was not expected that there would at present be any further fighting on the frontier, and two or three of the Scotch regiments had been brought back. Ronald at once called on Colonel Hume and related to him the success which had attended the first portion of his undertaking.

"I congratulate you indeed," Colonel Hume said. "I own that I thought your enterprise was a hopeless one, for it seemed to me impossible that you should be able to obtain an interview with a lady closely imprisoned in a convent. Why, Anderson, it is plain now that your talents have been lost, and that you ought to have been a diplomatist instead of wasting your time as a soldier. The way you carried out your plan was indeed admirable, and I shall really begin to think that Ronald will yet succeed; and now, my young friend, what do you mean to do next?"

"Would it be possible, sir, to ascertain where my father is confined?"

"I think not, my lad," the colonel said gravely. "In addition to the four or five prisons in Paris there are a score of others in different parts of France. The names of the prisoners in each are known only to the governors; to all others within the walls they exist as numbers only. The governors themselves are sworn to secrecy, and even if we could get at one or two of them, which would be difficult enough, we could hope for no more. Nor would it be much satisfaction to you merely to know in which prison your father is lying, for it is a very different matter to communicate with a prisoner in one of the royal fortresses to passing a message to a lady detained in a convent. I can see nothing for you but to follow the example of your mother and to practise patience, so conducting yourself as to gain friends and make a name and influence, so that at your grandfather's death we may bring as strong a pressure as possible to bear upon the king."

"How old is my grandfather?" Ronald asked.

"He is a man about sixty."

"Why, he may live twenty years yet!" Ronald exclaimed bitterly.

"Do not look at the worst side of the question," Colonel Hume replied with a smile. "But he may live some years," he went on more gravely, "and in the meantime you must think what you had better do. I will tell you as a great secret, that it has been finally resolved that an expedition shall sail this winter for Scotland, and fifteen thousand troops will assemble at Dunkirk under Marshal Saxe. Nothing could be more opportune. We are to form part of the expedition, with several other Scottish regiments. You are too young as yet for me to ask for a commission for you, but if you like I will enroll you as a gentleman volunteer; in this way you may have an opportunity of distinguishing yourself. I will introduce you to the Chevalier, and it may be that if he succeeds in gaining the crown of Scotland, if not of England, he will himself ask King Louis as a personal favour to release and restore to him Colonel Leslie of Glenlyon, who fought bravely with him in '15. If the expedition fails, and we get back alive to France, I will then obtain for you a commission in the regiment, and we can carry out our plan as we arranged. What do you say to that?"

"I thank you greatly, sir, and accept your offer most gratefully. I see that I am powerless to do anything for my father now, and your plan gives at least a prospect of success. In any case nothing will give me so much delight as to serve with the regiment he formerly commanded, and under so kind a friend as yourself."

"That is settled then," Colonel Hume said; "and now about outfit. A gentleman volunteer wears the uniform of the officers of the regiment, and indeed is one in all respects except that he draws no pay. My purse will be at your disposal. Do not show any false modesty, my lad, about accepting help from me. Your father would have shared his last penny with me had I needed it."

"I thank you heartily, colonel, for your offer, and should it be necessary I will avail myself of it, but at present I have ample funds. Malcolm carried off with me a bag with a hundred louis, and up to the day when I landed in France these had never been touched. I have eighty of them still remaining, which will provide my outfit and my maintenance for a long time to come."

"There is another advantage in your being a volunteer, rather than on the list of officers, Ronald; in that if it is necessary at any time, you can, after a word with me, lay aside your uniform and go about your affairs as long as you choose without question, which would be hard to do if you belonged regularly to the regiment."

At the end of a week Ronald had procured his uniform, and was presented by the colonel to the officers of the regiment as Ronald Leslie, the son of an old friend of his, who was joining the regiment as a gentleman volunteer. Malcolm joined only in the capacity of Ronald's servant. It was painful to the lad that his old friend and protector should assume such a relation towards him, but Malcolm laughed at his scruples.

"My dear Ronald," he said, "I was your father's servant, and yet his friend. Why should I not act in the same capacity to you? As to the duties, they are so light that, now I do not belong to the regiment, my only difficulty will be to kill time. There is nothing to do save to polish up your arms and your equipment. Your horse will be looked after by a trooper so long as you are with the regiment. I shall call you in the morning, get your cup of chocolate, and prepare your dinner when you do not dine abroad, carry your messages when you have any messages to send, and escort you when you go about any business in which it is possible that a second sword would be of use to you. As I have said, the only trouble will be to know what to do with myself when you do not want me."

It was now the end of August, and for the next four months Ronald worked hard at drill. He soon became a general favourite with the officers. The fact that his name was Leslie, and that he was accompanied by Malcolm, who was known to many of the old soldiers as being devoted to their former colonel and as having in some strange way disappeared from the regiment at the same time, gave ground to a general surmise that Leslie was the colonel's son.

Malcolm himself, when questioned, neither denied nor acknowledged the fact, but turned it off with a joke and a laugh. He was soon as much at home in his old regiment as if he formed a part in it, and when not required by Ronald passed the greater part of his time with his former comrades. As was natural, the opinion entertained by the men as to Leslie's identity was shared by the officers. The avoidance by Ronald of any allusion to his family, his declining when he first came among them to say to which branch of the Leslies he belonged, and the decided manner in which Colonel Hume, the first time the question was broached in his hearing in Ronald's absence, said that he begged no inquiries would be made on that score; all he could assure them was that Leslie's father was a gentleman of good family, and a personal friend of his own -- put a stop to all further questioning, but strengthened the idea that had got abroad that the young volunteer was the son of Colonel Leslie.

Early in January the 2d Scottish Dragoons marched for Dunkirk, where twenty thousand men assembled, while a large number of men of war and transports were gathered in the port. One day, when Ronald was walking in the street with Malcolm at his heels, the latter stepped up to him and touched him.

"Do you see that officer in the uniform of a colonel of the Black Musketeers, in that group at the opposite corner; look at him well, for he is your father's greatest enemy, and would be yours if he knew who you are; that is the Duke de Chateaurouge."

Ronald gazed at the man who had exercised so evil an influence upon the fate of his parents. He was a tall dark man with a pointed moustache, and of from forty to forty-five years of age. His features were regular and handsome; but in his thin straight eyebrows, the curl of his lips, and a certain supercilious drooping of the eyelids, Ronald read the evil passions which rendered him so dangerous and implacable an enemy.

"So that is the duke!" Ronald said when he had passed on. "I did not know he was a soldier."

"He is an honorary colonel of the regiment, and only does duty when it is called on active service; but he served in it for some years as a young man, and had the reputation of being a good soldier, though I know that he was considered a harsh and unfeeling officer by the men who served under him. That is the man, Ronald, and if you could get six inches of your sword between his ribs it would go a good long way towards obtaining your father's release; but I warn you he is said to be one of the best swordsmen in France."

"I care not how good a swordsmen he is," Ronald said hotly, "if I do but get a fair chance."

"Don't do anything rash, Ronald; I have no fear about your swordsmanship, for I know in the last four months you have practised hard, and that Francois says that young as you are you could give a point to any officer in the regiment. But at present it were madness to quarrel with the duke; you have everything to lose and nothing to gain. If he killed you there would be an end of you and your plans; if you killed him you would have to fly the country, for a court favourite is not to be slain with as much impunity as a bourgeois, and equally would there be an end of all hope of obtaining your father's release.

"No, for the present you must be content to bide your time. Still it is as well for you to know your foe when you see him, and in the meantime go on frequenting the various schools of arms and learn every trick of the sword that is to be taught. Look!" he went on, as a group of mounted officers rode down the street; "that is Marshal Saxe, one of the best soldiers in France, if not the best, and just as wild and reckless in private life as he is calm and prudent as a general."

Ronald looked with some surprise at the great general. He had expected to see a dashing soldier. He saw a man who looked worn and bent with disease, and as if scarce strong enough to sit on his horse; but there was still a fire in his eye, and as he uttered a joke to an officer riding next to him and joined merrily in the laugh, it was evident that his spirit was untouched by the disease which had made a wreck of his body.

A few days later a messenger arrived with the news that the French fleet from Brest had sailed, and had met the English fleet which had gone off in pursuit of it, and the coast of Kent was in consequence unguarded. Orders were instantly given that the troops should embark on board the transports, and as fast as these were filled they set sail. The embarkation of the cavalry naturally took longer time than that of the infantry, and before the Scottish Dragoons had got their horses on board a portion of the fleet was already out of sight.

"Was there ever such luck!" Malcolm exclaimed, after assisting in getting the horses on board, a by no means easy task, as the vessel was rolling heavily at her mooring. "The wind is rising every moment, and blowing straight into the harbour; unless I mistake not, there will be no sailing tonight."

This was soon evident to all. Signals were made from ship to ship, fresh anchors were let down, and the topmast housed. By midnight it was blowing a tremendous gale, which continued for three days. Several of the transports dragged their anchors and were washed ashore, and messages arrived from different parts of the coast telling of the wreck of many of those which had sailed before the storm set in.

The portion of the fleet which had sailed had indeed been utterly dispersed by the gale. Many ships were lost, and the rest, shattered and dismantled, arrived at intervals at the various French ports. The blow was too heavy to be repaired. The English fleet had again returned to the coast, and were on the lookout to intercept the expedition, and as this was now reduced to a little more than half of its original strength no surprise was felt when the plan was abandoned altogether.

Marshal Saxe with a portion of the troops marched to join the army in Flanders, and the Scotch Dragoons were ordered to return to Paris for the present.

For a year Ronald remained with the regiment in Paris. He had during that time been introduced by Colonel Hume to several members of his mother's family. By some of these who had known her before her marriage he was kindly received; but all told him that it would be hopeless to make any efforts for the release of his father as long as the Marquis de Recambours remained alive and high in favour at court, and that any movement in that direction would be likely to do harm rather than good. Some of the others clearly intimated to him that they considered that the countess had, by making a secret marriage and defying her father's authority, forfeited all right to the assistance or sympathy of her mother's family.

Twice Ronald travelled to Tours and sent messages to his mother through Jeanne, and received answers from the countess. She had, however, refused to meet him again on the terrace, saying that in spite of the love she had for him, and her desire to see him again, she was firmly resolved not to run the risk of danger to him and the failure of all their hopes, by any rash step.

At the end of the summer campaign in Flanders Marshal Saxe returned to Paris, and Colonel Hume one day took Ronald and introduced him to him, having previously interested the marshal by relating his history to him. The marshal asked Ronald many questions, and was much pleased with his frank manner and bearing.

"You shall have any protection I can give you," the marshal said. "No man has loved adventures more than I, nor had a fairer share of them, and my sympathies are altogether with you; besides, I remember your father well, and many a carouse have we had together in Flanders. But I am a soldier, you know, and though the king is glad enough to employ our swords in fighting his enemies, we have but little influence at court. I promise you, however, that after the first great victory I win I will ask the release of your father as a personal favour from the king, on the ground that he was an old comrade of mine. I can only hope, for your sake, that the marquis, your grandfather, may have departed this world before that takes place, for he is one of the king's prime favourites, and even the request of a victorious general would go for little as opposed to his influence the other way. And now, if you like, I will give you a commission in Colonel Hume's regiment. You have served for a year as a volunteer now, and younger men than you have received commissions."

Ronald thanked the marshal most heartily for his kind promise, but said that at present he would rather remain as a volunteer, because it gave him greater freedom of action.

"Perhaps you are right," the marshal said. "But at any rate you had better abstain from attempting any steps such as Colonel Hume tells me you once thought of for obtaining the release of your father. Success will be all but impossible, and a failure would destroy altogether any hopes you may have of obtaining his release from the king."

It seemed that some of his mother's family with whom he had communicated must have desired to gain the favour of the favourite of the king by relating the circumstances to him, for a short time after Ronald's interview with the marshal the marquis came up to Colonel Hume when he was on duty in the king's antechamber, and, in the presence of a number of courtiers, said to him:

"So, Colonel Hume, I find that I have to thank you for harbouring in your regiment an imposter, who claims to be my grandson. I shall know, sir, how to repay the obligation."

"The gentleman in question is no imposter, marquis, as I have taken the pains to inform myself. And I am not aware of any reason why I should not admit the son of a Scottish gentleman into my regiment, even though he happen to be a grandson of yours. As to your threat, sir, as long as I do my duty to his majesty I fear the displeasure of no man."

Two nights later, as Ronald was returning from dining with Colonel Hume and some of his officers, he was suddenly attacked in a narrow street by six men. Malcolm was with him, for Colonel Hume had at once related to him the conversation he had had with the marquis, and had warned him to take the greatest precautions.

"He is perfectly capable of having you suddenly put out of his way by a stab in the back, Ronald. And if there were anywhere for you to go I should advise you to leave Paris at once; but nowhere in France would you be safe from him, and it would upset all your plans to return to Scotland at present. However, you cannot be too careful."

Ronald had related what had passed to Malcolm, who determined to watch more carefully than ever over his safety, and never left his side when he was outside the barracks.

The instant the six men rushed out from a lane, at whose entrance a lantern was dimly burning, Malcolm's sword was out, and before the assailants had time to strike a blow he had run the foremost through the body.

Ronald instantly recovered from his surprise and also drew. He was now nearly eighteen, and although he had not yet gained his full height he was a match for most men in strength, while his constant exercise in the school of arms had strengthened the muscle of his sword arm, until in strength as well as in skill he could hold his own against the best swordsman in the regiment. The men were for a moment checked by the fall of their leader; but then seeing that they had opposed to them only one man, and another whom they regarded as a lad, scarcely to be taken into consideration, they rushed upon them. They were quickly undeceived. Ronald parried the first blow aimed at him, and with his riposte stretched his opponent on the pavement, and then springing forward, after a few rapid thrusts and parries ran the next through the shoulder almost at the same moment that Malcolm stretched another opponent on the ground.

Terrified at the downfall of three of their number, while a fourth leaned against a door post disabled, the two remaining ruffians took to their heels and fled at the top of their speed, the whole affair having lasted scarce a minute.

"Tell your employer," Ronald said to the wounded man, "that I am not to be disposed of so easily as he imagined. I should be only giving you what you deserve if I were to pass my sword through your body; but I disdain to kill such pitiful assassins except in self defence."

The next morning Ronald communicated to Colonel Hume what had happened.

"It's just as well, my young friend, that you are going to leave Paris. I received orders half an hour ago for the regiment to march to the frontier at once. That is the marquis's doing, no doubt. He thought to get rid of you last night and to punish me this morning; but he has failed both ways. You have defeated his cutthroats; I shall be heartily glad to be at the front again, for I am sick of this idle life in Paris."



CHAPTER VIII: Hidden Foes.


"I am heartily glad to be out of Paris," Ronald said to Malcolm on their first halt after leaving the capital. "It is not pleasant to regard every man one meets after dark as a possible enemy, and although I escaped scot free from the gang who attacked us the other night, one cannot always expect such good fortune as that. It was a constant weight on one's mind, and I feel like a new man now that we are beyond the city walls."

"Nevertheless, Ronald, we must not omit any precautions. Your enemy has a long purse, and can reach right across France. That last affair is proof of his bitterness against you, and it would be rash indeed were we to act as if, having made one attempt and failed, he would abandon his plans altogether. He is clearly a man who nourishes a grudge for years, and his first failure is only likely to add to his vindictive feeling. I do not say that your danger is as great as it was in Paris, but that is simply because the opportunities of attacking you are fewer. I should advise you to be as careful as before, and to be on your guard against ambushes and surprises."

"Well, it may be so, Malcolm, and of course I will be careful; but till I have proof to the contrary I shall prefer to think that the marquis will trust to my being knocked on the head during the war, and will make no further move against me until the regiment returns to Paris."

"Think what you like, lad," Malcolm said, "so that you are cautious and guarded. I shall sleep with one eye open, I can tell you, till we are fairly beyond the frontier."

Two days later the regiment encamped outside the town of St. Quentin. They were usually quartered on the inhabitants; but the town was already filled with troops, and as the weather was fine Colonel Hume ordered his men to bivouac a short distance outside the walls. Ronald was seeing that his troop got their breakfast next morning, when a sergeant came up with two men with a horse.

"This is Monsieur Leslie," he said to them. "These men were asking for you, sir."

"What do you want with me?" Ronald said surprised.

"We heard, sir," one of the peasants said, "that you wanted to buy a horse. We have a fine animal here, and cheap."

"But I do not want to buy one," Ronald replied. "I am very well supplied with horses. What made you think I wanted one?"

"We asked one of the officers, sir, if anyone in the regiment would be likely to buy, and he said that Monsieur Leslie wanted one, he believed."

"No," Ronald said decidedly. "Whoever told you was mistaken. I have my full complement, and though your horse looks a nice animal I could not take him if you offered him to me for nothing. I don't think you will get anyone to buy him in the regiment. I believe that every officer has his full complement of chargers."

In the evening Ronald happened to mention to Malcolm the offer he had had in the morning.

"It was a nice looking beast," he said, "and I had half a mind to ask them what they would take to exchange him with my roan, but I did not want to dip further into my purse."

"I wish I had been beside you at the time," Malcolm said earnestly; "those two fellows wouldn't have gone out of the camp so easily."

"Why, what do you mean, Malcolm?"

"Mean!" Malcolm repeated in a vexed tone. "This is what comes of your being watchful and cautious, Ronald. Why, the matter is clear enough. The marquis has set men on your track, but of course they could do nothing until some of them knew you by sight, so two of them are sent into camp with this cock and bull story about a horse, and they come and have a good look at you and go quietly off. It is too provoking. Had I been there I would have given them in charge of a file of men at once. Then we would have asked every officer in the regiment if he had sent them to you, and when we found, as we certainly should have found, that none of them had done so, we should have marched the men off to Colonel Hume, and I am sure, when he heard the circumstances of the case, they would have been lashed up and flogged till he had got the truth of the matter out of them. My great hope has been that they could not very well attempt your life, because none of the men who might be engaged on the job would be likely to know your face, and they would therefore have no means of singling you out for attack; and now two of the ruffians will be able to follow you and watch their opportunity."

"Oh, nonsense, Malcolm, you are too suspicious altogether! I have no doubt the affair was just as they stated it to be. What was more natural?"

"Well, Ronald, you will meet all the other officers at supper in half an hour. Just ask if any of them sent two men wanting to sell a horse to you this morning; if any of them say that they did so, I will acknowledge I am wrong.

Accordingly Ronald, at supper, put the question, but none of the officers admitted they knew anything about the matter.

"You have two very good horses, Leslie; why should anyone suppose that you wanted another?" the colonel asked.

"I don't know," Ronald said. "I only know that two men did come up with a horse to me this morning, and said that one of the officers had told them that I wanted to buy one."

"It must have been one of the men," the colonel said carelessly, "though I don't know why anyone should suppose that you wanted another charger. Still, someone, knowing that you are the last joined officer, might think you had need for a second horse."

The subject dropped, and Malcolm shook his head ominously when Ronald acknowledged to him that his suspicions were so far right that none of the officers had sent the men to him. The next day, as the regiment was passing through a thick wood, and Ronald was riding with Captain Campbell behind his troop, which happened to be in the rear in the regiment, two shots were fired from among the trees. The first struck Ronald's horse in the neck, causing him to swerve sharply round, a movement which saved his rider's life, for the second shot, which was fired almost instantly after the first, grazed his body and passed between him and Captain Campbell.

"Are you hit, Leslie?" the latter exclaimed, for the sudden movement of his horse had almost unseated Ronald.

"Nothing serious, I think. The bullet has cut my coat and grazed my skin, I think, but nothing more."

The captain shouted orders to his men, and with a score of troopers dashed into the wood. The trees grew thickly and there was a dense undergrowth, and they had difficulty in making their way through them. For half an hour they continued their search without success, and then rejoined the regiment on its march.

"This is a curious affair," Colonel Hume said when Captain Campbell reported, at the next halt, that an attempt at assassination had taken place.

"It looks like a premeditated attempt upon one or other of you. You haven't been getting into any scrape, have you?" he asked with a smile; "kissing some peasant's wife or offering to run away with his daughter? But seriously this is a strange affair. Why should two men lie in wait for the regiment and fire at two of its officers? The men have been behaving well, as far as I have heard, on the line of march, and nothing has occurred which could explain such an outrage as this."

"It may be fancy on my part, colonel," Ronald said, "but I cannot help thinking that it is a sequence of that affair I told you about in Paris, just before we started. The first shot struck my horse and the second would certainly have killed me had it not been for the horse's sudden swerve, therefore it looks as if the shots were aimed at me. I have some reason, too, for supposing that I have been followed. If you remember my question last night at supper about the men who wanted to sell me a horse. Malcolm Anderson is convinced that the whole thing was only a ruse to enable them to become acquainted with my face. They wanted to be able to recognize me, and so got up this story in order to have me pointed out to them, and to have a talk with me. None of the officers did send them to me, as they said, and they could hardly have hit upon a better excuse for speaking to me."

"It certainly looks like it," Colonel Hume said gravely. "I would give a good deal if we had caught those two men in the wood. If we had I would have given them the choice of being hung at once or telling me what was their motive in firing at you and who paid them to do it. This is monstrous. If we could get but a shadow of proof against your enemies I would lay a formal complaint before the king. Marquis or no marquis, I am not going to have my officers assassinated with impunity. However, till we have something definite to go upon, we can do nothing, and until then, Leslie, you had best keep your suspicion to yourself. It were best to say nothing of what you think; in this country it is dangerous even to whisper against a king's favourite. Let it be supposed that this attack in the woods was only the work of some malicious scoundrels who must have fired out of pure hatred of the king's troops."

Captain Campbell and Ronald quite agreed with the view taken by the colonel, and answered all questions as to the affair, that they had not the least idea who were the men who fired on them, and that no one obtained as much as a glimpse of them.

With most of the officers of the regiment, indeed with all except one, Ronald was on excellent terms. The exception was a lieutenant named Crawford; he was first on the list of his company, and had, indeed, been twice passed over in consequence of his quarrelsome and domineering disposition. He was a man of seven or eight and twenty; he stood about the same height as Ronald and was of much the same figure, indeed the general resemblance between them had often been remarked.

His dislike to Ronald had arisen from the fact that previous to the latter joining the regiment Crawford had been considered the best swordsman among the officers, and Ronald's superiority, which had been proved over and over again in the fencing room, had annoyed him greatly. Knowing that he would have no chance whatever with Ronald in a duel, he had carefully abstained from open war, showing his dislike only by sneering remarks and sarcastic comments which frequently tried Ronald's patience to the utmost, and more than once called down a sharp rebuke from Colonel Hume or one or other of the majors. He did not lose the opportunity afforded by the shots fired in the wood, and was continually suggesting all sorts of motives which might have inspired the would be assassins.

Ronald, who was the reverse of quarrelsome by disposition, laughed good temperedly at the various suggestions; but one or two of the senior officers remonstrated sharply with Crawford as to the extent to which he carried his gibes.

"You are presuming too much on Leslie's good nature, Crawford," Captain Campbell said one day. "If he were not one of the best tempered young fellows going he would resent your constant attacks upon him; and you know well that, good swordsman as you are, you would have no chances whatever if he did so."

"I am quite capable of managing my own affairs," Crawford said sullenly, "and I do not want any advice from you or any other man."

"I am speaking to you as the captain of Leslie's troop," Captain Campbell said sharply, "and I do not mean to quarrel with you. You have had more quarrels than enough in the regiment already, and you know Colonel Hume said on the last occasion that your next quarrel should be your last in the regiment. I tell you frankly, that if you continue your course of annoyance to young Leslie I shall report the matter to the colonel. I have noticed that you have the good sense to abstain from your remarks when he is present."

Three days later the regiment joined the army before Namur.

That evening, having drunk more deeply than usual, Lieutenant Crawford, after the colonel had retired from the circle round the fire and to his tent, recommenced his provocation to Ronald, and pushed matters so far that the latter felt that he could no longer treat it as a jest.

"Mr. Crawford," he said, "I warn you that you are pushing your remarks too far. On many previous occasions you have chosen to make observations which I could, if I had chosen, have resented as insulting. I did not choose, for I hate brawling, and consider that for me, who have but lately joined the regiment, to be engaged in a quarrel with an officer senior to myself would be in the highest degree unbecoming; but I am sure that my fellow officers will bear me out in saying that I have shown fully as much patience as is becoming. I, therefore, have to tell you that I will no longer be your butt, and that I shall treat any further remark of the nature of those you have just made as a deliberate insult, and shall take measures accordingly."

A murmur of approval rose among the officers sitting round, and those sitting near Crawford endeavoured to quiet him. The wine which he had taken had, however, excited his quarrelsome instinct too far for either counsel or prudence to prevail.

"I shall say what I choose," he said, rising to his feet. "I am not going to be dictated to by anyone, much less a boy who has just joined the regiment, and who calls himself Leslie, though no one knows whether he has any right to the name."

"Very well, sir," Leslie said in a quiet tone, which was, however, heard distinctly throughout the circle, for at this last outburst on the part of Crawford a dead silence had fallen on the circle, for only one termination could follow such an insult. "Captain Campbell will, I hope, act for me?"

"Certainly," Captain Campbell said in a loud voice; "and will call upon any friend Lieutenant Crawford may name and make arrangements to settle this matter in the morning."

"Macleod, will you act for me?" Crawford said to a lieutenant sitting next to him.

"I will act," the young officer said coldly, "as your second in the matter; but all here will understand that I do solely because it is necessary that some one should do so, and that I disapprove absolutely and wholly of your conduct."

"Well, make what arrangements you like," Crawford said with an oath, and rising he left the circle and walked away.

When he had left there was an immediate discussion. Several of the officers were of opinion that the duel should not be allowed to proceed, but that Crawford's conduct should be reported to the colonel.

"I am entirely in your hands, gentlemen," Ronald said. "I have no desire whatever to fight. This affair has been forced upon me, and I have no alternative but to take it up. I am not boasting when I say that I am a far better swordsman than he, and I have no need to shrink from meeting him; but I have certainly no desire whatever to take his life. He has drunk more than he ought to do, and if this matter can be arranged, and he can be persuaded in the morning to express his regret for what he has said, I shall be very glad to accept his apology. If it can be settled in this way without either fighting or reporting his conduct to the colonel, which would probably result in his having to leave the regiment, I should be truly glad -- What is that?" he broke off, as a loud cry rang through the air.

The whole party sprang to their feet, and snatching up their swords ran in the direction from which the cry had come. The tents were at some little distance, and just as they reached them they saw a man lying on the ground.

"Good heavens, it is Crawford!" Captain Campbell said, stooping over him. "See, he has been stabbed in the back. It is all over with him. Who can have done it?"

He questioned several of the soldiers, who had now gathered round, attracted like the officers by the cry. None of them had seen the act or had noticed anyone running away; but in so large a camp there were so many people about that an assassin could well have walked quietly away without attracting any attention.

The colonel was speedily on the spot, and instituted a rigid inquiry, but entirely without success. The attack had evidently been sudden and entirely unsuspected, for Crawford had not drawn his sword.

"It is singular," he said, as with the officers he walked slowly back to the fire. "Crawford was not a popular man, but I cannot guess at any reason for this murder. Strange that this should be the second attack made on my officers since we left Paris."

Captain Campbell now related what had taken place after he had left the circle.

"The matter should have been reported to me at once," he said; "although, as it has turned out, it would have made no difference. Perhaps, after all, it is best as it is, for a duel between two officers of the regiment would have done us no good, and the man was no credit to the regiment. But it is a very serious matter that we should be dogged by assassins. Leslie, come up with me to my tent. I am not going to blame you, lad," he said when they were together, "for you could not have acted otherwise than you have done. Indeed, I have myself noticed several times that Crawford's bearing towards you was the reverse of courteous. Have you any idea as to how he came by his death?"

"I, sir!" Ronald said in surprise. "No, I know no more than the others."

"It strikes me, Leslie, that this is only the sequel of that attack in the wood, and that your enemies have unwittingly done you a service. Crawford was very much your height and build, and might easily have been mistaken for you in the dark. I fancy that blow was meant for you."

"It is possible, sir," Ronald said after a pause. "I had not thought of it; but the likeness between him and myself has been frequently noticed. It is quite possible that that blow was meant for me."

"I have very little doubt of it, my lad. If any of these men were hanging about and saw you as they believed coming away from the circle alone, they may well have taken the opportunity. Let it be a lesson to you to be careful henceforth. It is unlikely that the attempt will be repeated at present. The men who did it will think that they have earned their money, and by this time are probably on the way to Paris to carry the news and claim their reward. So that, for a time at least, it is not probable that there will be any repetition of the attempt. After that you will have to be on your guard night and day.

"I wish to heaven we could obtain some clue that would enable me to take steps in the matter; but at present we have nothing but our suspicions, and I cannot go to the king and say three attempts have been made on the life of one of my officers, and that I suspect his grandfather, the Marquis de Recambours, has been the author of them."

When Malcolm heard the events of the evening his opinion was exactly the same as that of the colonel, and he expressed himself as convinced that Crawford had fallen by a blow intended for Ronald. He agreed that for a while there was no fear of a renewal of the attempt.

"The fellows will take the news straight to Paris that you have been put out of the way, and some time will elapse before the employers know that a mistake has been made. Then, as likely as not, they will decide to wait until the campaign is over."

The camp before Namur was a large and brilliant one. The king and dauphin had already arrived with the army. All the household troops were there, and a large contingent of the nobles of the court. The English army was known to be approaching, and was expected to fight a battle to relieve Namur, which the French were besieging vigorously. The French confidently hoped that in the approaching battle they would wipe our the reverse which had befallen them at Dettingen.



CHAPTER IX: Fontenoy.


A fortnight after the Scottish Dragoons joined the army the king was present at an inspection of their regiment. As the brilliant cortege passed along the line Ronald saw among the gaily dressed throng of officers riding behind the king and Marshal Saxe the Marquis de Recambours and the Duke de Chateaurouge side by side. Ronald with two other gentlemen volunteers were in their places in the rear of the regiment. It was drawn up in double line, and as the royal party rode along for the second time, Ronald saw that the two noblemen were looking scrutinizingly through the line of troopers at himself and his two companions.

That evening Colonel Hume on his return from a visit to Marshal Saxe told Ronald that the general had inquired after him, and had sent him word that if he won the battle he would not forget the promise he had made him. He had requested Colonel Hume to place Ronald at his disposal on the day of the battle.

"'I shall want active officers to carry my messages,' he said, 'and your young friend may have a greater opportunity of distinguishing himself than he would with the regiment. I should in that case find it all the easier to bring his business before the king.'

"The marshal is terribly ill," Colonel Hume said as he reported the conversation to Ronald, "so ill that he can only occasionally sit on his horse. Nothing but his indomitable courage sustains him. He is drawn about in a light carriage made of basketwork, and this serves him also for his bed."

On the 7th of May the enemy were known to be close at hand, and the French selected the position on which they would fight. The village of Fontenoy had already been occupied by a strong body of troops under Marshal Noailles, and the rest of the army now moved forward to the posts allotted to them. The English army were close at hand, and it was certain that the battle would be fought on the morrow. In the evening the king held a grand reception at which all the officers of rank were present. When Colonel Hume returned to his camp his officers were still sitting round the fire.

"Have you any news for us, sir?"

"No; I believe everything stands as was arranged. The king is in the highest spirits, though I must say his majesty did not choose reminiscences of a nature to encourage those who heard him. He remarked, for instance, that since the days of St. Louis the French had never gained a decisive success over the English, and a few minutes later he observed that the last time a king of France with his son had fought at the head of the French army was at the battle of Poictiers."

There was a general laugh.

"Certainly the king was not happy with his reminiscences," Major Munro remarked; "but I think this time the tables are going to be turned. In the first place we considerably outnumbered the enemy, even after leaving 15,000 men to continue the siege. In the second place, the position we have chosen is almost impregnable. The Scheldt covers our right, with the fortified bridge securing our communication, and the village of Antoin resting on the river. Along our front from Antoin to Fontenoy is a narrow and difficult valley. Our left is covered by the wood of Barre, where a strong redoubt has been constructed; and the whole of the position is fortified with breastworks and abattis as far as Fontenoy. Between that village and Barre the natural difficulties are so great that field works are unnecessary. I cannot believe myself that they will attack us in such a position, especially as nearly half their army are Dutch, who will count for little. The English are the only troops which we shall find formidable."

Before daybreak the camp was astir, and the troops took the positions assigned to them. Even now it was hardly believed that an attack would be made by the enemy so long as the French remained in their all but impregnable position; but presently the columns of the enemy were seen advancing. Ronald had ridden up to the litter on which Marshal Saxe was placed, and after saluting, had taken up his position with a number of other officers, in readiness to carry orders to different parts of the field.

At a short distance from the marshal the King of France with the dauphin and the brilliant cortege of nobles had taken up his post. From the position in which the marshal had caused himself to be placed a complete view of the enemy's approaching ranks was obtained. It could soon be seen that the Dutch troops, who on the English right were advancing to the attack, were moving against the villages of Antoin and Fontenoy. A strong force, headed, as was known afterwards, by General Ingoldsby, moved towards the wood of Barre; while a solid column of English and Hanoverians, 10,000 strong, marched forward to the attack across the broken ground between Fontenoy and the wood of Barre.

It was as yet but five o'clock in the morning when the cannon broke out into a roar on both sides. The Dutch, who were commanded by the Prince of Waldeck, soon hesitated, and in a short time fell back out of range of fire. On the English right General Ingoldsby penetrated some distance into the wood of Barre, and then fell back again as the Dutch had done. In an hour after the fighting had commenced the right and left of the allied army had ceased their attack. There remained only the centre, but this was advancing.

Under the command of the Duke of Cumberland the column crossed the ravine in front of Fontenoy. The ground was so broken that the troops were unable to deploy, but moved forward in a solid mass with a front of only forty men.

The French batteries from the right and left mowed them down in lines, but as steadily as if on parade the places were filled up, and unshaken and calm the great column moved forward. The cannon which they dragged along by hand opened against Fontenoy and the redoubts, and as, in spite of the hail of fire, they pressed steadily on, the French gunners were obliged to abandon their cannon and fly.

The regiment of French guards, officered almost entirely by the highest nobles, met the English guards, who composed the front lines of the column. A tremendous volley flashed along the English line, shattering the ranks of the French guard. There was a moment's fierce fighting, and then the English column swept from before it the remains of the French guard, and cleared the ravine which defended Fontenoy.

Ronald felt his heart beat with excitement and a feeling of pride and admiration as he saw the English advancing unmoved through the storm of fire. They advanced in the most perfect order. The sergeants calmly raised or depressed the soldiers' muskets to direct the fire; each vacant place was filled quietly and regularly without hesitation or hurry; and exclamations of surprise and admiration broke even from the French officers.

Regiment after regiment was brought up and hurled against the head of the column, but with no more effect than waves against a rock, each being dashed aside shattered and broken by the steady volleys and regular lines of bayonets. Ronald and other officers were sent off to bring up the cavalry, but in vain did these strive to break the serried column. One regiment after another charged down upon it, but the English, retaining their fire until they were within a few yards of their muzzles, received them with such tremendous volleys that they recoiled in disorder.

The French regiment of Vaisseaux next advanced to the attack, and fought with greater gallantry than any which had preceded it; but at last, when almost annihilated, its survivors fell back. And now it seemed as if this 10,000 men were to be victorious over the whole French army. Marshal Saxe begged the king to retire with the dauphin across the bridge of Calonne while he did what he could to retrieve the battle, but the king refused to leave the field. There was a hurried council held round Louis, and it was agreed to make a great effort by calling up the whole of the troops between Fontenoy and Antoin, as the positions they held were no longer threatened by the Dutch.

Had the latter now advanced nothing could have saved the French army from utter defeat; but they remained immovable at a distance from the field of battle. The English now won the crown of the position, had cut through the French centre, and were moving forward towards the bridge of Calonne, when the whole of the French artillery, which had, by the advice of the Duke of Richelieu, been brought up, opened fire on the English column. At the same moment the French regiments from Antoin fell upon it; while Marshal Saxe, who had, when the danger became imminent, mounted his horse, himself brought up the Irish Brigade, who, with a wild yell of hatred, flung itself furiously upon the flank of the English.

Attacked thus on all sides, mown down by a heavy fire of artillery, unsupported amid an army of foes, the column could do no more. Ten thousand men could not withstand fifty thousand. Their ranks were twice broken by the Irish, but twice their officers rallied them; until at last, when it became evident that no more could be done, the column fell slowly back in an order as perfect and regular as that in which it had advanced.

French historians have done ample justice to the extraordinary valour shown by the English troops on this occasion, a valour never surpassed in the long annals of the British army. Had they received the slightest assistance from their cowardly allies the victory must have been theirs. As it was, although unsuccessful, the glory and honour of the day rested with them, rather than with the victorious army of France. More than half the column had fallen in the desperate engagement, but the loss of the victors was even greater, and comprised many belonging to the noblest families of France.

Ronald had won the warm approval of Marshal Saxe for the manner in which he carried his orders across ground swept by a heavy fire, and brought up the regiments to within close quarters of the English; and after the battle was over Marshal Saxe presented to the king several of his staff who had most distinguished themselves, and calling up Ronald, who was standing near, for his horse had been shot under him as he rode by the side of the marshal with the Irish Brigade to the attack, the marshal said:

"Allow me to present to your majesty Ronald Leslie, a young Scottish gentleman of good family, who is a volunteer in the Scottish Dragoons, and has rendered great service today by the manner in which he has borne my orders through the thickest of the fire."

"I will bear you in mind, young gentleman," the king said graciously, "and I charge the marshal to bring your name before me on a future day."

His duty as aide de camp over, Ronald rejoined his regiment. They had lost nearly a third of their number in their charges upon the English column. Major Munro had been killed, the colonel severely wounded, and a number of officers had fallen. Ronald went about among the men assisting to bind up wounds, and supplying those who needed it with wine and other refreshments. Presently he was joined by Malcolm.

"Thank God you are safe, Ronald. I tell you, you have given me many a fright today as I watched you galloping along through the line of the English fire."

"Where were you, Malcolm? I did not see you."

"I had nothing to do," Malcolm said, "and I climbed a tree not fifty yards from the marshal's litter, and keeping the trunk in front of me to protect me from a stray bullet I had a good view of the whole proceedings. At one time I was on the point of slipping down and making a bolt for it, for I thought it was all over with us. How that column did fight! I have been in many a battle, but I never saw anything like it, it was grand; and if it hadn't been for the Irish Brigade, I think that they would have beaten the whole French army. But if you go into a battle again I sha'n't come to see you. I have done my share of fighting, and can take hard knocks as well as another; but I would not go through the anxiety I have suffered today about you on any condition. However, this has been a great day for you."

"You mean about the marshal presenting me to the king? Yes, that ought to help us."

"No, I didn't mean that, for I had not heard of it. I mean about that old rascal your grandfather, the Marquis de Recambours."

"What about him? I have not heard."

"No!" Malcolm exclaimed; "then I have good news for you. A ball from one of the English field pieces struck him full in the chest, and of course slew him instantly. He was not thirty yards from the tree when I saw him knocked over. He is quite dead, I can assure you, for when the others moved off I took the trouble to clamber down to assure myself. So now the greatest obstacle to the release of your father and mother is out of the way."

"Thank God for that!" Ronald said. "I have no reason for feeling one spark of regret at what has befallen him. He was the cruel persecutor of my parents, and did his best to get me removed. There is but one obstacle now to obtaining my father's release, and as he is neither a relation nor an old man I shall be able to deal with him myself."

"Yes, but you must be careful, Ronald; remember the decree against duelling. We must not make a false step now, when fortune is at last favouring us. There will be no more fighting, I fancy. The English will certainly not attack us again, and Tournay must fall, and I don't think that on our part there will be any desire whatever to go out of our way to seek another engagement with them. The king is sure to go back to Paris at once, where he will be received with enthusiasm. Marshal Saxe will probably follow as soon as Tournay has fallen. I should advise you, therefore, to get leave from the colonel to be absent from the regiment for a time, and we will make our way down to Tours and let your mother know the marquis is dead, and get her to write a memorial to the king requesting permission to leave the convent, and then when the marshall arrives in Paris we will get him to present it."

Ronald agreed to Malcolm's proposal, and the next morning, having obtained leave of absence from the colonel, he and Malcolm mounted and rode for Tours.

The message was duly conveyed to the countess by Jeanne, together with Ronald's earnest request that his mother would again meet him. She sent back by Jeanne the memorial he had asked her to write to the king, begging that she might be allowed to leave the convent; but she refused to agree to his wishes to meet her, bidding Jeanne say that now it seemed there was really a hope of her release shortly, she would less than ever risk any step which if discovered might prejudice their plans.

Although disappointed, Ronald could not deny that her decision was a wise one, and therefore contented himself by sending word that he had obtained one very powerful friend, and that he hoped that she would ere long receive good tidings. After a short stay at Tours, Ronald and Malcolm returned to Paris, where a series of brilliant fetes in honour of the victory of Fontenoy were in preparation. Tournay had surrendered a few days after the battle, the governor of that town having accepted a heavy bribe to open the gates, for the place could have resisted for months, and the allied army were ready to recommence hostilities in order to relieve it.

After its surrender they fell back and resumed a defensive attitude. The king therefore returned at once to Paris, and Marshal Saxe, handing over the command of the army to Marshal de Noailles, followed him by easy stages. Delighted above all things at a success gained over the English, who had for centuries been victorious in every battle in which England and France had met as enemies, the citizens of Paris organized a succession of brilliant fetes, which were responded to by entertainments of all kinds at Versailles. The Scottish Dragoons were still at the front; but Colonel Hume had been brought to Paris, as it would be some time ere he would be able again to take the command of the regiment. Ronald called at the house where the colonel lodged, upon the day after his return from Tours, and found that he had arrived upon the previous day. Ronald was at once shown up on sending in his name. The colonel was lying on the couch when he entered.

"How are you, colonel?"

"I am going on as well as possible, Ronald; they found the ball and got it out the day before I left the regiment, and I shall do well now. I have been carried on a litter all the way by eight of our troopers, and the good fellows were as gentle with me as if I had been a child, and I scarce felt a jar the whole distance. What I have got to do now is to lie quiet, and the doctor promises me that in six weeks' time I shall be fit to mount a horse again. Marshal Saxe sent yesterday evening to inquire after me, and I will send you to him to thank him for so sending, and to inquire on my part how he himself is going on. My message will be a good excuse for your presenting yourself."

Ronald found the antechamber of the marshal crowded with nobles and officers who had come to pay their respects to the victorious general, who was, next to the king himself, at that moment the most popular man in France. Hitherto, as a Protestant and a foreigner, Maurice of Saxony had been regarded by many with jealousy and dislike; but the victory which he had won for the French arms had for the first time obliterated every feeling save admiration and gratitude.

Presently the marshal came out from the inner room with the dauphin, who had called on the part of the king to inquire after his health. He was now able to walk, the excitement of the battle and the satisfaction of the victory having enabled him partially to shake off the disease which afflicted him. After the dauphin had left, the marshal made the tour of the apartment, exchanging a few words with all present.

"Ah! you are there, my young Leslie," he said familiarly when he came to Ronald. "Where have you been? I have not seen you since the day when you galloped about with my messages through the English fire as if you had a charmed life."

"Colonel Hume gave me leave, sir, to travel on private business. I am now the bearer of a message from him, thanking you for the kind inquiries as to his wound; he bids me say that he trusts that your own health is rapidly recovering."

"As you see, Leslie, Fontenoy has done wonders for me as well as for France; but wait here, I will speak with you again."

In half an hour most of the callers took their departure, then the marshal called Ronald into an inner room.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I am going to pay my respects to the king at Versailles. I will take you with me. Have you your mother's memorial? That is right. As her father was killed at Fontenoy there will, I hope, be the less difficulty over the matter; but we must not be too sanguine, for there will be a host of hungry competitors for the estates of the marquis, and all these will unite against you. However, I do not think the king will be able to refuse my first request, and when your mother is out we must put our heads together and see about getting your father's release."

Ronald expressed his deep gratitude at the marshal's kindness.

"Say nothing about it, my lad. Fortunately I want nothing for myself, and it is no use being a victorious general if one cannot utilize it in some way; so I am quite glad to have something to ask the king."

The next day Ronald presented himself at the hotel of Marshal Saxe and rode by the side of his carriage out to Versailles. The king, surrounded by a brilliant train of courtiers, received the marshal with the greatest warmth, and after talking to him for some time retired with him into his private closet. A few minutes later one of the royal pages came out into the audience chamber and said in a loud voice that the king desired the presence of Monsieur Ronald Leslie.

Greatly embarrassed at finding himself the centre of observation not unmingled with envy at the summons, Ronald followed the page into the presence of the king, who was alone with Marshal Saxe. Louis, who was in high good humour, gave Ronald his hand to kiss, saying:

"I told the marshal to recall your name to me, and he has done so now. He says that you have a boon to ask of me."

"Yes, sire," the marshal said; "and please consider graciously that it is I who ask it as well as he. Your majesty has always been gracious to me, and if you think me deserving of any mark of your favour after this success which your majesty and I have gained together, I would now crave that you grant it."

"It is granted before you name it, marshal," the king said. "I give you my royal word that whatever be your boon, provided that it be within the bounds of possibility, it is yours."

"Then, sire, I ask that an old comrade and fellow soldier of mine, who fought bravely for your majesty, but who fell under your majesty's displeasure many years ago on account of a marriage which he made contrary to your pleasure, may be released. He has now been over sixteen years in prison, and has therefore paid dearly for thwarting your will, and his wife has all this time been confined in a convent. They are the father and mother of this brave lad -- Colonel Leslie, who commanded your majesty's regiment of Scotch Dragoons, and his wife, the Countess Amelie of Recambours. I ask your majesty, as my boon, that you will order this officer to be released and the lady to be allowed to leave the convent."

"Peste, marshal!" the king said good temperedly; "your request is one of which will get me into hot water with a score of people. From the day the marquis was killed at Fontenoy I have heard nothing but questions about his estates, and I believe that no small portion of them have been already promised."

"I say nothing about the estates," the marshal replied; "as to that, your majesty's sense of justice is too well known for it to be necessary for me to say a single word. The countess has estates of her own, which she inherited from her mother, but even as to these I say nothing. It is her liberty and that of her husband which I and this brave lad ask of your majesty."

"It is granted, marshal, and had your boon been a great one instead of a small one I would have granted it as freely;" and the king again held out his hand to Ronald, who bent on one knee to kiss it, tears of joy flowing down his cheeks and preventing the utterance of any audible thanks for the boon, which far surpassed his expectations; for the marshal had said nothing as to his intention of asking his father's freedom, which indeed he only decided to do upon seeing in how favourable a disposition he had found the king.

"You see, marshal," Louis went on, "marriages like this must be sternly discouraged, or all order in our kingdom would be done away with. Wilful girls and headstrong soldiers cannot be permitted to arrange their affairs without reference to the plans of their parents, and in this instance it happened that the father's plans had received our approval. The great estates of France cannot be handed over to the first comer, who may perhaps be utterly unworthy of them. I do not say that in the present case Colonel Leslie was in any way personally unworthy; but the disposal of the hands of the great heiresses of France is in the king's gift, and those who cross him are against his authority."

The king touched a bell and bade the page who entered to order his secretary to attend at once.

"Search the register of the state prisons," he said, "and tell me where Colonel Leslie, who was arrested by our orders sixteen years ago, is confined, and then make out an order to the governor of his prison for his release; also draw up an order upon the lady superior of -- ," and he paused.

"The convent of Our Lady at Tours," Ronald ventured to put in.

"Oh! you have discovered that, eh?" the king said with a smile; and then turned again to the secretary -- "bidding her suffer the Countess Amelie de Recambours to leave the convent and to proceed where she will."

The secretary bowed and retired. Ronald, seeing that his own presence was no longer required, said a few words of deep gratitude to the king and retired to the audience room, where he remained until, ten minutes later, the door of the king's closet opened, and the king and Marshal Saxe again appeared. The audience lasted for another half hour, and then the marshal, accompanied by many of the nobles, made his way down to his carriage. Ronald again mounted, and as soon as the carriage had left the great courtyard of the palace, rode up alongside and poured out his gratitude to the marshal.

"It has been another Fontenoy," the marshal said smiling. "Here are the two orders, the one for Tours, the other for the governor of the royal castle at Blois. The king made light of it; but I know his manner so well that I could see he would rather that I had asked for a dukedom for you. It is not often that kings are thwarted, and he regards your parents as being rebels against his authority. However, he was bound by his promise, and there are the papers. Now, only one word, Leslie. Do not indulge in any hopes that you will see your father more than a shadow of the stalwart soldier that he was sixteen years ago. There are few men, indeed, whose constitution enable them to live through sixteen years' confinement in a state prison. Therefore prepare yourself to find him a mere wreck. I trust that freedom and your mother's care may do much for him, but don't expect too much at first. If you take my advice you will go first and fetch your mother, in order that she may be at hand to receive your father when he leaves the fortress. By the way, I thought it just as well not to produce your mother's memorial, as it seemed that we should be able to do without it, for it might have struck the king to ask how you obtained it, and he would probably have considered that your communication with your mother was a fresh act of defiance against his authority."

Malcolm was wild with joy when Ronald returned with the account of his interview with the king and its successful result, and had his not been a seasoned head, the number of bumpers which he drank that night in honour of Marshal Saxe would have rendered him unfit for travel in the morning. Ronald had, after acquainting him with the news, gone to Colonel Hume, whose pleasure at hearing that his former colonel and comrade was to regain his freedom was unbounded. Every preparation was made for an early start.

"Be sure you look well to the priming of your pistols before you put them in your holsters tomorrow," Malcolm said.

"Do you think it will be necessary?"

"I am sure of it, Ronald. News travels fast; and you may be sure that by this time the fact that the king has granted an order for the release of your father and mother is known to the Duke of Chateaurouge. If he did not hear it from the king himself, which he would be most likely to do, as Louis would probably lose no time in explaining to him that he had only gone against his wishes because under the circumstances it was impossible for him to refuse the marshal's request, the secretary who drew out the document would, no doubt, let the duke know of it. There are no secrets at court."

"But now that the orders for release have been granted," Ronald said, "the duke can have no motive in preventing them being delivered, for fresh ones could, of course, be obtained."

"In the first place, Ronald, the duke will be so furious at your success that he will stick at nothing to have his revenge; in the second place, he and the others, for there are many interested in preventing your mother from coming into her father's possessions, will consider that the gain of time goes for a good deal. You are the mover in the matter. Were you out of the way, and the documents destroyed, the matter might rest as it is for a long time. The marshal is busy from morning till night, and would be long before he missed you, and would naturally suppose that you had, after obtaining the release of your parents, retired with them to some country retreat, or even left the kingdom.

"This would give ample time for working upon Louis. Besides, the king might never inquire whether the prisoners had been released. Then the marshal might die or be sent away to the frontier. Therefore, as you see, time is everything. I tell you, Ronald, I consider the journey you are going to undertake tomorrow an affair of greater danger than going into a pitched battle. You will have to doubt everyone you meet on the road, the people at the inns you stop at -- you may be attacked anywhere and everywhere. As to our travelling by the direct road, I look upon it as impossible. Our only chance is to throw them off the scent, and as they know our destination that will be no easy matter."

They were astir by daylight, and Malcolm soon brought the horses round to the door.

"It's a comfort to know," he said, "that the horses have passed the night in the barracks, and that therefore they have not been tampered with. Look well to the buckles of your girths, Ronald. See that everything is strong and in good order."

"That is not your own horse, Malcolm, is it?"

"No, it is one of the troopers'. It is one of the best in the regiment, and I persuaded the man to change with me for a week. No one is likely to notice the difference, as they are as nearly as possible the same colour. Your horse is good enough for anything; but if I could not keep up with you its speed would be useless. Now, I think, we can keep together if we have to ride for it.

"What have you got in that valise, Malcolm? One would think that you were going upon a campaign."

"I have got four bottles of good wine, and bread and meat enough to last us for two days. I do not mean, if I can help it, to enter a shop or stop at an inn till we arrive at Tours. We can make a shift to sleep for tonight in a wood. It would be safer a thousand times than an inn, for I will bet fifty to one that if we ventured to enter one we should find one or both of our horses lame on starting again."

"Oh come, Malcolm, that's too much! The Duke of Chateaurouge is not ubiquitous. He has not an army to scatter over all France."

"No, he has not," Malcolm agreed; "but from what I know of him I doubt not that he can lay his hands on a number of men who will stick at nothing to carry out his orders and earn his money. Paris swarms with discharged soldiers and ruffians of all kinds, and with plenty of gold to set the machine in motion there is no limit to the number of men who might be hired for any desperate deed."

As they were talking they were making their way towards one of the southern gates. They arrived there before it opened, and had to wait a few minutes. Several other passengers on horseback and foot were gathered there.

"I could bet a crown piece," Malcolm said, "that some one among this crowd is on the watch for us, and that before another half hour the Duke of Chateaurouge will know that we have started."



CHAPTER X: A Perilous Journey.


A number of peasants with market carts were waiting outside the gates, and for the first few miles of their ride the road was dotted with people making their way to the city. As they rode, Malcolm discussed the question of the best road to be taken. Ronald himself was still in favour of pushing straight forward, for he was not so convinced as his follower that a serious attempt would be made to interrupt their journey. He pointed out that the road, as far as Orleans at least, was one of the most frequented in France, and that in that city even the most reckless would hardly venture to assault them.

"I agree with you, Ronald, that the road offers less opportunities for ambushes than most others, for the country is flat and well cultivated; but after all a dozen men with muskets could lie in ambush in a cornfield as well as a wood, and the fact that people are going along the road counts for little one way or the other, for not one in fifty would venture to interfere if they saw a fray going on. But granting that so far as Orleans the country is open and cultivated, beyond that it is for the most part forest; but above all -- although they may regard it as possible that we may be on our guard, and may travel by other roads -- it is upon this direct line that they are sure to make the most preparations for us. Beyond that it can only be chance work. We may go by one road or by another. There may be one trap set on each road; but once past that and we are safe."

After riding for upwards of an hour they came, at the turn of the road, upon two carts. One had apparently broken down, and the other had stopped that those with it might give assistance in repairing it. One cart was turned across the road, and the other filled the rest of the space.

"Stop!" Malcolm exclaimed, checking his horse suddenly.

"What is it?" Ronald asked in surprise.

"Turn back!" Malcolm said sharply as he wheeled his horse round.

Ronald, without a word, did the same, and they galloped a hundred yards down the road.

"We were nearly caught there," Malcolm said.

"Why, how do you mean?"

"Never mind now, Ronald. Turn sharp to the right here, and make a detour through the fields. You will soon see whether I was right."

"It is a shame riding through this ripe corn," Ronald said, as without any further comment he leaped his horse over the bank and dashed off among the golden grain, which stretched far and wide on both sides of the road.

They had not gone fifty yards before they heard loud shouts, and as they came abreast of where the carts were standing several shots were fired, and ten or twelve men were seen running through the corn as if to cut them off. But although they heard the whiz of the bullets they were too far off to be in much danger, and the men on foot had no chance of cutting them off, a fact which they speedily perceived, as one by one they halted and fired. A few hundred yards farther the two horsemen came round into the road again and pursued their journey.

"Well, what do you think of that, Ronald?"

"It was an ambush, no doubt, Malcolm; but what on earth made you suspect it? I saw nothing suspicious. Merely two carts in the road, with three or four men doing something to one of the wheels."

"I am in a suspicious humour this morning, Ronald, and it is lucky I am. The sight of the two carts completely blocking the road brought me to a halt at once, and as I checked my horse I saw a movement among the bushes on the right of the road, and felt sure that it was an ambush. It was a well laid one, too, and had we ridden on we should have been riddled with bullets. No doubt there were men lying in the carts. They would have jumped up as we came up to them, and the fellows in the bushes would have taken us in the rear; between their two fires our chances would have been small indeed. No doubt they had a man on watch, and directly they saw us coming they got their carts across the road, and took up their positions. It was a well contrived scheme, and we have had a narrow escape."

"Thanks to your quickness and watchfulness, Malcolm, which has saved our lives. I admit that you are right and I was wrong, for I own that I did not share your apprehensions as to the dangers of our journey. Henceforth I will be as much on the lookout as you are, and will look with suspicion at every beggar woman that may pass."

"And you will be right to do so," Malcolm said seriously; "but for the present I think that we are safe. This, no doubt, was their main ambush, and they may reasonably have felt certain of success. However, we may be sure that they did not rely solely upon it. This, no doubt, is the unmounted portion of their gang. They were to try and put a stop to our journey at its outset; but mounted men will have ridden on ahead, especially as they couldn't have been sure that we should follow this road. We might have gone out by one of the other gates at the south side of the town, and they will have watched all the roads. Now I propose that we take the next lane which branches off to the right, and travel by byroads in future. Do not press your horse too fast. We have a long journey before us, and must always have something in hand in case it is necessary to press them to full speed."

Two miles further a road branched to the right. As they approached it Ronald was about to touch his horse's rein, when Malcolm said shortly, "Ride straight on."

Although surprised at this sudden change of plan, Ronald obeyed without question.

"What was that for?" he asked when he had passed the turning.

"Did you not see that man lying down by the heap of stones at the corner?"

"Yes, I saw him; but what of that?"

"I have no doubt he was on the lookout for us. Yes, I thought so," he went on, as he stood up in his stirrups and looked back; "there, do you see that horse's head in that little thicket, just this side of where the road separates? I expected as much. If we had turned off, in another two minutes that fellow would have been galloping along this road to take the news to those ahead, and they would have ridden to cut us off further along. I have no doubt we shall find someone on watch at every turning between this and Orleans."

"But this is a regular campaign, Malcolm."

"It is a campaign, Ronald. The ruffians and thieves of Paris form a sort of army. They have heads whom they implicitly obey, and those who have money enough to set this machine in motion can command the services of any number of men. Sharp fellows, too, many of them are, and when they received orders to arrest our journey to Tours at any cost, they would not omit a single precaution which could ensure success. Their former attack upon you, and its result, will have showed them that we are not children, and that the enterprise was one which demanded all their efforts."

"What is our next move now, Malcolm?"

"We will turn off before we get to the next road. They can see a long way across these level plains; so we will dismount and lead our horses. The corn is well nigh shoulder deep, and if we choose a spot where the ground lies rather low, neither that scoundrel behind nor the one at the next road is likely to see us."

Half a mile further there was a slight dip in the ground.

"This is a good spot," Malcolm said. "This depression extends far away on our right, and although it is very slight, and would not conceal us if the ground were bare, it will do so now, so let us take advantage of it."

So saying he dismounted, and leading his horse, turned into the cornfield. Ronald followed him, and for two miles they kept straight on through the corn; then they came upon a narrow road connecting two villages. They mounted and turned their horses' heads to the south.

"It is as well that none of the peasants saw us making through their corn," Ronald said, "or we should have had them upon us with stone and flail like a swarm of angry bees."

"It could not be helped," Malcolm replied, "and we could easily have ridden away from them. However, it is just as well that we have had no bother with them. Now we will quicken our pace. We are fairly between two of the main roads south, and if we can contrive to make our way by these village tracks we shall at any rate for some time be free from all risk of molestation."

"I should think we should be free altogether," Ronald said. "When they find we do not come along the road they will suppose we have been killed at the first ambush."

Malcolm shook his head.

"Do not build upon that, Ronald. No doubt as soon as we had passed, some of those fellows mounted the horses we saw in the carts, and rode off in accordance with an agreed plan to give notice that we had passed them safely, and were proceeding by that road. In the next place the fellow we saw on watch would most likely after a time mount and follow us, and when he got to the watcher at the next crossroad and found that we had not come along there would know that we must have turned off either to the right or left. One of them is doubtless before this on his way to the next party with the news, while the other has set to work to find out where we turned off, which will be easy enough to discover. Still, we have gained something, and may fairly reckon that if we ride briskly there is no fear of those who were posted along the road we have left cutting us off."

They rode all day at a steady pace, stopping occasionally for a short time to allow the horses a rest and a feed. The people in the quiet little villages looked in surprise at the young officer and his follower as they rode through their street or stopped for a quarter of an hour while the horses were fed, for even Malcolm agreed that such pauses were unattended by danger. It was rarely, indeed, that a stranger passed along these bypaths, and the peasants wondered among themselves what could induce them to travel by country byways instead of following the main roads.

As they left the rich plains of the Beauce, the country was less carefully cultivated. The fields of corn were no longer continuous, and presently they came to tracts of uncultivated land with patches of wood. They now left the little road they had been following, and rode straight across country, avoiding all villages. They crossed several hills, and late in the afternoon drew rein in a wide spreading forest. They were, Malcolm thought, quite as far south as Orleans, and by starting at daylight would arrive at Tours by midday.

"Here at least we are perfectly safe," he said; "when we approach Tours our perils will begin again. When once they find that we have given them the slip they are not likely to try to intercept us anywhere along the route till we near the town, for they will know that the chances are enormous against their doing so, and the parties along the various roads will push on so as to meet us somewhere near that city. The river can only be crossed at certain points, and they will feel sure we shall go by one or other of them."

"And I suppose we shall," Ronald said.

"No, Ronald; my idea is that we turn west and ride to Le Mans, then take a wide detour and enter Tours from the south side. It will take us a day longer, but that is of little consequence, and I think that we shall in that way entirely outwit them. The only precaution we shall have to take is to cross the main road on our right at some point remote from any town or village."

"I think that is a capital plan. I do not mind a share of fair fighting; but to be shot down suddenly in an ambush like that of this morning, I own I have little fancy for it."

Hobbling their horses, they turned them loose to pick up what they could in the forest, and then sat down to enjoy a good meal from the ample supply Malcolm had brought with him. When night fell they unstrapped their cloaks from their saddles and rolled themselves in them, and lay down to sleep. An hour later they were roughly awakened, each being seized by three men, who, before they could attempt to offer resistance, bound their arms to their sides, and then hurried them along through the forest.

"I have been a fool, Ronald," Malcolm said bitterly; "I ought to have kept watch."

"It was not your fault, Malcolm. One could never have guessed that they would have found us in this forest. Somebody must have followed us at a distance and marked us down, and brought the rest upon us; but even had you kept watch it would have been no good, for they would have shot us down before we could make any resistance."

"I wonder they didn't cut our throats at once," Malcolm said. "I don't know what they are troubling to make us prisoners for."

Presently they saw a light in the forest ahead of them, and soon arrived at a spot where a number of men were sitting round a fire.

"You had no trouble with them, Pierre, I suppose?"

"No, captain, they slept as soundly as moles. They have been speaking some strange language as we came along."

"Thank God!" Malcolm exclaimed fervently. "I think, after all, Ronald, we have only fallen in with a band of robbers, and not with our enemies."

"Unbind their hands," the captain of the band said, "but first take away their swords and pistols. Gentlemen, may I ask you to be seated; and then, perhaps, you will inform us what you, an officer in the Scotch dragoons, as I perceive by your uniform, are doing here in the forest?"

Ronald, to whom the question was principally addressed, replied frankly:

"We took to this forest, I fancy, for the same reason for which you use it, namely, for safety. We are on our way to Tours, and there are some people who have interest in preventing our arriving there. They made one attempt to stop us near Paris; fortunately that failed, or we should not be now enjoying your society; but as it was likely that another attempt would be made upon the road, we thought it better to leave it altogether and take to the forest for the night."

"What interest could anyone have in preventing an officer of the king from arriving at Tours?" the man asked doubtfully.

"It is rather a long story," Ronald said, "but if it is of interest to you I shall be happy to relate it; and I may mention that there are three bottles of good wine in the valise of one of the saddles, and a story is none the worse for such an accompaniment."

A laugh went round the circle at Ronald's coolness, and a man stepped forward with the two saddles which he had carried from the spot when the captives had been seized. The wine was taken out and opened.

"Yes," the captain of the band said, after tasting it, "the wine is good; now let us have your story."

Ronald gave them an outline of his history, told them how his father and mother had been for many years imprisoned for marrying contrary to the king's pleasure, and how he had at last obtained the royal order for their release, and how the enemies of his parents were now trying to prevent him from having those orders carried out. "There are the orders," Ronald said as he concluded, taking them from the inner pocket where he carried them. "You see they are addressed to the abbess of the convent of Our Lady at Tours, and to the governor of Blois."

"The story you tell us is a singular one," the captain replied, "and I doubt not its truth. What was the name of your father?"

"He was Colonel Leslie, and commanded the same regiment to which I belong."

"I remember him," one of the band said. "Our regiments were quartered together, nigh twenty years ago, at Flanders, and I was in Paris at the time when he was imprisoned. We were in the next barracks to the Scotchmen, and I remember what a stir it made. The regiment was very nigh mutinying."

"And I remember you too, though I cannot recall your name," Malcolm said, rising and looking hard at the speaker; "and if I mistake not we have cracked many a flask together, and made many a raid on the hen roosts of the Flemish farmers. My name is Malcolm Anderson."

"I remember you well," the other said, rising and giving him his hand. "Of course I met you scores of times, for the regiments were generally brigaded together."

"That confirms your story altogether, monsieur," the captain of the band said. "From this moment do not consider yourself a prisoner any longer. I may say that we had no expectation of booty in your case, and you were captured rather from curiosity than from any other reason. One of my men, this afternoon, happened to see you ride into the wood and then dismount and make preparations for passing the night there. He reported the matter to me. I know that gentlemen of your cloth -- I may say of mine, for I was once an officer of his majesty, though I left the service somewhat hastily," and he smiled, "on account of an unfortunate deficiency in the funds of the regiment in which I happened, at the time, to be acting as paymaster -- are seldom burdened with spare cash, but the incident seemed so strange that I determined to capture and question you. If you happen to have more cash on you than you care about carrying we shall be glad to purchase a few bottles of wine equal to that which you have given us. If not, I can assure you that I do not press the matter.".

"I am obliged to you for your courtesy," Ronald said; "and as at present I really happen to be somewhat flush of cash I am happy to contribute ten louis for the laudable purpose you mention."

So saying he took out his purse, counted out ten pieces, and handed them to the captain.

The action was received with a round of applause, for the robbers had not, from the first, anticipated obtaining any booty worth speaking of, and the turn affairs had taken had altogether driven any idea of gain from their minds.

"I thank you warmly, sir," the captain said, "and promise you that I will tomorrow despatch a messenger to Orleans, which is but ten miles away, and will lay out the money in liquor, with which we will, tomorrow night, drink your health and success in the enterprise. Nay, more, if you like, a dozen of my men shall accompany you on your road to Tours. They have, for various reasons, which I need not enter into, a marked objection to passing through towns, but as far as Blois they are at your service."

"I thank you for your offer," Ronald replied, "but will not accept it, as we intend to ride tomorrow morning to Le Mans, and then to enter Tours from the south side, by which we shall throw our enemies completely off the scent."

"But why do you not go to Blois first?" the man asked. "It is on your way to Tours."

"I wish my mother to be present at the release of my father. So long a confinement may well have broken him down. Now that I see how obstinately bent our enemies are upon our destruction I will take with me two or three stout fellows from Tours, to act as an escort."

"What day will you be leaving there?" the man asked.

"Today is Tuesday," Ronald said; "on Thursday we shall be at Tours, on Friday morning we shall leave."

"Very well," the man replied, "we will be on the road. It is no difference to us where we are, and as well there as here. I will have men scattered all along in the forest between Blois and Amboise, and if I find that there are any suspicious parties along the road we will catch them, and if you are attacked you will find that we are close at hand to help you. You are a generous fellow, and your story has interested me. We gentlemen of the woods are obliged to live, whatever the law says; but if we can do a good action to anybody it pleases us as well as others."

"I am greatly obliged to you," Ronald said, "and can promise you, anyhow, that your time shall be not altogether thrown away."

Soon afterwards the whole band lay down round the fire and were sound asleep. In the morning Malcolm saddled the two horses, and after a hearty adieu from the captain and his followers -- all of whom were discharged soldiers who had been driven to take up this life from an inability to support themselves in any other way -- they started for Le Mans, which town they reached late in the afternoon, without adventure.

Deeming it in the highest degree improbable that any watch would be set for them at a place so far from their line of travel, they put up for the night at the principal inn. In the morning they again started, and after riding for some distance to the south, made a wide sweep, and crossing the river, entered Tours from the south, late in the evening. They again put up at the principal inn, for although they doubted not that their arrival would be noticed by the emissaries of the enemy, they had no fear of molestation in a town like Tours. And on the following morning Ronald presented himself at the entrance to the convent.

"I wish to see the lady superior," he said to the lay sister at the wicket. "I am the bearer of a communication to her from the king."

He was left waiting for a few minutes outside the gate, then the wicket door opened, and the sister requested him to follow her. Not a soul was to be seen as he traversed the gloomy courts and passed through several corridors to the room where the abbess was waiting him. In silence he handed to her the king's order. The abbess opened and read it.

"His majesty's commands shall be obeyed," she said; "in an hour the countess will be in readiness to depart."

"A carriage shall be in waiting at the gate to receive her," Ronald said, bowing, and then, without another word, retired.

Malcolm was awaiting him outside, and they at once went to the officer of the royal post and engaged a carriage and post horses to take them to Blois.

The carriage was at the door at the appointed time, and a few minutes later the gate opened, and the countess, in travelling attire, issued out, and in a moment was clasped in her son's arms. He at once handed her into the carriage and took his place beside her. Malcolm closed the door and leapt up on the box, the postilion cracked his whip, and the carriage moved off.

"Can it be true, Ronald, or am I dreaming? It is but a week since you were here last, and the news of my release came upon me with such a surprise that, do you know, I fainted. Am I really free? Is it possible that I have seen the last of those hateful walls? It seems like a dream. Where are we going?"

"We are going to Blois."

"To a prison?" the countess exclaimed. "But no, there are no guards or escorts. Are we going, oh, Ronald, are we going to see my husband?"

"Yes, mother, we are going, not only to see him but to release him. I have the king's order in my pocket."

For some time the countess was unable to speak, her joy was too great for words. Then tears came to her relief, and she sobbed out exclamations of joy and gratitude. Ronald said nothing until she had somewhat recovered her calmness, and then he told her the manner in which Marshal Saxe had obtained the two orders of release.

"I will pray for him night and morning to the last day of my life," the countess said. "God is indeed good to me. I had hoped, from what you said, that my term of imprisonment was drawing to an end; but I had looked forward to a long struggle, to endless efforts and petitions before I could obtain your father's release, with, perhaps, failure in the end. Not for one moment did I dream that such happiness as this awaited me."

Ronald now thought it wise to repeat the warning which the marshal had given him.

"Mother, dear," he said "you must be prepared to find that a total change will have taken place in my father. His imprisonment has been a very different one to yours. You have had companions and a certain amount of freedom and comfort. You have had people to speak to, and have known what is going on in the world. He has been cut off altogether from mankind. He cannot even know whether you are alive, or whether you may not have yielded to the pressure that would be sure to be brought upon you, and acquiesced in a divorce being obtained. He has, doubtless, been kept in a narrow cell, deprived almost of the air and light of heaven. He will be greatly changed, mother. He will not be like you; for it does not seem to me that you have changed much from what you were. I could not see you much that night on the terrace; but now I see you I can hardly believe that you are my mother, so young do you look."

"I am nearly forty," the countess said smiling. "I was past twenty-one when I married. Had I not been of age they could have pronounced the marriage null and void. But you are right, Ronald, and I will prepare myself to find your father greatly changed. It cannot be otherwise after all he has gone through; but so that I have him again it is enough for me, no matter how great the change that may have taken place in him. But who are these men?" the countess exclaimed, as, a quarter of a mile outside the town, four men on horseback took up their places, two on each side of the carriage.

"Do not be alarmed, mother, they are our escort. Malcolm hired them at Le Mans. They are all old soldiers, and can be relied on in case of necessity."

"But what need can there be for them, Ronald? I have heard that bands of discharged soldiers and others make travelling insecure; but I had no idea that it was necessary to have an armed escort."

"Not absolutely necessary, mother, but a useful measure of precaution. We heard of them as we came through from Paris, and Malcolm and I agreed, that as you would have with you any jewels and valuables that you took to the convent, it would be just as well to be in a position to beat off any who might be disposed to trouble us. As you see, they have brought with them Malcolm's horse and mine, and we shall now mount. The less weight the horses have to draw the better. I will get in and have a talk from time to time where the road happens to be good; but, to tell you the truth, the jolting and shaking are neither pleasant nor good for talking."

"You are expecting to be attacked, Ronald," the countess said. "I am sure you would not be wanting to get out and leave me so soon after we have met did you not anticipate some danger."

"Frankly, mother, then, I do think it is probable that an attempt may be made to stop us, and that not by regular robbers, but by your enemies. They did their best to prevent me from reaching Tours, and will now most likely try to prevent our arriving at Blois. I will tell you all about it when we get there tonight. Here is the order for my father's release. Will you hide it in your dress? I had rather not have it about me. And, mother, if we should be attacked, do not be alarmed, for I have reason to believe that if we should be outnumbered and hard pressed, help will speedily be forthcoming."

"I am not in the least afraid for myself," the countess said; "but be careful, Ronald. Remember I have only just found you, and for my sake do not expose yourself unnecessarily."

"I will take care of myself, mother," he said. "You know I have always had to do so."

Malcolm had already mounted his horse, and Ronald was really glad when he took his place beside him a few yards ahead of the carriage. The art both of road making and carriage building was still in its infancy. When the weather was fine and the ground hard a fair rate of progress could be maintained; but in wet weather the vehicles often sank almost up to their axles in mud holes and quagmires, and the bumping and jolting were terrible.

"Now we take up our work of looking out for ambushes again, Malcolm."

"It will not be quite the same thing now," Malcolm said. "Before, two or three men with guns behind a wall might do the business, now they will have to make a regular attack. I have no doubt that we were watched from the time we entered the town, and that the news that we are travelling with the countess in a carriage, and with an escort of four armed men, has been carried on ahead already. It is by horsemen that we shall be attacked today if we are attacked at all, and they will probably fall upon us in the forest beyond Amboise. They will know that with a vehicle we must keep the road, and that as we cannot travel more than six miles an hour at the outside, we cannot attempt to escape by our speed."

"Do you think we had better wait at Amboise for the night and go on to Orleans tomorrow?"

"No, I think we had better push straight on, especially as we told our friends in the forest that we should come today, and I feel sure they will keep their promise to be on the lookout to aid us. If it were not for that I should have said let us stay at Tours for the present, for we may expect to be attacked by a force much superior to our own."

"Why, they would not have sent down more than six men to attack us two, Malcolm?"

"No, if they had been sure which road we should travel; but as they didn't know that, they may have had small parties at half a dozen spots, and these will now be united. Probably there may be a score of them. However, I rely on the robbers. The captain meant what he said, and you won the goodwill of all the men. If there are a dozen horsemen anywhere along the road they are sure to know of it, and will, I have no doubt, post themselves close at hand so as to be ready to join in the fray as soon as it commences."

Amboise was reached without adventure. Here the horses in the carriage were changed, and the party proceeded on their way. Four miles further they entered a great forest. Ronald now ordered two of the men to ride a few yards in front of the horses' heads. He and Malcolm rode on each side of the coach, the other two followed close behind. He ordered the driver, in case they were attacked, to jump off instantly and run to the horses' heads, and keep them quiet during the fray.

A vigilant lookout was kept. Suddenly, when they were in the thickest part of the wood, a number of mounted men dashed out from either side. In obedience to the orders Ronald had given, the men in front and behind at once closed in, so that there were three on either side of the carriage. The assailants fired their pistols as they dashed down, but the bullets flew harmlessly by, while the fire of the defenders, sitting quietly on their horses, was more accurate, two of the assailants falling dead, while another was severely wounded.

A moment later swords were drawn, and a furious combat ensued. Ronald had told his men to keep close to the carriage, so that they could not be attacked in the rear, keeping just far enough out on either side of him to be able to use their swords. For a short time the defenders of the coach maintained their position, the number of their assailants giving them but slight advantage, as they were unable to utilize their force.

Ronald ran the first man who attacked him through the body, and laid open the face of the next with a sweeping blow from left to right. The men they had hired fought stoutly; but they were being pressed together as the assailants urged forward their horses, when suddenly a volley of firearms was heard.

Several of the assailants fell dead, and with a loud shout a number of men rushed out from the wood and fell upon them in rear. The assailants turned to fly, and it was now the turn of the defenders of the coach to attack, which they did furiously.

In two or three minutes all was over. Five or six only of the assailants cut their way through the footmen who had attacked them in rear, while twelve lay dead or dying on the ground. Ronald's first impulse was to ride up to the carriage to assure his mother of his safety, his next to leap off his horse and grasp the hand of the chief of the robbers.

"You have kept your promise nobly," he said, "and arrived at the very nick of time. They were beginning to press us hotly; and though I fancy we should have rendered an account of a good many more, we must have been beaten in the end."

"I was farther behind than I intended to be," the man said; "but we were obliged to keep in hiding some little distance behind them. There were four parties of them. We kept them in sight all yesterday, and last night they assembled a mile or two away. I had men watching them all night, and this morning we followed them here, and saw them take up their position on both sides of the road. We crept up as closely as we dared without being observed, but you had for a couple of minutes to bear the brunt of it alone."

"I thank you most heartily," Ronald said. "My mother will thank you herself." So saying, he led them to the door of the carriage, which he opened.

"Mother, I told you that if we were attacked I relied upon help being near at hand. We owe our lives, for I have no doubt that yours as well as mine would have been taken, to this brave man and his followers."

"I thank you most sincerely, sir," the countess said. "At present I feel like one in a dream; for I have been so long out of the world that such a scene as this has well nigh bewildered me."

"I am only too glad to have been of service," the man said as he stood bareheaded. "I am not a good man, madame. I am one of those whom the necessities of the times have driven to earn their living as they can without much regard to the law; but I trust that I have not quite lost my instincts as a gentleman, and I am only too glad to have been able to be of some slight assistance to a persecuted lady; for your son, the other night, related to us something of the treatment which you have had to endure."

With a bow he now stepped back. His followers were engaged in searching the pockets of the fallen, and found in them a store of money which spoke well for the liberality of their employer, and well satisfied the robbers for the work they had undertaken. After a few words with her son the countess opened a small bag she carried with her, and taking from it a valuable diamond brooch, called the leader of the band up and presented it to him.

Ronald and his party then remounted their horses -- the robbers had already overtaken and caught those of the fallen assailants -- the driver mounted the box, and after a cordial farewell to their rescuers the party proceeded on their way to Blois.



CHAPTER XI: Free.


It was late at night before Blois was reached, and having alighted at the Aigle d'Or they engaged a private room.

"Even the Duke of Chateaurouge will be satisfied," Ronald said, "that his schemes have failed, and that no more can be done just at present. It will be a bitter blow to him when those scoundrels, on their return to Paris, report their utter failure, for he must have considered it impossible that we could escape from the toils he had laid for us. I only wish that we had clear evidence that he is the author of these attempts. If so, I would go straight with Marshal Saxe and lay an accusation against him before the king; but however certain we may feel about it, we have really nothing to connect him with the affair, and it would be madness to accuse a king's favourite unless one could prove absolutely the truth of what one says. However, I hope some day that I shall get even with him. It will not be my fault if I do not."

That night Ronald and his mother debated what would be the best way to proceed in the morning, and finally they agreed that Malcolm should present himself at the prison with the order of release, and that they should remain at the hotel, to which Malcolm should bring Colonel Leslie, after breaking to him the news that his wife and son were both awaiting him. The shock, in any case, of sudden liberty, would be a severe one, and the meeting with his attached comrade would act as a preparation for that with his wife.

Mother and son sat hand in hand after hearing the carriage drive off with Malcolm next morning. In the hours they had spent together they had come to know each other, and the relationship had become a real one. They had scarce been able to make out each other's features at their midnight meeting on the terrace, and at that meeting, rejoiced as they both were, there was still a feeling of strangeness between them. Now they knew each other as they were, and both were well satisfied. The countess was less strange to Ronald than he was to her. Malcolm had already described her to him as he knew her eighteen years before, and the reality agreed closely with the ideal that Ronald had pictured to himself, except that she was younger and brighter. For in thinking of her he had told himself over and over again that she would have grown much older, that her hair might have turned gray with grief and trouble, and her spirit been altogether broken.

She on her part had been able to form no idea as to what the infant she had last seen would have grown up, and was not even sure that he was in existence. She had hoped that if he had lived he would have grown up like his father, and although she now saw but slight resemblance between them, she was indeed well satisfied with her son.

He was not, she thought, as handsome as his father, but he bade fair to surpass him in strength and stature. She was delighted with his manly bearing; and when he laughed he reminded her of her husband, and she thought that she read in his gray eye and firm mouth a steadfastness and depth of character equal to his. They spoke but little now. Both were too anxious, Ronald for his mother's sake rather than his own. He was prepared to find this unknown father a man broken down by his years of captivity; but although his mother said that she too was prepared for great changes, he could not but think that the reality would be a sad shock to her. In little over an hour the carriage drove into the courtyard.

"Be brave, mother," Ronald said, as he felt the hand he held in his own tremble violently. "You must be calm for his sake."

Steps were heard approaching. The door opened, and Malcolm entered with a man leaning on his arm. The countess with a cry of joy sprang forward, and the next moment was clasped in her husband's arms.

"At last, my love, at last!" she said.

Ronald drew aside to the window to leave his father and mother to enjoy the first rapture of their meeting undisturbed, while Malcolm slipped quietly from the room again.

"Why, Amelie," Leslie said at last, holding her at arms' length that he might look the better at her, "you are scarce changed. It does not seem to me that you are five years older than when I saw you last, and yet Malcolm tells me that you too have been a prisoner. How much my love has cost you, dear! No, you are scarce changed, while I have become an old man -- my hair is as white as snow, and I am so crippled with rheumatism I can scarce move my limbs."

"You are not so much changed, Angus. Your hair is white and your face is very pale; but you are not so much changed. If I have suffered for your love, dear, what have you suffered for mine! I have been a prisoner in a way, but I had a certain amount of freedom in my cage, while you -- " And she stopped.

"Yes, it has been hard," he said; "but I kept up my spirits, Amelie. I never lost the hope that some day we should be reunited."

"And now, Angus, here is our boy, to whom we owe our liberty and the joy of this meeting. You may well be proud of such a son."

"I am proud," Leslie said as Ronald advanced, and he took him in his arms. "God bless you, my boy. You have performed well nigh a miracle. Malcolm has been telling me of you. Call him in again. It is right that he to whom you owe so much should share in our happiness."

Ronald at once fetched Malcolm, and until late at night they talked of all that had happened during so many years. Colonel Leslie had passed the first three years of his confinement in the Chatelet. "It was well it was no longer," he said; "for even I, hard as I was with years of soldiering, could not have stood that much longer. My cell there was below the level of the river. The walls were damp, and it was there I got the rheumatism which has crippled me ever since. Then they moved me to Blois, and there my cell was in one of the turrets, and the sun shone in through the window slit for half an hour a day; besides for an hour once a week I was allowed to take what they called exercise on the wall between my turret and the next. The governor was not a bad fellow, and did not try to pocket the best part of the money allowed for the keep of the prisoners. Fortunately I never lost hope. Had I done so I would have thrown myself over the parapet and ended it at once. I felt sure that you too were shut up, Amelie, and I pictured to myself how they would try to make you give me up; but I never thought they would succeed, dear. I knew you too well for that. Sometimes for months I lay as if paralysed by rheumatism, and I think I should have died if I had not known how my enemies would have rejoiced at the news of my death. So I held on stoutly, and I have got my reward."

But the hardships had told their tale. Although but the same age as Malcolm Anderson, Colonel Leslie looked fully ten years older. His long confinement had taken every tinge of colour out of his face, and left it almost ghastly in its whiteness. He could with difficulty lift his hands to his head, and he walked as stiffly as if his legs had been jointless. His voice only had not lost the cheery ring his wife remembered.

"No, Amelie," he said when she remarked this. "I kept my tongue in practice; it was the one member that was free. After I had been confined a few months it struck me that I was rapidly losing the power of speech, and I determined that if I could not talk for want of someone to answer me, I could at least sing, and having a good store of songs, Scottish and French, I sang for hours together, at first somewhat to the uneasiness of the prison authorities, who thought that I could not be so merry unless I had some communication from without, or was planning an escape; but at last they grew accustomed to it, and as my voice could not travel through the thick walls of my cells, it annoyed no one."

"And did you never think of escaping, father?"

"The first few years of my confinement I was always thinking of it, Ronald, but nothing ever came of my thought. I had no tools to burrow through a four foot wall, and if I could have done so I should have tried if it had only been to give me something to do, had it not been that I hoped some day to obtain my release, and that any attempt at escape would, if discovered, as it was almost certain to be, decrease my chances."

Not a word was said that evening as to their future plans, all their thoughts being in the past; but the next morning Colonel Leslie said at breakfast:

"And now what are we going to do next? How do we stand?"

"I know no more than you do, Angus. I do not know whether the king has gifted my mother's estate to others, as assuredly he has done my father's lands. If he has, I have been thinking that the best plan will be to ask the king's permission to leave the kingdom and return to your native Scotland."

"I am very fond of Scotland, Amelie; but I have also a fondness for living, and how I should live in Scotland I have not the most remote idea. My estate there was but a small one, and was forfeited thirty years ago; so unless I become a gaberlunzie and sit on the steps of St. Andrews asking for alms, I don't see how we should get porridge, to say nothing of anything else. No, Amelie, it seems to me that we must stop in France. For very shame they cannot let the daughter of the Marquis de Recambours starve, and they must at least restore you a corner of your parents estates, if it be but a farm. How are we off for funds at present?" he asked with a laugh. "I hope at least we have enough to pay our hotel bill."

"We have forty louis in cash, father; the remains of the hundred you committed to Malcolm with me."

"Is that so?" he exclaimed. "All I can say is that that money has lasted longer than any that ever passed through my fingers before."

"We have plenty of money," the countess said quietly. "I have all the jewels which came to me from my mother, and their sale will keep us for years, either in Scotland or France."

"That is good indeed," the colonel said cheerily.

"Yes; I took them all with me when I was sent to the convent, and have parted with none save the diamond necklet which I gave to the girl who brought Ronald and me together, as a parting keepsake, and a brooch with which I rewarded the men who aided us in the forest; but seriously, Angus, we must settle upon something."

"I quite agree with you, Amelie; but what is that something to be?"

"I should think, Angus, that the proper thing would be for me to write to the king thanking him for our release, asking his commands, and petitioning him that my mother's estates may be restored to me. I will also ask permission to retire to some southern town where there are waters which may do good to your rheumatism."

Colonel Leslie frowned.

"I suppose that is the right thing to do, Amelie; though, for my part, I cannot thank a sovereign whom I have served well after such treatment as I have received. I would rather beg my bread from door to door."

"No, I would not ask you, Angus, and of course you are differently placed; but I have my rights as a peeress of France; besides I have on my own account no complaint against the king. It was my father who shut me up in the convent, not the king."

"By the way, Amelie," her husband said, "you are not yet in mourning."

"Nor do I intend to be," she said firmly; "unless I have to go to court no thread of mourning do I put on. My father behaved like a tyrant to me, and I will not feign a grief at an event which has brought us happiness. Well, Ronald, what do you think had best be done? You and Malcolm have managed so well that we had best leave it for you to decide."

"I think what you propose, mother, is best. I think you had better travel down to some place near where your mother's estates lay, and then write your petition to the king. I will leave you there and return with it to Paris, and will there consult Colonel Hume and Marshal Saxe as to how it should be delivered to the king."

This plan was carried out. The party journeyed together to Poitiers, and there having seen his parents comfortably settled in a small house near the town, and remained with them a few days, Ronald with Malcolm returned to Paris, bearing with him his mother's memorial to the king.

Ronald was glad to find that Colonel Hume was now recovered from his wound. Marshal Saxe too was better; the latter at once took charge of the petition, and said that he would hand it to the king on the first opportunity. Ronald accompanied the marquis several times to Versailles, but the latter had no private audience with the king, and thought it better not to present the memorial in public. One day, however, he was called into the king's closet.

When he emerged with the king, Ronald thought from his expression of countenance that things had not gone well. On leaving the palace he mounted his horse -- for he was now well enough to ride -- and as he set out he called Ronald, who with other gentlemen had accompanied him to ride beside him.

"Things have not gone well," he said. "Your father's enemies have evidently been at work, and have been poisoning the king's mind. He read the memorial, and then said harshly, 'The Countess of Recambours has forfeited all rights to her mother's estates by marrying an alien. The lands of France are for the King of France's subjects, not for soldiers of fortune.' This touched me, and I said, 'Your majesty may recollect that I am an alien and a soldier of fortune, and methinks that in time of war the swords of our soldiers of fortune have done such things for France that they have earned some right to gratitude. In a hundred battles our Scottish troops have fought in the front ranks, and had it not been for the Irish Brigade we should not have had to write Fontenoy down among the list of French victories."

"You are bold, marshal," the king said angrily.

"I am bold, sire," I replied, "because I am in the right: and I humbly submit that a brave soldier like Colonel Leslie deserves better treatment than he has received at the hands of France."

The king rose at once.

"An answer to the petition will be sent to you tomorrow, marshal."

"I bowed, and without another word the king left his closet and entered the room of audience. However, lad, you must not look so downcast. We could perhaps expect no more the first time. Of course every man who has a hope, or who has a relation who has a hope, of obtaining the grant of your mother's estates is interested in exciting the king's displeasure against her; besides which there is, as you have told me, the Duc de Chateaurouge, who may be regarded as a personal enemy of your father, and who has the king's ear as much as anyone about him. However, we must have courage. I consider my personal honour is touched in the matter now, and I will not let the matter drop till justice is done."

At the appointed time Ronald again called at Marshal Saxe's hotel, and watched the gay crowd of officers and nobles who were gathered in his reception rooms. An hour later a royal attendant entered and handed a document to the marshal. The latter glanced at it and looked around. As soon as his eye fell upon Ronald he nodded to him.

"Here is the judgement," he said in a low tone, as he handed him the paper. "You see it is directed to the countess, to my care. I suppose you will start with it at once."

"Yes, marshal; the horses are saddled and we shall leave immediately."

"Don't hurry your horses," the marshal said with a slight smile; "from the king's manner I think that the contents are such that a few hours' delay in the delivery will cause the countess no pain. However, I do not anticipate anything very harsh. In the first place, although the king is swayed by favourites who work on his prejudices, his intention is always to be just; and in the second place, after granting the release of your parents as a boon to me he can scarcely annul the boon by any severe sentence. Will you tell the countess from me that I am wholly at her service, and that, should any opportunity offer, she may be sure that I will do what I can to incline the king favourably towards her. Lastly, Leslie, take care of yourself. The change in the king's manner shows that you have powerful enemies, and now that you have succeeded in obtaining your parents' freedom you have become dangerous. Remember the attack that was made upon you before, when there seemed but little chance that you would ever succeed in obtaining their release or in seriously threatening the interests of those who were looking forward to the reversion of the family estates. Their enmity now, when it only needs a change in the king's mood to do justice to your parents, will be far greater than before.

"Bid your father, too, to have a care for himself and your mother. Remember that violence is common enough, and there are few inquiries made. An attack upon a lonely house and the murder of those within it is naturally put down as the act of some party of discharged soldiers or other ruffians. Tell him therefore he had best get a few trusty men around him, and be on guard night and day against a treacherous attack. Those who stand in the way of powerful men in France seldom live long, so he cannot be too careful."

A quarter of an hour later Ronald was on horseback. He had already provided himself with a pass to leave the city after the usual hour of closing the gates, and he and Malcolm were soon in the open country. As they rode along Ronald repeated the warning that the marshal had given him.

"He is quite right, Ronald, and you cannot be too careful. We have against us, first, this vindictive Duc de Chateaurouge, who, no doubt, has poisoned the king's mind. In all France there is no one whom I would not rather have as a foe. He is powerful, unscrupulous, and vindictive; he would hesitate at nothing to carry out anything on which he had set his mind, and would think no more of obtaining the removal of one whom he considered to stand in his way than of crushing a worm. Even as a young man he had a villainous reputation, and was regarded as one of the most dangerous men about the court. To do him justice, he is brave and a fine swordsman, and for choice he would rather slay with his own hands those who offend him than by other means. Though he was but three-and-twenty at the time I first left France he had fought half a dozen duels and killed as many men, and several others who were known to have offended him died suddenly. Some were killed in street brawls, returning home at night, one or two were suspected of having been poisoned. Altogether the man was feared and hated in those days, although, of course, none spoke their suspicions openly.

"From what I have heard those suspicions have stuck to him ever since. He has not been engaged in many duels, because in the first place edicts against duelling are very strict, and in the second because his reputation as a swordsman is so great that few would risk their lives against him. Still all who stood in his way have somehow or other come to a sudden end. We must therefore be on our guard night and day. He is, of course, your most dangerous foe; but besides him must be numbered all those who hope to obtain your mother's estates. The heirs of the marquis doubtless feel perfectly safe from interference. There is no chance whatever of the king dispossessing them in favour of a foreigner, so we need not count them among your foes.

"It is just as well, Ronald, that we started tonight instead of waiting till tomorrow. The duke is pretty certain to learn that the king's answer will be sent this evening, and may possibly have made preparations for you on the road; but he will hardly expect that you will start before the morning. However, in order to be on the safe side I propose that we shall presently turn off from the main road and avoid all large towns on our way down to Poitiers."

"Do you think the danger is as great as that, Malcolm?"

"I do not think there is much danger, Ronald, just at present, though I do in the future."

Travelling by byways Ronald and Malcolm arrived at Poitiers without adventure.

"I have brought you the king's answer, mother," Ronald said as he alighted; "but before you open it I may tell you that it is unfavourable, though I am ignorant of the precise nature of its contents. But you must not be disappointed. Marshal Saxe bade me tell you that he considers his honour engaged in seeing you righted, and that whenever an opportunity occurs he will endeavour to move the king's mind in your favour. How is my father?"

"He suffers grievously from rheumatism, Ronald, and can scarce move from his couch."

As soon as they joined the colonel the countess opened the king's letter. It was brief. "The Countess Amelie de Recambours is hereby ordered to withdraw at once to her estate of La Grenouille and there to await the king's pleasure concerning her."

The king's signature was affixed.

"Well, that is not so very bad," the countess said. "At any rate my right to one of my mother's estates is recognized. La Grenouille is the smallest of them, and contains but three or four farms. Still that will suffice for our wants, and as it lies but twenty miles from Bordeaux the air will be warm and soft for you, Angus."

"Is there a chateau on it, mother?"

"Yes, there is a small chateau. I was there once as a girl. It has never been modernized, but is still a castle such as it was two hundred years ago."

"All the better," Ronald said; and he then gave Malcolm's reasons for their being on the watch against any sudden attack.

"He is quite right, Ronald," Colonel Leslie said. "The duke is capable of anything. However, we will be on our guard, and if, as your mother says, it is a fortified house, we need have no fear of any sudden attack."

"I would suggest, colonel, that I should ride to Tours," Malcolm said, "and hire two of the men who escorted madame's carriage. They have served in the wars and can be relied upon. They would not need high wages, for most of the discharged soldiers have trouble enough to keep body and soul together. With a couple of men of this kind, and two or three of the men on the estate, I think, colonel, you need fear no sudden attack."

The colonel approved of the suggestion, and a week later, Malcolm having returned with the two men, a carriage was hired to convey the colonel and his wife, and so they journeyed quietly down to La Grenouille. On arriving there they found that they were expected, the old steward in charge having received a letter from the royal chancellor, saying that he was to receive the countess as the owner of the estate.

The old man, who had known her mother well and remembered her visits as a child, received the countess with respectful joy. The chateau was, as Amelie had said, really a castle. It was surrounded by a moat filled with water, from which the walls rose abruptly, with no windows in the lower stories and only small loopholes in those above. Although the steward was ignorant when his mistress might be expected, he had already caused great fires to be lighted in all the rooms and had temporarily engaged two of the farmer's daughters to wait upon the countess, and three stout men as servitors.

"What are the revenues of the estate?" the countess asked the steward that evening. "My mother's other estates have not been restored to me as yet, and I have only this to depend upon, and I do not know what establishment I can afford to keep up."

"The revenue amounts to twelve thousand francs," he said. "There are three large farms and four small ones. Twelve thousand francs are not much, countess, for your mother's daughter; but they go a long way here, where one can live for next to nothing. We have a garden which will provide all the fruit and vegetables you require, and your poultry will cost you nothing. The vineyard attached to the chateau furnishes more than enough wine, and the cellars are well filled, for every year I have put aside a few barrels, so that in fact it will be only meat you have to buy."

"So that you think I can keep the two men I have brought with me and the servants you have engaged?"

"Easily, madam, and more if you wished it."

"Do you think five men will be sufficient?" the countess said. "I ask because I have powerful enemies, and in these lawless times an attack upon a lonely house might well be carried out."

"With the drawbridge drawn up, madam, five men could hold the chateau against a score, and the sound of the alarm bell would bring all the tenants and their men down to your assistance. I will answer for them all. There were great rejoicings last week when I sent round the news that you were expected. The memory of your mother, who once resided here for a year, is very dear to all of us, and there is not a man on the estate but would take up arms in your defence. The sound of the alarm bell would bring thirty stout fellows, at least, to your aid."

"Then we need not trouble on that score, Amelie," the colonel said cheerfully. "Malcolm will see to the drawbridge tomorrow; probably it has not been raised for years."

"I have already been examining it," Malcolm -- who had just entered the room -- said. "It only needs a little oil and a bolt or two. I will have it raised tonight. Things look better than I expected, colonel, and I shall be able to return to Paris without having any anxiety upon your score."

"But you are not thinking of going back, Ronald?" the countess asked anxiously. "If there is danger here for us, there must be surely danger for you in Paris. And I want you here with us."

"I will stop for a few days, mother, and then Malcolm and I will be off. As I have Marshal Saxe's protection I need fear no open enmity from anyone, and as I shall be with the regiment I shall be safe from the secret attacks; besides, my sword can guard my head."

"You have taught him to defend himself -- eh, Malcolm?" Colonel Leslie said.

"I," Malcolm repeated -- "I can use my sword in a melee, colonel, as you know, and hold my own against Dutchman or German when I meet them on the field; but Ronald is a different blade altogether. He was well taught in Glasgow, and has practised under the best maitres d'armes in Paris since, and I am proud to say that I do not think there are ten men in France against whom he could not hold his own."

"That is good, that is good, indeed," the colonel said, delighted. "Malcolm, I feel my obligations to you more and more every day. Truly I had never even hoped that if my son were ever to be restored to me, I should have such cause to be proud of him."

"But why do you think you had better return to Paris, Ronald?" his mother inquired.

"Because, mother, it will not do to let your enemies have entirely their own way now that you have been so far restored. Doubtless your family will be the more inclined to aid you with their influence, but there must be somebody to urge them to do so."

"Besides, Amelie," the colonel put in, "we must not cage the lad here at your apron strings. He has already won Saxe's regard and protection by his conduct in the field, and can now accept a commission in the old regiment. He has begun well, and may yet live to command it. No, no, my love. I should like to keep him here as much as you would, but in every way it is better that he should go out and take his place in the world. To you and me, after our long imprisonment, this place is life, freedom, and happiness, and we are together; but for him it is a dreary little country chateau, and he would soon long for a life among men."

And so, after three weeks' stay at the chateau, Ronald and Malcolm rode back to Paris, and the former received a week later a commission through Marshal Saxe in the Scottish Dragoons. That regiment had returned from the frontier, and Ronald at once took his place in its ranks, and was heartily received by all the officers, to whom he was formally introduced by Colonel Hume as the son of their former commanding officer.

A short time afterwards it became the turn of duty of the Scottish Dragoons to furnish guards for a week at Versailles, and Colonel Hume took down two troops for that purpose. That to which Ronald belonged was one of them. Ronald, knowing that for the present he was not in favour with the king, begged the colonel to put him on duty as often as possible, so that he might avoid the necessity of being present at the king's audiences with the other officers.

He was one day walking with the colonel and several other officers in the grounds at a distance from the palace, when they came, at the turn of the walk, upon the Duc de Chateaurouge and three other gentlemen of the court. The former stopped abruptly before Colonel Hume.

"I had the honour, Colonel Hume, to speak to you some time since of a volunteer in your regiment who chose to call himself the name of Leslie. I understand he is now an officer. I see by the lists in the courtyard that a Cornet Leslie is now on duty here. Where does he hide himself, for I have been seeking in vain to meet him?"

"Cornet Leslie is not one to balk any man's desire that way," Colonel Hume said gravely. "This is Cornet Leslie."

Ronald stepped forward and looked the duke calmly in the face.

"So this is the young cockerel," the duke said contemptuously. "A worthy son of a worthy father, I doubt not."

"At any rate, my lord duke," Ronald said quietly, "I do not rid myself of my foes by getting those I am afraid to meet as man to man thrown into prison, nor by setting midnight assassins upon them. Nor do I rely upon my skill as a swordsman to be a bully and a coward."

The duke started as if struck.

"I had made up my mind to kill you, young sir," he said, "sooner or later; but you have brought it on yourself now. Draw, sir!" And the duke drew his sword.

Colonel Hume and several others threw themselves before Ronald.

"Put up your sword, sir. Duelling is forbidden, and you know the consequence of drawing within the precincts of the palace."

"What care I for ordinances!" the duke said furiously. "Stand aside, gentlemen, lest I do you harm!"

"Harm or no harm," Colonel Hume said sternly, "my young friend shall not fight in the palace grounds. I protest against his being forced into a duel at all; but at any rate he shall not fight here."

The duke looked for a moment as if he was about to spring upon Colonel Hume, but he saw by their faces that his companions also were against him. For the consequences of drawing a sword within the precincts of a palace were so serious, that even the most powerful nobles shrank from braving them.

"Very well," he said at last, thrusting his sword back into its scabbard. "It is but ten minutes' walk to the boundary wall, I will let him live till then."

So saying he started off with rapid strides down the walk, followed at a slower pace by the rest.



CHAPTER XII: The End of the Quarrel.


"This is a serious business, Leslie," the colonel said in a low voice. "If it had been anyone but you I should have ordered him to the barracks at once under pain of arrest, and have laid the matter before the king, for it would have been nothing short of murder. But I can trust you to hold your own even against the Duke of Chateaurouge. And, in truth, after what has been said, I do not see that you can do other but meet him."

"I would not avoid it if I could," Ronald said. "His insults to me do not disturb me; but I have my father's wrongs to avenge."

"Forbes," the colonel said to one of the other officers, "do you go straight to the barracks, bid Leslie's man saddle his own horse and his master's instantly, and bring them round outside the wall of the park. If Leslie wounds or kills his man he will have to ride for it."

The officer at once hurried away.

"Ronald, I will tell you a piece of news I heard this morning. The young Chevalier left Paris secretly five days ago, and I have received certain private information this morning that he has gone to Nantes, and that he is on the point of sailing for Scotland on his own account. I am told that this plan of his is known to but five or six persons. If you get safely through this business mount and ride thither at all speed. They are more likely to pursue you towards the frontier or the northern ports, and will not think you have made for Nantes. If you get there before the prince has sailed, present yourself to him and join his expedition. The king will be furious at first, both at the loss of his favourite and the breaking of the edicts; but he must come round. The gentlemen here with the duke are all honourable men, and were, I could see, shocked at the insult which the duke passed on you. Therefore I can rely upon them to join me in representing the matter in its true light to the king. Before you return, the matter will have blown over, and it may be that the removal of your father's most powerful enemy may facilitate an arrangement. In any case, my dear boy, you can rely upon the marshal and myself to look after your interests."

They had now reached a wicket gate in the wall of the park. The duke was standing a few paces distant, having already removed his coat and turned up the shirt sleeve of the sword arm.

"You will act as second, marquis?" he said to one of the gentlemen.

The latter bowed coldly.

"I act as second to my friend Leslie," Colonel Hume said. "And I call upon you all, gentlemen, to bear witness in the future, that this encounter has been wantonly forced upon him by the Duc de Chateaurouge, and that Cornet Leslie, as a man of honour, has no alternative whatever but to accept the challenge forced upon him."

Ronald had by this time stripped to his shirt sleeves. The seconds took the two swords and compared their length. They were found to be as nearly as possible the same. They were then returned to their owners. A piece of even turf was selected, and a position chosen in which the light was equally favourable to both parties. Then both fell into position on guard, and as the rapiers crossed Colonel Hume said solemnly:

"May God defend the right!"

An instant later they were engaged in deadly conflict. It lasted but a few seconds. The duke, conscious of his own skill, and believing that he had but a lad to deal with, at once attacked eagerly, desirous of bringing the contest to a termination before there was any chance of interruption. He attacked, then, carelessly and eagerly, and made a furious lunge which he thought would terminate the encounter at once; but Ronald did not give way an inch, but parrying in carte, slipped his blade round that of the duke, feinted in tierce, and then rapidly disengaging, lunged in carte as before. The blade passed through the body of his adversary, and the lunge was given with such force that the pommel of his sword struck against the ribs. The duke fell an inert mass upon the ground as Ronald withdrew the rapier.

An exclamation of surprise and alarm broke from the three gentlemen who had accompanied the duke, while Colonel Hume said gravely:

"God has protected the right. Ah! here come the horses! Mount and ride, Leslie, and do not spare the spurs. I should advise you," he said, drawing him aside, "to take the northern route for a few miles, so as to throw them off the scent. When you get to Nantes search the inns till you find the Duke of Athole, he is an intimate friend of mine, and it was from him I learned in strict secrecy of the prince's intentions. Show him this ring, he knows it well, and tell him I sent you to join him; say nothing at first as to this business here. Your own name and my name will be enough. He will introduce you to Prince Charlie, who will be with him under a disguised name. May God bless you, my lad! We will do our best for you here."

At this moment Malcolm arrived with the two horses.

"Thank God you are safe, Ronald!" he exclaimed as Ronald leapt into his saddle, and with a word of thanks and adieu to the colonel dashed off at full speed.

Colonel Hume then rejoined the group gathered round the duke. The Scottish officers were looking very grave, the courtiers even more so. They had from the first recognized fully that the duel had been provoked by the duke, and had accompanied him reluctantly, for they regarded the approaching conflict as so unfair that it would excite a strong amount of feeling against all who had a hand in the matter. As to the edict against duelling, it had not concerned them greatly, as they felt sure that with the duke's influence the breach of the law would be passed over with only a show of displeasure on the part of the king, and an order to absent themselves for a short time from court. The contingency that this young Scottish officer, who had scarcely yet attained the age of manhood, should kill one of the best swordsmen in France had not occurred to them; but this had happened, and there could be no doubt that the king's anger, alike at the loss of his favourite and at the breach of the law, would fall heavily on all concerned, and that a prolonged exile from court was the least evil they could expect. Not a word had been spoken after they had, on stooping over the duke, found that death had been instantaneous, until Colonel Hume joined them.

"Well, gentlemen," he said; "this is a bad business, and means trouble for us all. His majesty will be vastly angry. However, the duke brought it upon himself, and is the only person to blame. His character is pretty well known, and it will be manifest that if he had made up his mind to fight no remonstrance on your part would have availed to induce him to abstain from doing so. At the same time the king will not, in the first burst of his anger, take that into consideration, and for awhile we shall no doubt all of us suffer from his displeasure; but I do not think that it will be lasting. The duke forced on the duel, and would have fought within the royal park had we not interfered, and we were in a way forced to be present. I propose that we return to the palace and give notice of what has occurred. Captain Forbes, as you were not present at the affair, and will not therefore be called upon to give any account of it, will you remain here until they send down to fetch the body?

"We will, if you please, gentlemen, walk slowly, for every mile that Leslie can put between him and Versailles is very important. The news will reach the king's ears very shortly after we have made it public. You and I, marquis, as the seconds in the affair, are sure to be sent for first. As, fortunately, we were both present at the quarrel we are both in a position to testify that the duke brought his fate upon himself, that there was no preventing the duel, and that had we refused to act he was in a frame of mind which would have driven him to fight without seconds if none had been forthcoming; lastly, we can testify that the combat was a fair one, and that the duke fell in consequence of the rashness of his attack and his contempt for his adversary, although in point of fact I can tell you that young Leslie is so good a swordsman that I am confident the result would in any case have been the same."

"I suppose there's nothing else for it," the marquis grumbled. "I must prepare myself for a prolonged visit to my country estates."

"And I shall no doubt be placed under arrest for some time," Colonel Hume said; "and the regiment will probably be packed off to the frontier again. However, these things don't make much difference in the long run. What I am most anxious about, marquis, is that his majesty should thoroughly comprehend that Leslie was not to blame, and that this affair was so forced upon him that it was impossible for him to avoid it. There is much more than the lad's own safety dependent on this."

"You may be sure, colonel, that I will do him justice."

At a slow pace the party proceeded until they neared the palace, when they quickened their steps. The marquis proceeded immediately to the apartments occupied by the duke, and told his domestics that their master had been killed in a duel, and directed them to obtain assistance and proceed at once to the spot where his body would be found. The colonel went to the king's surgeon, and told him of what had taken place.

"His death was instantaneous," he said; "the sword passed right through him, and I believe touched the heart. However, it will be as well that you should go and see the body, as the king will be sure to ask particulars as to the wound."

The rest of the party joined their acquaintances, and told them what had happened, and the news spread quickly through the palace. It created a great sensation. Breaches of the edict were not unfrequent; but the death of so powerful a noble, a chief favourite, too, of the king, took it altogether out of the ordinary category of such events. The more so since the duke's reputation as a swordsman and a duellist was so great that men could scarce believe that he had been killed by a young officer who had but just joined the regiment. It seemed like the story of David and Goliath over again. A quarter of an hour later a court official approached Colonel Hume and the Marquis de Vallecourt, who were standing together surrounded by a number of courtiers and officers.

"Monsieur le Marquis and Colonel Hume," he said, saluting them; "I regret to say that I am the bearer of the orders of his majesty that you shall deliver me your swords, and that you will then accompany me to the king's presence."

The two gentlemen handed over their swords to the official, and followed him to the king's presence. Louis was pacing angrily up and down his apartment.

"What is this I hear, gentlemen?" he exclaimed as they entered. "A breach of the edicts here at Versailles, almost in the boundaries of the park; and that the Duc de Chateaurouge, one of my most valued officers and friends has been killed; they tell me that you acted as seconds in the affair."

"They have told your majesty the truth," the marquis said; "but I think that, much as we regret what has happened, we could scarcely have acted otherwise than we did. The duke drew in the first place within the limits of the park, and would have fought out his quarrel there had we not, I may almost say forcibly, intervened. Then he strode away towards the boundary of the park, calling upon his antagonist to follow him; and had we not gone the encounter would have taken place without seconds or witnesses, and might then have been called a murder instead of a duel."

"You should have arrested him, sir," the king exclaimed, "for drawing in the park."

"Perhaps we should have done so, sire; but you must please to remember that the Duke of Chateaurouge was of a temper not to be crossed, and I believe that bloodshed would have taken place had we endeavoured to thwart him. He enjoyed your majesty's favour, and a forcible arrest, with perhaps the shedding of blood, in the royal demesne would have been a scandal as grave as that of this duel."

"How did it come about?" the king asked abruptly.

"The duke was walking with De Lisle, St. Aignan, and myself, when we suddenly came upon Colonel Hume with three of the officers of his regiment. The duke at once walked up to them and addressed Colonel Hume, and finding which of his companions was Monsieur Leslie, addressed him in terms of so insulting a nature that they showed that he had been waiting for the meeting to provoke a quarrel. The young officer replied perfectly calmly, but with what I must call admirable spirit and courage, which so infuriated the duke, that, as I have already had the honour of telling your majesty, he drew at once, and when we interfered he called upon him to proceed forthwith outside the park, and there settle the quarrel. We most reluctantly accompanied him, and determined to interfere at the first blood drawn; but the affair scarcely lasted for a second. The duke threw himself furiously and rashly upon the lad, for as your majesty is aware, he is but little more. The latter, standing firm, parried with admirable coolness, and in an instant ran the duke right through the body."

"But I have always heard," the king said, "that the duke was one of the best swordsmen in the army."

"Your majesty has heard correctly," Colonel Hume replied; "but young Leslie is one of the best swordsmen in France. The duke's passion and rashness led to the speedy termination of the duel; but had he fought with his accustomed coolness I believe that Leslie would have turned out his conqueror."

"But what was the cause of the quarrel? Why should the Duc de Chateaurouge fix a dispute, as you tell me he did, upon this officer of yours?"

"I believe, sire, that it was a long standing quarrel. The duke's words showed that he bore an enmity against the lad's father, and that it was on this account that he insulted the son."

"Leslie!" the king exclaimed, with a sudden recollection. "Is that the youth whom Marshal Saxe presented to me?"

"The same, sire; the lad who distinguished himself at Fontenoy, and whom the Marshal afterwards appointed to a commission in my regiment, in which he had served as a gentleman volunteer for nearly a year."

"These Leslies are always causing trouble," the king said angrily. "I have already given orders that he shall be arrested wherever he is found, and he shall be punished as he deserves."

"In punishing him," Colonel Hume said with grave deference, "I am sure that your majesty will not forget that this quarrel was forced upon him, and that, had he accepted the insults of the Duke of Chateaurouge, he would have been unworthy to remain an officer of your majesty."

"Silence, sir!" the king said angrily. "You will return immediately to Paris, under arrest, until my pleasure in your case is notified to you. I shall at once give orders that your troops here are replaced by those of a regiment whose officers will abstain from brawling and breaking the edicts in our very palace. Marquis, you will retire at once to your estates." The two gentlemen bowed and left the royal presence.

"Not worse than I expected," the marquis said, after the door had closed behind them. "Now he will send for St. Aignan and De Lisle, and will hear their account, and as it cannot but tally with ours the king must see that the duke brought his fate upon himself. Louis is not unjust when his temper cools down, and in a few weeks we shall meet again here."

"I expect to be on the frontier with my regiment before that," Colonel Hume replied; "but as I would rather be there than in Paris that will be no hardship."

Colonel Hume at once mounted and rode back to Paris and proceeded straight to the hotel of Marshal Saxe, to whom he communicated what had occurred.

"If Leslie gets safely away it will, perhaps, all turn out for the best," the marshal said. "As soon as the king's anger dies out I will begin to plead the cause of the boy's parents; and now that the influence of Chateaurouge the other way is withdrawn, I may hope for a more favourable hearing. As to the lad himself, we will make his peace in a few months. The king is brave himself, as he showed when under fire at Fontenoy, and he admires bravery in others, and when he has once got over the loss of Chateaurouge he will appreciate the skill and courage which the lad showed in an encounter with one of the most noted duellists in France. Now, too, that the duke has gone, some of the stories to his disadvantage, of which there are so many current, are likely to meet the king's ears. Hitherto no one has ventured to speak a word against so powerful a favourite; but the king's eyes will soon be open now, and he will become ashamed of so long having given his countenance to a man who is generally regarded as having not only killed half-a-dozen men in duels, but as having procured the removal, by unfair means, of a score of others. When he knows the truth the king is likely to do justice, not only to young Leslie, but to his parents. I only hope that they will not manage to overtake the lad before he reaches the frontier, for although I can rely on the king's justice when he is cool I would not answer for it just at present."

As Ronald rode off at full speed with Malcolm he related to him the whole circumstances of the quarrel and subsequent duel.

"It was well done, Ronald. I made sure that sooner or later you and the duke would get to blows, that is if he did not adopt other means to get you removed from his path; anyhow I am heartily glad it's over, and that the most dangerous enemy of your father and yourself is out of the way. And now we must hope that we sha'nt be overtaken before we get to the frontier. The danger is that orders for your arrest will be passed by signal."

"We are not going to the frontier, Malcolm; I am only riding this way to throw them off the scent. We are going to Nantes."

"Well, that's not a bad plan," Malcolm said. "They are not so likely to send orders there as to the northern ports. But it will not be easy to get a vessel to cross, for you see, now that we are at war with England, there is little communication. However, we shall no doubt be able to arrange with a smuggler to take us across."

"We are not going to England, Malcolm; we are going direct to Scotland. Colonel Hume has told me a secret: Prince Charles has gone down to Nantes and is going to cross at once to Scotland."

"What! Alone and without an army!" Malcolm exclaimed in astonishment.

"I suppose he despairs of getting assistance from Louis. Now that Fontenoy has put an end to danger on the frontier the King of France is no longer interested in raising trouble for George at home."

"But it is a mad scheme of the prince's," Malcolm said gravely. "If his father did not succeed in '15 how can he expect to succeed now?"

"The country has had all the longer time to get sick of the Hanoverians, and the gallantry of the enterprise will appeal to the people. Besides, Malcolm, I am not so sure that he will not do better coming alone than if he brought the fifteen thousand men he had at Dunkirk last year with him. Fifteen thousand men would not win him a kingdom, and many who would join him if he came alone would not do so if he came backed by an army of foreigners. It was the French, you will remember, who ruined his grandfather's cause in Ireland. Their arrogance and interference disgusted the Irish, and their troops never did any fighting to speak of. For myself, I would a thousand times rather follow Prince Charles fighting with an army of Scotsmen for the crown of Scotland than fight for him with a French army against Englishmen."

"Well, perhaps you are right, Ronald; it went against the grain at Fontenoy; for after all, as you said, we are closely akin in blood and language to the English, and although Scotland and France have always been allies it is very little good France has ever done us. She has always been glad enough to get our kings to make war on England whenever she wanted a diversion made, but she has never put herself out of the way to return the favour. It has been a one sided alliance all along. Scotland has for centuries been sending some of her best blood to fight as soldiers in France, but with a few exceptions no Frenchman has ever drawn his sword for Scotland.

"No, I am inclined to think you are right, Ronald, and especially after what we saw at Fontenoy I have no wish ever to draw sword again against the English, and am willing to be the best friends in the world with them if they will but let us Scots have our own king and go away peacefully. I don't want to force Prince Charles upon them if they will but let us have him for ourselves. If they won't, you know, it is they who are responsible for the quarrel, not us."

"That is one way of putting it, certainly," Ronald laughed. "I am afraid after having been one kingdom since King James went to London, they won't let us go our own way without making an effort to keep us; but here is a crossroad, we will strike off here and make for the west."

They avoided the towns on their routes, for although they felt certain that they were ahead of any messengers who might be sent out with orders for their arrest, they knew that they might be detained for some little time at Nantes, and were therefore anxious to leave no clue of their passage in that direction. On the evening of the third day after starting they approached their destination.

On the first morning after leaving Versailles they had halted in wood a short distance from Chartres, and Malcolm had ridden in alone and had purchased a suit of citizen's clothes for Ronald, as the latter's uniform as an officer of the Scotch Dragoons would at once have attracted notice. Henceforward, whenever they stopped, Malcolm had taken an opportunity to mention to the stable boy that he was accompanying his master, the son of an advocate of Paris, on a visit to some relatives in La Vendee. This story he repeated at the inn where they put up at Nantes.

The next morning Malcolm went round to all the inns in the town, but could hear nothing of the Duke of Athole, so he returned at noon with the news of his want of success.

"They may have hired a private lodging to avoid observation," Ronald said, "or, not improbably, may have taken another name. The best thing we can do is to go down to the river side, inquire what vessels are likely to leave port soon, and then, if we see anyone going off to them, to accost them. We may hear of them in that way."

Accordingly they made their way down to the river. There were several vessels lying in the stream, in readiness to sail when the wind served, and the mouth of the river was reported to be clear of any English cruisers. They made inquiries as to the destination of the vessels. All the large ones were sailing for Bordeaux or the Mediterranean ports of France.

"What is that little vessel lying apart from the rest?" Malcolm asked. "She looks a saucy little craft."

"That is the privateer La Doutelle, one of the fastest little vessels on the coast. She has brought in more than one English merchantman as a prize."

As they were speaking a boat was seen to leave her side and make for the shore. With a glance at Malcolm to break off his conversation with the sailor and follow him, Ronald strode along the bank towards the spot where the boat would land. Two gentlemen got out and advanced along the quay. As they passed Ronald said to Malcolm:

"I know one of those men's faces."

"Do you, Ronald? I cannot recall having seen them."

Ronald stood for a moment in thought.

"I know now!" he exclaimed. "And he is one of our men, sure enough."

"I think, sir," he said as he came up to them, "that I have had the honour of meeting you before."

A look of displeasure came across the gentleman's face.

"I think you are mistaken, sir," he said coldly. "You must take me for some one else. My name is Verbois -- Monsieur Verbois of Le Mans."

"I have not the pleasure of knowing Monsieur Verbois," Ronald said with a slight smile; "but I hardly think, sir, that that is the name that you went by when I had the honour of meeting you in Glasgow more than two years ago?"

"In Glasgow!" the gentleman said, looking earnestly at Ronald. "In Glasgow! I do not remember you."

"I had the pleasure of doing you some slight service, nevertheless," Ronald said quietly, "when I brought you news that your enemies were upon you, and managed to detain them while you made your escape through the attic window."

"A thousand pardons!" the gentleman exclaimed, speaking in English. "How could I have forgotten you? But I saw you for such a short time, and two years have changed you greatly. This is the young gentleman, marquis, to whom I am indebted for my escape when I was so nearly captured at Glasgow, as you have heard me say. It was to his kindly warning in the first place, and to his courage in the second, that I owed my liberty. It is wonderful that you should remember me."

"Two years have not changed you as much as they have changed me," Ronald said; "besides, you were busy in destroying papers, while I had nothing to do but to watch you."

"That is so," the gentleman agreed. "At any rate I am heartily glad of the happy chance which has thrown us together, and has given me an opportunity of expressing to you the deep gratitude which I have felt for your warning and assistance. Had it not been for that, not only should I myself have been taken, but they would have got possession of those papers, which might have brought the heads of a score of the best blood of Scotland to the scaffold. I took a boat that was lying in readiness, and making down the river got on board a ship which was cruising there awaiting me, and got off. It has always been a matter of bitter regret to me that I never learned so much as the name of the brave young gentleman to whom I owed so much, or what had happened to him for his share in that night's work."

"My name is Ronald Leslie, sir. I am the son of Leslie of Glenlyon, who fought with the Chevalier in '15, and afterwards entered the service of the King of France, and was colonel of the 2nd Scorch Dragoons."

"Of course I knew him well," the gentleman said, "and with others endeavoured to obtain his pardon when he fell under the king's displeasure some fifteen years ago, although I regret to say without success. Believe me, if Prince Charles -- " He stopped suddenly as his companion touched him.

"You would say, sir," Ronald said with a smile, "If Prince Charles succeeds in his present enterprise, and regains his throne, you will get him to exert his influence to obtain my father's release."

The two gentlemen gave an exclamation of astonishment.

"How do you know of any enterprise that is meditated?"

"I was told of it as a secret by a Scotch officer in Paris, and am the bearer of a message from him to the Duke of Athole, to ask him to allow me to join the prince."

"I am the duke," the other gentleman said.

"Since it is you, sir, I may tell you that the officer I spoke of is Colonel Hume, and that he bade me show you this ring, which he said you would know, as a token that my story was a correct one."

"Hume is my greatest friend," the duke exclaimed, "and his introduction would be sufficient, even if you had not already proved your devotion to the cause of the Stuarts. I will take you at once to the prince. But," he said, "before I do so, I must tell you that the enterprise upon which we are about to embark is a desperate one. The prince has but five companions with him, and we embark on board that little privateer lying in the stream. It is true that we shall be escorted by a man of war, which will convey the arms which Prince Charles has purchased for the enterprise; but not a man goes with us, and the prince is about to trust wholly to the loyalty of Scotland."

"I shall be ready to accompany him in any case, sir," Ronald said, "and I beg to introduce to you a faithful friend of my father and myself. His name is Malcolm Anderson. He fought for the Chevalier in '15, and accompanied my father in his flight to France, and served under him in the French service. Upon the occasion of my father's arrest he carried me to Scotland, and has been my faithful friend ever since."

So saying he called Malcolm up and presented him to the duke, and the party then proceeded to the lodging where Prince Charles was staying.

"I have the misfortune to be still ignorant of your name, sir," Ronald said to his acquaintance of Glasgow.

"What!" the gentleman said in surprise. "You do not know my name, after doing so much for me! I thought, as a matter of course, that when you were captured for aiding my escape you would have heard it, hence my remissness in not introducing myself. I am Colonel Macdonald. When you met me I was engaged in a tour through the Highland clans, sounding the chiefs and obtaining additions to the seven who had signed a declaration in favour of the prince three years before. The English government had obtained, through one of their spies about the person of the Chevalier, news of my mission, and had set a vigilant watch for me."

"But is it possible that there can be spies among those near the Chevalier!" Ronald exclaimed in astonishment.

"Aye, there are spies everywhere," Macdonald said bitterly. "All sorts of people come and go round the Chevalier and round Prince Charles. Every Scotch or Irish vagabond who has made his native country too hot to hold him, come to them and pretend that they are martyrs to their loyalty to the Stuarts; and the worst of it is their story is believed. They flatter and fawn, they say just what they are wanted to say, and have no opinion of their own, and the consequence is that the Chevalier looks upon these fellows as his friends, and often turns his back upon Scottish gentlemen who have risked and lost all in his service, but who are too honest to flatter him or to descend to the arts of courtiers. Look at the men who are here with the prince now."

"Macdonald! Macdonald!" the duke said warmly.

"Well, well," the other broke off impatiently; "no doubt it is better to hold one's tongue. But it is monstrous, that when there are a score, ay, a hundred of Scottish gentlemen of family, many of them officers with a high knowledge of war, who would gladly have accompanied him at the first whisper of his intentions, the prince should be starting on such a venture as this with yourself only, duke, as a representative of the Scottish nobles and chiefs, and six or eight mongrels -- Irish, English, and Scotch -- the sort of men who haunt the pot houses of Flanders, and spend their time in telling what they have suffered in the Stuart cause to any who will pay for their liquor."

"Not quite so bad as that, Macdonald," the duke said. "Still I admit that I could have wished that Prince Charles should have landed in Scotland surrounded by men with names known and honoured there, rather than by those he has selected to accompany him."

"But you are going, are you not, sir?" Ronald asked Colonel Macdonald.

"No, I do not accompany the prince; but I hope to follow shortly. As soon as the prince has sailed it is my mission to see all his friends and followers in France, and urge them to join him in Scotland; while we bring all the influence we have to bear upon Louis, to induce him to furnish arms and assistance for the expedition."



CHAPTER XIII: Prince Charles.


Upon arriving at the prince's lodgings Macdonald remained without, the Duke of Athole entering, accompanied only by Ronald.

"The prince is in disguise," he said, "and but one or two of us visit him here in order that no suspicion may be incited among the people of the house that he is anything beyond what he appears to be -- a young student of the Scotch college at Paris."

They ascended the stairs to the upper story, and on the marquis knocking, a door was opened. The duke entered, followed by Ronald.

"Well, duke, what is the news?"

The question was asked by a young man, who was pacing restlessly up and down the room, of which he was, with the exception of his valet de chambre, an Italian named Michel, the person who had opened the door, the only occupant.

"Ah! whom have you here?"

"Allow me to present to your royal highness Lieutenant Leslie. He is the son of Leslie of Glenlyon, who fought by my side in your father's cause in '15, and has, like myself, been an exile ever since. This is the young gentleman who, two years since, saved Macdonald from arrest in Glasgow."

"Ah! I remember the adventure," the prince said courteously, "and right gallant action it was; but how did you hear that I was here, sir?"

"I was told by my good friend and commanding officer, Colonel Hume of the 2nd Scottish Dragoons, your royal highness."

"I revealed it to Hume before leaving Paris," the duke said, "he being a great friend of mine and as staunch as steel, and I knew that he could be trusted to keep a secret."

"It seems that in the last particular you were wrong," the prince remarked with a slight smile.

"Colonel Hume only revealed it to me, sir," Ronald said, anxious to save his friend from the suspicion of having betrayed a secret confided to him, "for very special reasons. I had the misfortune to kill in a duel the Duke of Chateaurouge, and as we fought just outside the park of Versailles, and the duke was a favourite of the king's, I had to ride for it; then Colonel Hume, knowing my devotion to the cause of your highness, whispered to me the secret of your intention, and gave me a message to his friend the Duke of Athole."

"Do you say that you have killed the Duke of Chateaurouge in a duel?" the duke exclaimed in astonishment. "Why, he has the reputation of being one of the best swordsmen in France, and has a most evil name as a dangerous and unscrupulous man. I met him constantly at court, and his arrogance and haughtiness were well nigh insufferable. And you have killed him?"

"I knew him well too," the prince said, "and his reputation. We do not doubt what you say, young gentleman," he added quickly, seeing a flush mount into Ronald's face; "but in truth it seems strange that such should have been the case."

"Colonel Hume did me the honour to be my second," Ronald said quietly, "and the Marquis de Vallecourt was second to the duke; some other officers of the Scottish regiment were present, as were two other French noblemen, De Lisle and St. Aignan."

"We doubt you not, sir," the duke said warmly. "You will understand that it cannot but seem strange that you at your age -- for it seems to me that you cannot be more than nineteen -- should have been able to stand for a moment against one of the best swordsmen in France, to say nothing of having slain him."

"Colonel Hume would scarcely have consented to act as my second had he thought that the contest was a wholly unequal one," Ronald said with a slight smile; "indeed I may say that he regarded it as almost certain that I should have the best of the fray."

"Why, you must be a very Paladin," the prince said admiringly; "but sit down and tell us all about it. Upon my word I am so sick of being cooped up for four days in this wretched den that I regard your coming as a godsend. Now tell me how it was that the Duc de Chateaurouge condescended to quarrel with a young officer in the Scottish Horse."

"It was a family quarrel, sir, which I had inherited from my father."

"Yes, yes, I remember now," the Duke of Athole broke in. "It is an old story now; but I heard all about it at the time, and did what I could, as did all Leslie's friends, to set the matter right, but in vain. Leslie of Glenlyon, prince, was colonel of the Scottish Dragoons, and as gallant and dashing a soldier as ever was in the service of the King of France, and as good looking a one too; and the result was, the daughter of the Marquis de Recambours, one of the richest heiresses in France, whom her father and the king destined as the bride of this Duke of Chateaurouge, who was then quite a young man, fell in love with Leslie, and a secret marriage took place between them. For three years no one suspected it; but the young lady's obstinacy in refusing to obey her father's orders caused her to be shut up in a convent. Somehow the truth came out. Leslie was arrested and thrown into the Bastille, and he has never been heard of since. What became of the child which was said to have been born no one ever heard; but it was generally supposed that it had been put out of the way. We in vain endeavoured to soften the king's anger against Leslie, but the influence of Recambours and Chateaurouge was too great for us. Hume told me some time since that Leslie's son had been carried off to Scotland by one of his troopers, and had returned, and was riding as a gentleman volunteer in his regiment; but we have had no further talk on the subject."

"You will be glad to hear, sir," Ronald said, "that my father and mother have within the last few weeks been released, and are now living on a small estate of my mother's in the south. They were ordered to retire there by the king."

"I am glad, indeed," the duke said cordially; "and how is your father?"

"He is sadly crippled by rheumatism, and can scarce walk," Ronald said, "and I fear that his health is altogether shaken with what he had to go through."

"How did you obtain their release, Leslie?" the prince asked.

"Marshal Saxe obtained it for me," Ronald answered. "Colonel Hume first introduced me to him, and as he too had known my father he promised that should he obtain a victory he would ask as a boon from the king the release of my father, and he did so after Fontenoy, where the Marquis de Recambours was killed, and the king thereby freed from his influence. The Duke of Chateaurouge, whose hostility against my father had always been bitter, was doubtless greatly irritated at his release, and took the first opportunity, on meeting me, of grossly insulting me. On my replying in terms in accordance with the insult, he drew, and would have fought me in the palace grounds had not Colonel Hume and his friends interfered; then we adjourned outside the park. The duke doubtless thought that he would kill me without difficulty, and so rushed in so carelessly that at the very first thrust I ran him through."

"And served him right," the prince said heartily. "Now since both your father's enemies are gone, it may be hoped that his troubles are over, and that your mother will recover the estates to which she is entitled. And now, duke, what is your news? When are we going to sail?"

"The Doutelle is already by this time on her way down the river, and it is proposed that we shall start this evening and board her there. The stores and arms are all safely on board the Elizabeth, and she is lying off Belleisle; so far as Mr. Walsh has heard, no suspicion has been excited as to their purpose or destination, so that we may hope in twenty-four hours to be fairly on board."

"That is the best news I have heard for months," the prince said; "thank goodness the time for action is at last at hand!"

"I have, I trust, your royal highness' permission to accompany you," Ronald said; "together with my follower, Anderson. He is the trooper who carried me over to Scotland as a child, and has been my faithful friend ever since."

"Certainly, Leslie. I shall be glad indeed to have a member of a family who have proved so faithful to my father's cause with me in the adventure upon which I am embarking."

Ronald with a few words of thanks bowed and took his leave, after receiving instructions from the duke to start shortly and to ride down the river towards Lorient.

"You can halt for a few hours on the road, and then ride on again; we shall overtake you before you reach the port. We shall all leave singly or in pairs, to avoid attracting any attention."

Ronald left, delighted with the kindness of the prince's manner. Prince Charles was indeed possessed of all the attributes which win men's hearts and devotion. In figure he was tall and well formed, and endowed both with strength and activity. He excelled in all manly exercises, and was an excellent walker, having applied himself ardently to field sports during his residence in Italy.

He was strikingly handsome, his face was of a perfect oval, his features high and noble, his complexion was fair, his eyes light blue, and, contrary to the custom of the time, when wigs were almost universally worn, he allowed his hair to fall in long ringlets on his neck. His manner was graceful, and although he always bore himself with a sort of royal dignity he had the peculiar talent of pleasing and attracting all with whom he came in contact, and had the art of adapting his conversation to the taste or station of those whom he addressed.

His education had been intrusted to Sir Thomas Sheridan, an Irish Roman Catholic, who had grossly neglected his duties, and who indeed has been more than suspected of acting as an agent in the pay of the British government. The weakness in the prince's character was that he was a bad judge of men, and inclined on all occasions to take the advice of designing knaves who flattered and paid deference to him, rather than that of the Scottish nobles who were risking their lives for his cause, but who at times gave their advice with a bluntness and warmth which were displeasing to him. It was this weakness which brought an enterprise, which at one time had the fairest prospect of success, to destruction and ruin.

On leaving the house Ronald was joined by Malcolm, and half an hour later they mounted their horses and rode for the mouth of the Loire. The whole party arrived on the following day at St. Nazaire, embarking separately on board the Doutelle, where Prince Charles, who had come down from Nantes in a fishing boat, was received by Mr. Walsh, the owner of the vessel. Ronald now saw gathered together the various persons who were to accompany Prince Charles on this adventurous expedition. These were Sheridan, the former tutor of the prince; Kelly, a non-juring clergyman, and Sullivan -- both, like Sheridan, Irishmen; Strickland, a personage so unimportant that while some writers call him an Englishman, others assert that he was Irish; Aeneas Macdonald, a Scotchman; Sir John Macdonald, an officer in the Spanish service; the prince's valet, Michel; and the Duke of Athole, or, as he is more generally called, the Marquis of Tullibardine, the last named being the only man of high standing or reputation. Never did a prince start to fight for a kingdom with such a following.

The Doutelle weighed anchor as soon as the last of the party arrived on deck, and under easy sail proceeded to Belleisle. Here she lay for some days awaiting the arrival of the Elizabeth. Mr. Rutledge, a merchant at Nantes, had obtained an order from the French court that this man of war should proceed to cruise on the coast of Scotland, and had then arranged with the captain of the ship to take on board the arms that had been purchased by the prince with the proceeds of the sale of some of the family jewels.

These consisted of fifteen hundred muskets, eighteen hundred broadswords, twenty small field pieces, and some ammunition. The captain had also agreed that the Doutelle, which only mounted eighteen small guns, should sail in company with the Elizabeth to Scotland. As soon as the Elizabeth was seen the Doutelle spread her sails, and keeping a short distance from each other, the two vessels sailed north. So great was the necessity for prudence that the prince still maintained his disguise as a Scottish student, and, with the exception of Mr. Walsh, none of the officers and crew of the Doutelle were acquainted with his real rank, and the various members of his party treated him and each other as strangers.

Four days after leaving Belleisle a British man of war of fifty-eight guns hove in sight, and crowding on all sail rapidly came up. The Elizabeth at once prepared to engage her, signalling to the Doutelle to do the same. The prince urged Mr. Walsh to aid the Elizabeth, but the latter steadily refused.

He had undertaken, he said, to carry the prince to Scotland, and would do nothing to endanger the success of the enterprise. The two vessels were well matched, and he would not allow the Doutelle to engage in the affair. The prince continued to urge the point, until at last Mr. Walsh said "that unless he abstained from interference he should be forced to order him below."

The Doutelle, therefore, stood aloof from the engagement, which lasted for five or six hours, and sailed quietly on her course, in order to be beyond the risk of capture should the English ship prove victorious; neither of the vessels, however, obtained any decided advantage. Both were so crippled in the encounter that the Elizabeth returned to France, the Lion to Plymouth to refit. Thus the small supply of arms and artillery which the prince had with such great trouble got together was lost.

"Well, Ronald," Malcolm said that evening as they leant over the taffrail together, "I do think that such a mad headed expedition as this was never undertaken. An exiled prince, an outlawed duke, six adventurers, a valet, and our two selves. One could laugh if one was not almost ready to cry at the folly of invading a country like England in such a fashion."

"That is only one way of looking at it, Malcolm. We are not an army of invasion. The prince is simply travelling with a few personal followers to put himself at the head of an army. The affair depends, not upon us, but upon the country. If the clans turn out to support him as they did in '15 he will soon be at the head of some twenty thousand men. Not enough, I grant you, to conquer England, but enough for a nucleus round which the Lowland and English Jacobites can gather."

"Yes, it depends upon the ifs, Ronald. If all the Highland clans join, and if there are sufficient Jacobites in the Lowlands and England to make a large army, we may do. I have some hopes of the clans, but after what we saw of the apathy of the English Jacobites in '15 I have no shadow of faith in them. However, I fought for the Chevalier in '15, and I am ready to fight for Prince Charles now as long as there is any fighting to be done, and when that is over I shall be as ready to make for France as I was before."

Ronald laughed.

"You are certainly not enthusiastic about it, Malcolm."

"When one gets to my age, Ronald, common sense takes the place of enthusiasm, and I have seen enough of wars to know that for business a well appointed and well disciplined army is required. If Prince Charles does get what you call an army, but which I should call an armed mob, together, there will be the same dissensions, the same bickerings, the same want of plan that there was before; and unless something like a miracle happens it will end as the last did at Preston, in defeat and ruin. However, lad, here we are, and we will go through with it to the end. By the time we get back to France we must hope that King Louis will have got over the killing of his favourite. However, I tell you frankly that my hope is that when the Highland chiefs see that the prince has come without arms, without men, and without even promises of support by France, they will refuse to risk liberty and life and to bring ruin upon their people by joining in such a mad brained adventure."

"I hope not, Malcolm," Ronald said, as he looked at the prince as he was pacing up and down the deck with the Duke of Athole, talking rapidly, his face flushed with enthusiasm, his clustering hair blown backward by the wind. "He is a noble young prince. He is fighting for his own. He has justice and right on his side, and God grant that he may succeed!"

"Amen to that, Ronald, with all my heart! But so far as my experience goes, strength and discipline and generalship and resources go a great deal further than right in deciding the issue of a war."

Two days later another English man of war came in sight and gave chase to the Doutelle, but the latter was a fast sailer and soon left her pursuer behind, and without further adventure arrived among the Western Isles, and dropped anchor near the little islet of Erisca, between Barra and South Uist. As they approached the island an eagle sailed out from the rocky shore and hovered over the vessel, and the Duke of Athole pointed it out as a favourable augury to the prince.

Charles and his companions landed at Erisca and passed the night on shore. They found on inquiry that this cluster of islands belonged to Macdonald of Clanranald, a young chief who was known to be attached to the Jacobite cause. He was at present absent on the mainland, but his uncle and principal adviser, Macdonald of Boisdale, was in South Uist. The prince sent off one of his followers in a boat to summon him, and he came aboard the Doutelle the next morning; but when he heard from the prince that he had come alone and unattended he refused to have anything to do with the enterprise, which he asserted was rash to the point of insanity, and would bring ruin and destruction on all who took part in it.

The prince employed all his efforts to persuade the old chief, but in vain, and the latter returned to his isle in a boat, while the Doutelle pursued her voyage to the mainland and entered the Bay of Lochnanuagh, in Inverness shire, and immediately sent a messenger to Clanranald, who came on board shortly with Macdonald of Kinloch Moidart, and several other Macdonalds.

They received the prince with the greatest respect, but, like Macdonald of Boisdale, the two chiefs refused to take up arms in an enterprise which they believed to be absolutely hopeless. In vain Prince Charles argued and implored. The two chiefs remained firm, until the prince suddenly turned to a younger brother of Moidart, who stood listening to the conversation, and with his fingers clutching the hilt of his broadsword as he heard the young prince, whom he regarded as his future king, in vain imploring the assistance of his brother and kinsmen.

"Will you at least not assist me?" the prince exclaimed.

"I will, I will!" Ranald Macdonald exclaimed. "Though no other man in the Highlands shall draw a sword, I am ready to die for you."

The enthusiasm of the young man was catching, and throwing to the winds their own convictions and forebodings, the two Macdonalds declared that they also would join, and use every exertion to engage their countrymen. The clansmen who had come on board the ship without knowing the object of the visit were now told who the prince was, and they expressed their readiness to follow to the death. Two or three days later, on the 25th of July, Prince Charles landed and was conducted to Borodale, a farmhouse belonging to Clanranald.

Charles at once sent off letters to the Highland chiefs whom he knew to be favourable to the Stuart cause. Among these the principal were Cameron of Locheil, Sir Alexander Macdonald, and Macleod. Locheil immediately obeyed the summons, but being convinced of the madness of the enterprise he came, not to join the prince, but to dissuade him from embarking in it. On his way he called upon his brother, Cameron of Fassefern, who agreed with his opinion as to the hopelessness of success, and urged him to write to the prince instead of going to see him.

"I know you better than you know yourself," he said. "If the prince once sets eyes upon you, he will make you do whatever he pleases."

Locheil, however, persisted in going, convinced that the prince would, on his representation, abandon the design. For a long time he stood firm, until the prince exclaimed:

"I am resolved to put all to the hazard. In a few days I will erect the royal standard and proclaim to the people of Britain that Charles Stuart is come over to claim the crown of his ancestors or perish in the attempt. Locheil, who my father has often told me was our firmest friend, may stay at home and learn from the newspapers the fate of his prince."

Locheil's resolution melted at once at these words, and he said:

"Not so. I will share the fate of my prince whatsoever it be, and so shall every man over whom nature or fortune hath given me power."

The conversion of Locheil was the turning point of the enterprise. Upon the news of the prince's landing spreading, most of the other chiefs had agreed that if Locheil stood aloof they would not move; and had he remained firm not a man would have joined the prince's standard, and he would have been forced to abandon the enterprise. Sir Alexander Macdonald and Macleod, instead of going to see the prince, had gone off together, on the receipt of his letter, to the Isle of Skye, so as to avoid an interview. Clanranald was despatched by Prince Charles to see them, but they declined to join, urging with the truth that the promises which they had given to join in a rising were contingent upon the prince arriving at the head of a strong French force with arms and supplies. They therefore refused at present to move. Others, however, were not so cautious. Fired by the example of Locheil, and by their own traditions of loyalty to the Stuarts' cause, many of the lesser chiefs at once summoned their followers to the field. With the majority the absence of French troops had the exactly opposite effect that it had had with Sir Alexander Macdonald and Macleod. Had the prince landed with a French army they might have stood aloof and suffered him to fight out his quarrel unaided; but his arrival alone and unattended, trusting solely and wholly to the loyalty of the Scottish people, made an irresistible appeal to their generous feelings, and although there were probably but few who did not foresee that failure, ruin, and death would be the result of the enterprise, they embarked in the cause with as much ardour as if their success had been certain.

From Borodale, after disembarking the scanty treasure of four thousand louis d'or which he had brought with him and a few stands of arms from the Doutelle, Charles proceeded by water to Kinloch Moidart.

Mr. Walsh sailed in the Doutelle, after receiving the prince's warmest thanks, and a letter to his father in Rome begging him to grant Mr. Walsh an Irish earldom as a reward for the services he had rendered, a recommendation which was complied with.

The chiefs soon began to assemble at Moidart, and the house became the centre of a picturesque gathering.

Ronald had now put aside the remembrance of Malcolm's forebodings, and entered heart and soul into the enterprise. He had in Glasgow frequently seen Highlanders in their native dress, but he had not before witnessed any large gathering, and he was delighted with the aspect of the sturdy mountaineers in their picturesque garb.

The prince had at once laid aside the attire in which he had landed and had assumed Highland costume, and by the charm and geniality of his manner he completely won the hearts of all who came in contact with him. Among those who joined him at Moidart was Murray of Broughton, a man who was destined to exercise as destructive an influence on the prince's fortune as had Mr. Forster over that of his father. Murray had hurried from his seat in the south, having first had a large number of manifestoes for future distribution printed. He was at once appointed by Charles his secretary of state.

While the gathering at Moidart was daily growing, the English remained in ignorance of the storm which was preparing. It was not until the 30th of July that the fact that the prince had sailed from Nantes was known in London, and as late as the 8th of August, nearly three weeks after Charles first appeared on the coast, the fact of his landing was unknown to the authorities in Edinburgh.

On the 16th of August the English governor at Fort Augustus, alarmed at the vague reports which reached him, and the sudden news that bodies of armed Highlanders were hurrying west, sent a detachment of two companies under Captain Scott to reinforce the advance post of Fort William.

After marching twenty miles the troops entered the narrow ravine of Spean Bridge, when they were suddenly attacked by a party of Keppoch's clansmen who were on their way to join the prince when they saw the English troops on their march. They were joined by some of Locheil's clansmen, and so heavy a fire was kept up from the heights that the English, after having five or six men killed and many more wounded, among them their commanding officer, were forced to lay down their arms.

They were treated with great humanity by their captors, and the wounded were well cared for. The news of this success reached the prince on the day before that fixed for the raising of his standard, the 19th of August, and added to the enthusiasm which prevailed among the little force gathered in Glenfinnan, where the ceremony took place. The glen lay about halfway between Borodale and Fort William, both being about fifteen miles distant. The gathering consisted principally of the Camerons of Locheil, some six hundred strong, and they brought with them two English companies captured on the 16th, disarmed and prisoners.

The Duke of Athole performed the ceremony of unfurling the banner. He was the heir to the dukedom of Athole, but had been exiled for taking part in the rising of '15 and the dukedom bestowed by the English government upon his brother; thus among the English he was still spoken of as the Marquis of Tullibardine, while at the French court and among the followers of the Stuarts he was regarded as the rightful Duke of Athole.

The unfurling of the standard was greeted with loud shouts, and the clansmen threw their bonnets high in the air. The duke then read the manifesto of the Chevalier, and the commission of regency granted by him to Prince Charles. After this the prince himself made an inspiring speech, and declared that at the head of his faithful Highlanders he was resolved to conquer or to perish.

Among the spectators of the ceremony was Captain Swetenham, an English officer taken prisoner a few days before while on his way to assume the command of Fort William. He had been treated with great courtesy and kindness by the prince, who, after the ceremony, dismissed him with the words, "You may now return to your general; tell him what you have seen, and add that I am about to give him battle."

Soon after the conclusion of the ceremony Keppoch marched in with three hundred of his clan, and some smaller parties also arrived. The next morning the force marched to Locheil's house at Auchnacarrie, where the prince was joined by the Macdonalds of Glencoe, a hundred and fifty strong, two hundred Stuarts of Appin under their chief, and by the younger Glengarry with two hundred more, so that the force had now swelled to sixteen hundred men.

"We begin to look like an army," Ronald said to Malcolm.

"Well, yes," the latter replied drily, "we are rather stronger than one regiment and not quite so strong as two; still, if things go on like this we shall ere very long have mounted up to the strength of a brigade; but even a brigade, Ronald, does nor go very far towards the conquest of a kingdom, especially when only about one man in three has got a musket, and so far there are neither cavalry nor artillery. Still, you know, these things may come."

Ronald laughed gaily at his companion's want of faith. He himself had now caught the enthusiasm which pervaded all around. It was true that as yet the prince's adherents were but a handful, but it was not to be expected that an army would spring from the ground. Promises of assistance had come from all quarters, and if the army was a small one the English army in Scotland was but little larger, and if a first success could be achieved, all Scotland might be expected to rise, and the news would surely influence the Jacobites of England to declare for the prince.

Sir John Cope, the English officer commanding the English forces in Scotland, at the first rumour of troubles had ordered his troops to assemble at Stirling. He had with him two regiments of dragoons, Gardiner's and Hamilton's, both young regiments, and the whole force at his disposal, exclusive of troops in garrison, did not exceed three thousand men. With these he proposed to march at once to the west, and crush the rebellion before it gained strength. The English government approved of his proposal, and sent him a proclamation offering a reward of thirty thousand pounds to any person who should seize and secure the pretended Prince of Wales.

On the day of the raising of the standard Cope set out from Edinburgh for Stirling and the next day commenced his march at the head of fifteen hundred infantry, leaving the dragoons behind him, as these could be of but little service among the mountains, where they would have found it next to impossible to obtain forage for their horses. He took with him a large quantity of baggage, a drove of black cattle for food, and a thousand stand of arms to distribute among the volunteers who he expected would join him. As, however, none of these came in, he sent back seven hundred muskets to Crieff.

The first object of the march was Fort Augustus, which he intended to make his central post. As he advanced he was met by Captain Swetenham, who informed him of the raising of the standard and the gathering he had witnessed. As, however, only Locheil's clansmen had arrived before Swetenham left, Cope considered his force ample for the purpose, and continued his march. In order to reach Fort Augustus, however, he had to pass over Corry Arrack, a lofty and precipitous mountain which was ascended by a military road with fifteen zigzags, known to the country as the devil's staircase.

Prince Charles, who had received early news of the advance from Stirling, had recognized the importance of the position, and having burned and destroyed all baggage that would impede his progress, made a forced march and reached Corry Arrack on the 27th, before Sir John Cope had commenced his ascent. As Sir John saw that the formidable position was in the hands of the enemy he felt that it would be in vain to endeavour to force it. Each zigzag would have to be carried in turn, and the enterprise would be a desperate one. Success would be of no great advantage, as the Highlanders, lightly clad and active, would make off and defy pursuit; defeat would be disastrous. He, therefore, called a council of war and asked his officers to decide whether it would be best to remain at Dalwhinnie at the foot of the mountain, to return to Sterling, or to march to Inverness, where they would be joined by the well affected clans. He himself strongly urged the last course, believing that the prince would not venture to descend into the Lowlands while he remained in his rear. The council of war adopted his opinion. No officer advocated remaining inactive at Dalwhinnie, one only supported the alternative of the retreat to Stirling, the rest agreed upon an advance to Inverness.

When it was found that Cope's army had moved away without fighting, the exultation of the Highlanders was great. Most of the chiefs wished to follow at once and give battle, urging that it would be hazardous to advance south and leave the enemy to cut off their retreat; but the prince himself saw the supreme importance of a descent into the Lowlands, and that plan of action was decided upon.



CHAPTER XIV: Prestonpans.


Advancing in high spirits through the mountains of Badenoch, Prince Charles with his army came down into the vale of Athole, and visited, with Tullibardine, the castle of Blair Athole, the noble property of which the marquis had so long been deprived, owing to his constancy to the cause of the Stuarts, but which would again be his own were this great enterprise successful.

From Blair Athole the little army moved on to Perth. Here they were joined by powerful friends, of whom the principal were the young Duke of Perth, Lord Nairn, and Lord George Murray, the younger brother of the Marquis of Tullibardine. Lord George Murray was but ten years of age when the events of 1715 had taken place, but four years later he came over with the marquis with a handful of Spaniards and was wounded at the battle of Glenshiels. The influence of the family obtained his pardon on the plea of his extreme youth, but he remained at heart a Jacobite, and, going to the Continent, entered the service of Sardinia, then a portion of the possessions of the Duke of Savoy. For many years he served abroad, and acquired a considerable reputation as an excellent officer and a most gallant soldier.

He had, indeed, a natural genius for military operations, and had he not been thwarted at every turn by the jealousy of Murray of Broughton, it is by no means improbable that he would have brought the enterprise to a successful termination and seated the Stuarts upon the throne of England. The accession of such an officer was of the highest value to the prince.

Hitherto the army had consisted merely of wild clansmen, full of valour and devotion but wholly undisciplined; while among those who accompanied him, or who had joined him in Scotland, there was not a single officer of any experience in war or any military capacity whatever. Lord George Murray and the Duke of Perth were at once named generals in the prince's army; but the command in reality remained entirely in the hands of Murray, for Lord Perth, though an estimable young nobleman possessed of considerable ability, had no military experience and was of a quiet and retiring disposition.

Lord George Murray at once set about raising the tenantry of his brother the Hanoverian Duke of Athole, who was absent in England, and as these had always remained attached to the Stuart cause, and still regarded the Marquis of Tullibardine as their rightful head, they willingly took up arms upon Lord George Murray's bidding. Lord George decided at once that it would be useless to attempt to drill the Highlanders into regular soldiers, but that they must be allowed to use their national style of fighting and trust to their desperate charge with broadsword and target to break the enemy's ranks.

Unfortunately dissensions commenced among the leaders from the very first. Secretary Murray, who desired to be all powerful with the prince, saw that he should not succeed in gaining any influence over so firm and energetic a character as Lord George Murray, while it would be easy for him to sway the young Duke of Perth, and he was not long in poisoning the ear of the latter against his companion in arms by representing to him that Lord George treated him as a mere cipher, although of equal rank in the army. The secretary's purpose was even more easily carried out with Prince Charles. The latter was no judge of character, and fell readily under the influence of the wily and unscrupulous Murray, who flattered his weaknesses and assumed an air of deference to his opinions. Lord George Murray, on the other hand, was but too prone to give offence. He was haughty and overbearing in manner, expressed his opinions with a directness and bluntness which were very displeasing to the prince, and, conscious of his own military genius and experience, put aside with open contempt the suggestions of those who were in truth ignorant of military matters. Loyal, straightforward, and upright, he scorned to descend to the arts of the courtier, and while devoting his whole time to his military work, suffered his enemies to obtain the entire command of the ear of the prince.

Ronald was introduced to him as soon as he joined at Perth, and finding that young Leslie had had some military experience, Lord George at once appointed him one of his aides de camp, and soon took a warm liking to the active and energetic young officer, whose whole soul was in his work, and who cared nothing for the courtly gatherings around the person of the prince.

Malcolm rode as Ronald's orderly, and during the few days of their stay in Perth, Ronald was at work from morning till night riding through the country with messages from Lord George, and in the intervals of such duty in trying to inculcate some idea of discipline into the wild Highland levies. At this time Charles was using all his efforts to persuade Lord Lovat, one of the most powerful of the northern noblemen, to join him, offering him his patent as Duke of Fraser and the lord lieutenancy of the northern counties.

Lovat, however, an utterly unscrupulous man, refused openly to join, although he sent repeatedly assurances of his devotion. Throughout the struggle he continued to act a double part, trying to keep friends with both parties, but declaring for the prince at the moment when his fortunes were at their highest. The result was that while he afforded the prince but little real assistance, his conduct cost him his head.

Sir John Cope, finding that his march to Inverness had failed to draw the prince after him, and had left the Lowlands and the capital open to the insurgents, directed his march to Aberdeen, and sent to Edinburgh for transports to bring down his army to cover that city. But Prince Charles determined to forestall him, and on the 11th of September commenced his march south. The age and infirmities of the Marquis of Tullibardine prevented his accompanying Prince Charles during active operations.

It was impossible for the army to march direct against Edinburgh, as the magistrates of that town had taken the precaution to withdraw every ship and boat from the northern side of the Forth, and the prince was consequently obliged to make a detour and to cross the river at the fords eight miles above Stirling, and then marching rapidly towards Edinburgh, arrived on the evening of the 16th within three miles of that town.

So long as the coming of the prince was doubtful the citizens of Edinburgh had declared their willingness to defend the town to the last. Volunteer regiments had been formed and guns placed on the walls; but when the volunteers were ordered to march out with Hamilton's regiment of dragoons, to oppose the advance of the insurgents, the men quitted their ranks and stole away to their houses, leaving the dragoons to march out alone. The latter, however, showed no greater courage than that of their citizen allies, when on the following day they came in contact with a party of mounted gentlemen from the prince's army, who fired their pistols at their pickets. These rode off in haste, their panic was communicated to the main body, whose officers in vain endeavoured to check them, and the whole regiment galloped away in wild confusion, and passing close under the walls of Edinburgh continued their flight, without halting, to Preston. There they halted for the night; but one of the troopers happening in the dark to fall into a disused well, his shouts for assistance caused an alarm that they were attacked, and mounting their horses the regiment continued their flight to Dunbar, where they joined General Cope's army, which had just landed there.

This disgraceful panic added to the terror of the citizens of Edinburgh, and when, late in the afternoon, a summons to surrender came in from Prince Charles, the council could arrive at no decision, but sent a deputation to the prince asking for delay, hoping thereby that Cope's army would arrive in time to save them. But the prince was also well aware of the importance of time, and that night he sent forward Lochiel with five hundred Camerons to lie in ambush near the Netherbow Gate. They took with them a barrel of powder to blow it in if necessary; but in the morning the gate was opened to admit a carriage, and the Highlanders at once rushed in and overpowered the guard, and sending parties through the streets they secured these also without disturbance or bloodshed, and when the citizens awoke in the morning they found, to their surprise, that Prince Charles was master of the city.

The Jacobite portion of the population turned out with delight to greet the prince, while the rest thought it politic to imitate their enthusiasm. The Highlanders behaved with perfect order and discipline, and although the town had, as it were, been taken by storm, no single article of property was touched. An hour later Prince Charles, at the head of his troops, entered the royal palace of Holyrod, being met by a crowd of enthusiastic supporters from the city, who received him with royal shouts and tears of joy.

In the evening a grand ball was held in the palace, in spite of the fact that it was within range of the guns of Edinburgh Castle, which still held out. But one day was spent in Edinburgh. This was occupied in serving out about a thousand muskets found in the magazines to the Highlanders, and in obtaining tents, shoes, and cooking vessels, which the town was ordered to supply. They were joined during the day by many gentlemen, and on the night of the 19th the army, two thousand five hundred strong, of whom only fifty were mounted, moved out to the village of Duddingston. There the prince that evening called a council of war, and proposed to march next morning to meet the enemy halfway, and declared that he would himself lead his troops and charge in the first ranks.

The chiefs, however, exclaimed against this, urging that if any accident happened to him ruin must fall upon the whole, whether they gained or lost the battle; and upon the prince persisting they declared that they would return home and make the best terms they could for themselves. He was therefore obliged to give way, declaring, however, that he would lead the second line. The next morning the army commenced its march. They had with them only one cannon, so old that it was quite useless, and it was only taken forward as an encouragement to the Highlanders, who had the greatest respect for artillery.

Sir John Cope, who had received intelligence of all that had happened at Edinburgh, had also moved forward on the 19th, and on the 20th the two armies came in sight of each other. The Highlanders, after passing the bridge of Musselburgh, left the road, and turning to the right took up their position on the brow of Carberry Hill, and there waited the attack. The English forces were marching forward with high spirit, and believed that the Highlanders would not even wait their assault. Cope had with him two thousand two hundred men, including the six hundred runaway dragoons. The numbers, therefore, were nearly equal; but as the English were well armed, disciplined, and equipped, while only about half the Highlanders had muskets, and as they had, moreover, six pieces of artillery against the one unserviceable gun of Prince Charles, they had every reason to consider the victory to be certain.

On seeing the Highland array Cope drew up his troops in order of battle -- his infantry in the centre, with a regiment of dragoons and three pieces of artillery on each flank. His right was covered by a park wall and by the village of Preston. On his left stood Seaton House, and in his rear lay the sea, with the villages of Prestonpans and Cockenzie. Their front was covered by a deep and difficult morass.

It was now about three o'clock in the afternoon, and the Highlanders, seeing that the English did not advance against them, clamoured to be led to the attack. Prince Charles was himself eager to fight, but his generals persuaded him to abstain from attacking the English in such a formidable position. The Highlanders, however, fearing that the English would again avoid a battle, were not satisfied until Lord Nairn with five hundred men was detached to the westward to prevent the English from marching off towards Edinburgh.

During the night the two armies lay upon the ground. Cope retired to sleep at Cockenzie, the prince lay down in the middle of his soldiers. Before doing so, however, he held a council, and determined to attack next morning in spite of the difficulty of the morass. But in the course of the night Anderson of Whitburg, a gentleman well acquainted with the country, bethought himself of a path from the height towards their right by the farm of Ruigan Head, which in a great measure avoided the morass. This important fact he imparted to Lord George Murray, who at once awoke the prince.

Locheil and some other chiefs were sent for, and it was determined to undertake the enterprise at once. An aide de camp was sent to recall Lord Nairn and his detachment, and under the guidance of Anderson the troops made their way across the morass. This was not, however, accomplished without great difficulty, as in some places they sank knee deep. The march was unopposed, and covered by the darkness they made their way across to firm ground just as the day was breaking dull and foggy. As they did so, however, the dragoon outposts heard the sound of their march, and firing their pistols galloped off to give the alarm. Sir John Cope lost no time facing his troops about, and forming them in order of battle. He was undisturbed while doing so, for the Highlanders were similarly occupied.

As the sun rose the mist cleared away, and the two armies stood face to face. The Macdonalds had been granted the post of honour on the Highland right, the line being completed by the Camerons and Stuarts, Prince Charles with the second line being close behind. The Highlanders uncovered their heads, uttered a short prayer, and then as the pipers blew the signal they rushed forward, each clan in a separate mass, and raising their war cry, the Camerons and Stuarts rushed straight at the cannon on the left.

These guns were served, not by Royal Artillerymen, but by some seamen brought by Cope from the fleet. They, panic struck by the wild rush of the Highlanders, deserted their guns and fled in all directions. Colonel Gardiner called upon his dragoons to follow him, and with his officers led them to the charge. But the Stuarts and Camerons, pouring in a volley from their muskets, charged them with their broadswords, and the dragoons, panic stricken, turned their horses and galloped off.

The Macdonalds on the right had similarly captured three guns, and charging with similar fury upon Hamilton's regiment of dragoons, drove them off the field; Macgregor's company, who, for want of other weapons were armed with scythes, doing terrible execution among the horses and their riders. The English infantry, deserted by their cavalry, and with their guns lost, still stood firm, and poured a heavy fire into the Highlanders; but these, as soon as they had defeated the cavalry, faced round and charged with fury upon both flanks of the infantry. Their onslaught was irresistible. The heavy masses of the clans broke right through the long line of the English infantry, and drove the latter backward in utter confusion. But the retreat was impeded by the inclosure and park wall of Preston, and the Highlanders pressing on, the greater portion of the English infantry were killed or taken prisoners.

A hundred and seventy of the infantry alone succeeded in making their escape, four hundred were killed, and the rest captured. Colonel Gardiner and many of his officers were killed fighting bravely, but the loss of the dragoons was small. Only thirty of the Highlanders were killed, and seventy wounded. The battle lasted but six minutes, and the moment it had terminated Prince Charles exerted himself to the utmost to obtain mercy for the vanquished.

He treated the prisoners with the greatest kindness and consideration, and the wounded were relieved without any distinction of friend or foe. The dragoons fled to Edinburgh, and dashed up the hill to the castle; but the governor refused to admit them, and threatened to open his guns upon them as cowards who had deserted their colours. Later on in the day the greater portion were rallied by Sir John Cope and the Earls of Loudon and Home; but being seized with a fresh panic they galloped on again at full speed as far as Coldstream, and the next morning continued their flight in a state of disgraceful disorder as far as Berwick. The contents of the treasure chest, consisting of two thousand five hundred pounds, with the standards and other trophies, were brought to Prince Charles. The rest of the spoil was divided among the Highlanders, of whom a great number immediately set off towards their homes to place the articles they had gathered in safety.

So greatly was the Highland army weakened by the number of men who thus left the ranks that the prince was unable to carry out his wish for an instant advance into England. His advisers, indeed, were opposed to this measure, urging that in a short time his force would be swelled by thousands from all parts of Scotland; but unquestionably his own view was the correct one, and had he marched south he would probably have met with no resistance whatever on his march to London. There were but few troops in England. A requisition had been sent to the Dutch by King George for the six thousand auxiliaries they were bound to furnish, and a resolution was taken to recall ten English regiments home from Flanders.

Marshal Wade was directed to collect as many troops as he could at Newcastle, and the militia of several counties was called out; but the people in no degree responded to the efforts of the government. They looked on coldly, not indeed apparently favouring the rebellion, but as little disposed to take part against it. The state of public feeling was described at the time by a member of the administration, Henry Fox, in a private letter.

"England, Wade says, and I believe, is for the first comer, and if you can tell me whether these six thousand Dutch and the ten battalions of England, or five thousand French or Spaniards, will be here first, you know our fate. The French are not come, God be thanked; but had five thousand landed in any part of this island a week ago, I verily believe the entire conquest would not have cost a battle."

The prince indeed was doing his best to obtain assistance from France, conscious how much his final success depended upon French succour.

King Louis for a time appeared favourable. The prince's brother, Henry of York, had arrived from Rome, and the king proposed to place him at the head of the Irish regiments in the king's service and several others to enable him to effect a landing in England; but with his usual insincerity the French king continued to raise difficulties and cause delays until it was too late, and he thus lost for ever the chance of placing the family who had always been warm friends of France, and who would in the event of success have been his natural friends and allies, on the throne of England.

In the meantime Prince Charles had taken up his abode in Edinburgh, where he was joined by most of the gentry of Scotland. He was proclaimed king in almost every town of the Tweed, and was master of all Scotland, save some districts beyond Inverness, the Highland forts, and the castles of Edinburgh and Stirling.. Prince Charles behaved with the greatest moderation. He forbade all public rejoicing for victory, saying that he could not rejoice over the loss which his father's misguided subjects had sustained. He abstained from any attempt to capture Edinburgh Castle, or even to cut off its supplies, because the general of the castle threatened that unless he were allowed to obtain provisions he would fire upon the city and lay it in ruins, and he even refused to interfere with a Scotch minister who continued from his pulpit to pray for King George.

In one respect he carried his generosity so far as to excite discontent among his followers. It was proposed to send one of the prisoners taken at Preston to London with a demand for the exchange of prisoners taken or to be taken in the war, and with the declaration that if this were refused, and if the prince's friends who fell into the enemy's hands were put to death as rebels, the prince would be compelled to treat his captives in the same way. It was evident that this step would be of great utility, as many of the prince's adherents hesitated to take up arms, not from fear of death in battle, but of execution if taken prisoners.

The prince, however, steadily refused, saying, "It is beneath me to make empty threats, and I will never put such as this into execution. I cannot in cold blood take away lives which I have saved in the heat of action."

Six weeks after the victory the prince's army mustered nearly six thousand men; but Macleod, Macdonald, and Lovat, who could have brought a further force of four thousand men, still held aloof. Had these three powerful chiefs joined at once after the battle of Prestonpans, Prince Charles could have marched to London, and would probably have succeeded in placing his father on the throne, without having occasion to strike another blow; but they came not, and the delay caused during the fruitless negotiations enabled the English troops to be brought over from Flanders, while Prince Charles on his side only received a few small consignments of arms and money from France.

But in the meantime Edinburgh was as gay as if the Stuart cause had been already won. Receptions and balls followed each other in close succession, and Prince Charles won the hearts of all alike by his courtesy and kindness, and by the care which he showed for the comfort of his troops.

At the commencement of the campaign Lord George Murray had but one aide de camp besides Ronald. This was an officer known as the Chevalier de Johnstone, who afterwards wrote a history of the campaign. After the battle of Prestonpans he received a captain's commission, and immediately raised a company, with which he joined the Duke of Perth's regiment. Two other gentlemen of family were then appointed aides de camp, and this afforded some relief to Ronald, whose duties had been extremely heavy.

A week after the battle Lord George said to Ronald:

"As there is now no chance of a movement at present, and I know that you care nothing for the court festivities here, I propose sending you with the officers who are riding into Glasgow tomorrow, with the orders of the council that the city shall pay a subsidy of five thousand pounds towards the necessities of the state. The citizens are Hanoverians to a man, and may think themselves well off that no heavier charge is levied upon them. Do you take an account of what warlike stores there are in the magazines there, and see that all muskets and ammunition are packed up and forwarded."

The next morning Ronald started at daybreak with several other mounted gentlemen and an escort of a hundred of Clanranald's men, under the command of the eldest son of that chief, for Glasgow, and late the same evening entered that city. They were received with acclamation by a part of the population; but the larger portion of the citizens gazed at them from their doorways as they passed in sullen hostility. They marched direct to the barracks lately occupied by the English troops, the gentlemen taking the quarters occupied by the officers. A notification was at once sent to the provost to assemble the city council at nine o'clock in the morning, to hear a communication from the royal council.

As soon as Malcolm had put up Ronald's horse and his own in the stables, and seen to their comfort, he and Ronald sallied out. It was now dark, but they wrapped themselves up in their cloaks so as not to be noticed, as in the hostile state of the town they might have been insulted and a quarrel forced upon them, had they been recognized as two of the new arrivals. The night, however, was dark, and they passed without recognition through the ill lighted streets to the house of Andrew Anderson. They rang at the bell. A minute later the grille was opened, and a voice, which they recognized as that of Elspeth, asked who was there, and what was their business.

"We come to arrest one Elspeth Dow, as one who troubles the state and is a traitor to his majesty."

There was an exclamation from within and the door suddenly opened.

"I know your voice, bairn. The Lord be praised that you have come back home again!" and she was about to run forward, when she checked herself. "Is it yourself, Ronald?"

"It is no one else, Elspeth," he replied, giving the old woman a hearty kiss.

"And such a man as you have grown!" she exclaimed in surprise. For the two years had added several inches to Ronald's stature, and he now stood over six feet in height.

"And have you no welcome for me, Elspeth?" Malcolm asked, coming forward.

"The Lord preserve us!" Elspeth exclaimed. "Why, it's my boy Malcolm!"

"Turned up again like a bad penny, you see, Elspeth."

"What is it, Elspeth?" Andrew's voice called from above. "Who are these men you are talking to, and what do they want at this time of night?"

"They want some supper, Andrew," Malcolm called back, "and that badly."

In a moment Andrew ran down and clasped his brother's hand. In the darkness he did not notice Malcolm's companion, and after the first greeting with his brother led the way up stairs.

"It is my brother Malcolm," he said to his wife as he entered the room.

Ronald followed Malcolm forward. As the light fell on his face Andrew started, and, as Ronald smiled, ran forward and clasped him in his arms.

"It is Ronald, wife! Ah, my boy, have you come back to us again?"

Mrs. Anderson received Ronald with motherly kindness.

"We had heard of your escape before your letter came to us from Paris. Our city constables brought back the news of how you had jumped overboard, and had been pulled into a boat and disappeared. And finely they were laughed at when they told their tale. Then came your letter saying that it was Malcolm who had met you with the boat, and how you had sailed away and been wrecked on the coast of France; but since then we have heard nothing."

"I wrote twice," Ronald said; "but owing to the war there have been no regular communications, and I suppose my letters got lost."

"And I suppose you have both come over to have a hand in this mad enterprise?"

"I don't know whether it is mad or not, Andrew; but we have certainly come over to have a hand in it," Malcolm said. "And now, before we have a regular talk, let me tell you that we are famishing. I know your supper is long since over, but doubtless Elspeth has still something to eat in her cupboard. Oh, here she comes!"

Elspeth soon placed a joint of cold meat upon the table, and Ronald and Malcolm set to at once to satisfy their hunger. Then a jar of whiskey and glasses were set upon the table, and pipes lighted, and Ronald began a detailed narration of all that had taken place since they had last met.

"Had my father and mother known that I was coming to Scotland, and should have an opportunity of seeing you both, they would have sent you their warmest thanks and gratitude for your kindness to me," he concluded. "For over and over again have I heard them say how deeply they felt indebted to you for your care of me during so many years, and how they wished that they could see you and thank you in person."

"What we did was done, in the first place, for my brother Malcolm, and afterwards for love of you, Ronald; and right glad I am to hear that you obtained the freedom of your parents and a commission as an officer in the service of the King of France. I would be glad that you had come over here on any other errand than that which brings you. Things have gone on well with you so far; but how will they end? I hear that the Jacobites of England are not stirring, and you do not think that with a few thousand Highland clansmen you are going to conquer the English army that beat the French at Dettingen, and well nigh overcame them at Fontenoy. Ah, lad, it will prove a sore day for Scotland when Charles Stuart set foot on our soil!"

"We won't talk about that now, Andrew," Malcolm said good temperedly. "The matter has got to be fought out with the sword, and if our tongues were to wag all night they could make no difference one way or another. So let us not touch upon politics. But I must say, that as far as Ronald and I are concerned, we did not embark on this expedition because we had at the moment any great intention of turning Hanoverian George off his throne; but simply because Ronald had made France too hot to hold him, and this was the simplest way that presented itself of getting out of the country. As long as there are blows to be struck we shall do our best. When there is no more fighting to be done, either because King James is seated on his throne in London, or because the clans are scattered and broken, we shall make for France again, where by that time I hope the king will have got over the breach of his edict and the killing of his favourite, and where Ronald's father and mother will be longing for his presence."

"Eh, but it's awful, sirs," Elspeth, who as an old and favourite servant had remained in the room after laying the supper and listened to the conversation, put in, "to think that a young gallant like our Ronald should have slain a man! He who ought not yet to have done with his learning, to be going about into wars and battles, and to have stood up against a great French noble and slain him. Eh, but it's awful to think of!"

"It would be much more awful, Elspeth, if the French noble had killed me, at least from the light in which I look at it."

"That's true enough," Elspeth said. "And if he wanted to kill you, and it does seem from what you say that he did want, of course I cannot blame you for killing him; but to us quiet bodies here in Glasgow it seems an awful affair; though, after you got in a broil here and drew on the city watch, I ought not to be surprised at anything."

"And now we must go," Ronald said, rising. "It is well nigh midnight, and time for all decent people to be in bed."



CHAPTER XV: A Mission.


The next morning early Ronald proceeded to take an inventory of the arms and ammunition left behind by the troops when they had marched to join Sir John Cope at Stirling. Having done this he saw that they were all packed up in readiness to be sent off the next day under the escort, who were also to convey the money which the city was required to pay. For the provost and council, knowing that it was useless to resist the order, and perhaps anxious in the present doubtful state of affairs to stand well with Prince Charles, had arranged that the money should be forthcoming of the following morning. After his work was over Ronald again spent the evening at Andrew Anderson's.

The next morning he returned to Edinburgh with the arms and escort. It was late when he arrived; but as he knew that Lord George Murray would be at work in his tent, he repaired there at once.

"We have brought back the money and arms, Lord George. I have handed over the arms and ammunition at the magazine tent, and those in charge of the money have gone into the town with a part of the escort to give it over to the treasurer."

"How many arms did you get?"

"Two hundred and twenty-three muskets and eighty pistols, fourteen kegs of gunpowder, and well nigh a ton of lead."

"That is more than I had expected. And now, Leslie, I have an important mission for you. The prince this morning asked me whom I could recommend, as a sure and careful person likely to do the business well, to go down into Lancashire to visit the leading Jacobites there, and urge them to take up arms. I said that I knew of none who would be more likely to succeed than yourself. Your residence of two years in France has rubbed off any Scotch dialect you may have had, and at any rate you could pass for a northern Englishman. In the next place, your youth would enable you to pass unsuspected where an older man might be questioned. The prince agreed at once, and took shame to himself that he had not before given promotion to one who was his companion on his voyage to Scotland, the more so as he had made Johnstone a captain. Your claims are far greater than his, and moreover you have served as an officer in the French army. But, in truth, the fault is in some degree your own, for you spend all your time in carrying out your duties, and do not show yourself at any of the levees or festivities. And you know, with princes, as with other people, out of sight is out of mind. However, the prince at once took steps to repair the omission, and has signed your commission as captain. Here it is. You will understand, of course, that it is for past services, and that you are perfectly free to decline this mission to the south if you would rather not undertake it. It is unquestionably a dangerous one."

"I will undertake it readily, sir," Ronald said, "and I thank you sincerely for bringing my name before the prince, and the prince himself for his kindness in granting me his commission, which so far I have done but little to win. I shall be able, I trust, to carry out this mission to his satisfaction; and although I am ignorant of the country I shall have the advantage of taking with me my brave follower, Malcolm Anderson, who for years was in the habit of going with droves of cattle down into Lancashire, and will not only know the country but have acquaintances there, and being known as a drover would pass without suspicion of his being engaged with politics."

"That will do well," Lord George said. "I will get the list of persons on whom you should call prepared tomorrow. You had best go to Sir Thomas Sheridan and Francis Strickland, who came over with you, and get them to present you to Secretary Murray and recommend you to him. If he hears that your mission is of my recommendation he will do all he can to set the prince against you. Everything that I do is wrong in his eyes, and I do believe that he would ruin the cause in order to injure me, did he see no other way to accomplish that end. Therefore, if he mentions my name, as he is like to do, knowing that you have been my aide de camp, be sure that you say nought in my favour, or it will ruin you with him. You will, of course, attend the prince's levee tomorrow, and had best make preparation to start at nightfall."

The next day, accordingly, Ronald called upon Sir Thomas Sheridan and Strickland, and telling them that the prince had determined to send him on a mission into Lancashire, asked them to present him to Secretary Murray, from whom he would receive orders for his guidance and instruction as to the persons whom he was to visit. The two gentlemen proceeded with him to the house in which Secretary Murray had taken up his abode, and introduced him, with much warmth, as a fellow passenger on board the Doutelle.

"You have been serving since as Lord Murray's aide de camp?"

"Yes, sir, the prince recommended me to him at Perth, and I have since had the honour to carry his orders."

"Captain Leslie, for so the prince has granted him a commission," Sir Thomas said, "has served two years in the French army, and was present at Dettingen and Fontenoy. He mentioned to me on the voyage that he had the honour of being presented by Marshal Saxe to the King of France, and that he received his commission from the marshal, to whom he had acted as aide de camp at Fontenoy."

"You have begun well, indeed, young sir," Murray said, "to have received at your age, for I judge that you are not yet twenty, commissions in the French army and ours."

Ronald bowed.

"He has another claim upon all you Scottish gentlemen," Sir Thomas said, "for Colonel Macdonald told us, when he introduced him to us at Nantes, that it was through his interference and aid alone that he escaped safely from Glasgow, and that all his papers, with the names of the king's friends in Scotland, did not fall into George's hands. He was taken prisoner for his share in that affair, but escaped from the ship in the Thames, and succeeded in crossing to France. So you see, young as he is, he has rendered good service to the cause."

The expression of the secretary's face, which had before been cold and distant, changed at once. He had been aware that Ronald had been chosen for this business on the recommendation of Lord George Murray, and his jealousy of that nobleman had at once set him against Ronald, of whose antecedents he was entirely ignorant; but what he now heard entirely altered the case, and disposed him most favourably towards him, especially as his own name would have been one of the most prominent in the list, he having been in constant communication with Colonel Macdonald during the stay of the latter in Scotland.

"I had no idea it was to you that we are all so indebted," he said warmly. "I heard from Colonel Macdonald, after his return from France, that he owed his escape entirely to the quickness and bravery of a young gentleman of whose name he was ignorant, but who, he feared, would suffer for his interference on his behalf, and prayed me and all other loyal gentlemen of Scotland to befriend you should they ever discover your name, for that we assuredly owed it to you that we escaped imprisonment, if not worse. I am truly glad to meet you and thank you in person. And so you are going on this mission?"

"I have undertaken to do my best, sir. Fortunately I have a faithful follower who fought beside my father in '15, followed him to France and fought by his side in the Scottish Dragoons for fifteen years, and who has since been my best friend. He worked for years, when I was a child, as a drover of cattle from the Highlands into England. He knows Cumberland and Lancashire well, and would be known at every wayside inn. He will accompany me, and I shall pass as his nephew, therefore no suspicion will be likely to light upon me."

"And you set out tonight?"

"Yes, sir, if my orders and letters are ready."

"There will not be many letters," the secretary said. "It would not do for you to have documents upon you which might betray you and our friends there should you be arrested. I will give you a list of the gentlemen on whom you have to call, which you had best learn by heart and destroy before you cross the frontier. You shall have one paper only, and that written so small that it can be carried in a quill. This you can show to one after the other. If you find you are in danger of arrest you can destroy or swallow it. I will give them to you at the prince's levee this afternoon, and will send to your tent a purse of gold for your expenses."

"I shall need but little for that, sir," Ronald said smiling.

"For your expenses, no," the secretary said; "but one never can say what money may be required for. You may have to buy fresh horses, you may want it to bribe someone to conceal you. Money is always useful, my young friend. By the way, what family of Leslies do you belong to? I heard that one of your name had accompanied the prince, but no more."

"My father was Leslie of Glenlyon."

"Indeed!" the secretary exclaimed. "Of course, I know the name well. The lands were confiscated; but we shall soon set that right, and I will see that they are added to when the time comes to reward the king's friends and punish his foes."

Ronald now took his leave and returned to Malcolm, who was making preparation for the enterprise. He had already purchased two suits of clothes, such as would be worn by Lowland drovers, and was in high spirits, being more elated than was Ronald himself at the latter's promotion. In the course of the day he bought two rough ponies, as being more suitable for the position they were to assume than the horses with which they had been furnished at Perth. Ronald attended the levee, and thanked the prince for the favour which he bestowed upon him.

"You are a young gentleman after my own heart," Prince Charles said, "and I promised myself on shipboard that we should be great friends; but I have been so busy since I landed, and you have been so occupied in my service, that I have seen but little of you. On your return I hope that I shall be able to have you near my person. I am half jealous of you, for while you are younger than I am you have seen good service and taken part in great battles, but hitherto I have led a life almost of idleness."

Ronald bowed deeply at the prince's gracious speech. On his return to his tent he found a messenger from the secretary with a purse which, on counting its contents, they found to amount to a hundred guineas.

They started immediately, and travelled twenty miles before stopping for the night at a small wayside inn.

"This seems like old times to me," Malcolm said as, after eating supper, they sat by a turf fire, "except that on my way down I had the herd to look after. There is no fear of our being questioned or suspected till we reach the border, for there is not an English soldier between the Forth and the Tweed; nor is it likely that we shall meet with any difficulty whatever till we get to Carlisle. Cope's forces, or what remain of them, are at Newcastle, and it will be there that the English will gather, and the western road is likely to be open until, at any rate, Prince Charles moves south. George's troops have plenty to think about without interfering with the Lowlands drovers. At the same time, after we have once crossed the Tweed, we may as well leave the high road. I know every bypath over the fells."

On the third day after starting they crossed the border and were among the hills of Cumberland. They found that among the villages great apprehension existed. The tales of the rapine and destruction wrought in the old times by the Scottish forays had been handed down from father to son, and nothing less than the destruction of their homes and the loss of their flocks and herds was looked for. Malcolm was welcomed warmly at the little village inn where they put up for the night.

"Why, it's well nigh three years since I saw you last," the host said, "and before that it was seldom two months without our seeing you. What have you been doing with yourself?"

"I have been gathering the herds in the Highlands," Malcolm said, "while others have driven them down for sale; but at present my occupation is gone. The Highlanders are swarming like angry bees whose hive has been disturbed, and even if we could collect a herd it would not be safe to drive it south; it would be seized and despatched to Edinburgh for the use of the clans there."

"Is it true that there are fifty thousand of them, and that they have sworn to kill every English man, woman, and child?"

"No, they are not so strong as that," Malcolm said. "From what I hear I should say they were not more than half; and I do not think there is any occasion for peaceful people to be afraid, for they say that the prince has treated all the prisoners who fell into his hands in the kindest manner, and that he said that the English are his father's subjects as well as the Scots, and that he will see that harm is done to no man."

"I am right glad to hear it," the innkeeper said. "I don't know that I am much afraid myself; but my wife and daughter are in a terrible fright, and wanted me to quit the house and go south till it is all over."

"There is no occasion for that, man," Malcolm said; "you will have no reason for fear were the whole of the clans to march through your village, unless you took it into your head to stand at the door and shout, 'God bless King George.'"

"I care not a fig about King George or King James," the man said. "It's nought to me who is king at London, and as far as I know that's the way with all here. Let them fight it out together, and leave us hard working folks to ourselves."

"I don't suppose either James or George would care for that," Malcolm said laughing; "but from what I have heard of Prince Charles I should say that there is nothing in the world that he would like better than to stand with broadsword or dagger against the Duke of Cumberland, and so settle the dispute."

"That would be the most sensible thing to my mind," the innkeeper said; "but what brings you here, Anderson, since you have no herd with you?"

"I am just getting out of it all," Malcolm said. "I have had my share of hard knocks, and want no more of them. I don't want to quarrel with Highlanders or Lowlanders, and as trade is at a standstill at present, and there's nothing for me to do in the Highlands, I thought I would come south till it was all over. There is money to collect and things to look after, and I have to notify to our regular customers that the herds will come down again as soon as the tempest is over; and between ourselves," he said in a lower voice, "I wanted to get my nephew out of harm's way. He has a hankering to join the prince's army, and I don't want to let him get his brains knocked out in a quarrel which isn't his, so I have brought him along with me."

"He is a good looking young fellow, I can see, and a strong one. I don't wonder that he wanted to mount the white cockade; lads are always wanting to run their heads into danger. You have had your share of it, as you say; still you are wise to keep the lad out of it. I don't hold with soldiering, or fighting in quarrels that don't concern you.

Malcolm and Ronald travelled through Cumberland and Westmoreland, calling upon many of the gentlemen to whom the latter had been charged to deliver Prince Charles's messages. They could not, however, flatter themselves that their mission was a success, for from few of those on whom they called did they receive assurances that they were prepared to take action; all the gentlemen professed affection for the Stuarts, but deprecated a descent into England unless the prince were accompanied by a strong body of French troops.

The rising of '15 had been disastrous for the Jacobites of the North of England, and though all declared that they were ready again to take up arms and risk all for the cause of the Stuarts, if the prince was at the head of a force which rendered success probable, they were unanimously of opinion that it would be nothing short of madness to rise until at any rate the prince had marched into England at the head of a strong army.

The principal personage upon whom they called was Mr. Ratcliff, a brother of the Earl of Derwentwater, who had been executed after the rising of '15. That gentleman assured them that he himself was ready to join the prince as soon as he came south, but that he wished the prince to know that in his opinion no large number of English would join.

"The memory of '15 is still too fresh," he said; "while the Stuarts have been absent so long that, although there are great numbers who would prefer them to the Hanoverians, I do not believe that men have the cause sufficiently at heart to risk life and property for it. Many will give their good wishes, but few will draw their swords. That is what I wish you to say to Prince Charles. Among gentlemen like myself the feeling of respect and loyalty to his father's house is as strong as ever, and we shall join him, however desperate, in our opinion, the chances of success may be; but he will see that the common people will stand aloof, and leave the battle to be fought out by the clansmen on our side and George's troops on the other."

Some weeks were passed in traversing the country to and fro, for the desired interviews were often only obtained after considerable loss of time. They could not ride up as two Highland drovers to a gentleman's house, and had to wait their chances of meeting those they wished to see on the high road, or of sending notes requesting an interview, couched in such terms that while they would be understood by those to whom they were addressed they would compromise no one if they fell into other hands. There was indeed the greatest necessity for caution, for the authorities in all the towns and villages had received orders from the government to be on the lookout for emissaries from the north, and they were frequently exposed to sharp examination and questioning. Indeed it was only Malcolm's familiarity with the country, and the fact that he had so many acquaintances ready to testify that he was, as he said, a Scotch drover, in the habit for many years of journeying down from the north with cattle, that enabled them to escape arrest.

After much thought they had decided upon a place of concealment for the quill containing Ronald's credentials, which would, they thought, defy the strictest scrutiny. A hole had been bored from the back into the heel of Ronald's boot deep enough to contain the quill, and after this was inserted in the hiding place the hole was filled up with cobbler's wax, so that it would need a close examination indeed to discover its existence. Thus, although they were several times closely searched, no document of a suspicious nature was found upon them.

Their money was the greatest trouble, as the mere fact of so large a sum being carried by two drovers would in itself have given rise to suspicions, although had they been on their return towards Scotland the possession of such an amount would have been easily explained as the proceeds of the sale of the cattle they had brought down. They had therefore left the greater part of it with a butcher in Carlisle, with whom Malcolm had often had dealings, retaining only ten pounds for their necessary expenses.

The day after they reached Manchester four constables came to the little inn where they were stopping and told them that they were to accompany them before the magistrates.

"I should like to know what offence we are charged with," Malcolm said angrily. "Things have come to a pretty pass, indeed, when quiet drovers are to be hauled before magistrates without rhyme or reason."

"You will hear the charge quickly enough when you are before their worships," the constable said; "but that is no affair of mine -- my orders are simply to take you there."

"Well, of course we must go," Malcolm said grumblingly; "but here we have been well nigh twenty years travelling to and fro between England and Scotland, as my host here can testify, without such a thing happening before. I suppose somebody has been robbed on the highway, and so you sharp sighted gentlemen clap hands on the first people you come across."

Three magistrates were sitting when Ronald and Malcolm were brought into the courthouse. They were first asked the usual questions as to their names and business, and then one of the magistrates said:

"Your story is a very plausible one; but it happens that I have here before me the reports, sent in from a score of different places, for in times like these it is needful to know what kinds of persons are travelling through the country, and two men answering to your description are reported to have visited almost every one of these places. It is stated in nearly every report that you are drovers ordinarily engaged in bringing down herds of Highland cattle, and it is added that in every case this account was verified by persons who have previously known you. All this would seem natural enough, but you seem to have journeyed hither and thither without any fixed object. Sometimes you have stopped for two days at little villages, where you could have had no business, and, in short, you seem for upwards of a month to have been engaged in wandering to and fro in such a way as is wholly incompatible with the affairs upon which you say you were engaged."

"But you will observe, sir," Malcolm said quietly, "that I have not said I am engaged upon any affairs whatever. I am not come to England on business, but solely to escape from the troubles which have put a stop to my trade in the Highlands, and as for fifteen years I was engaged in journeying backwards and forwards, and had many friends and acquaintances, I came down partly, as I have said, to avoid being mixed up in the trouble, partly to call upon old acquaintances, and partly to introduce to them my nephew, who is new to the work, and will shortly be engaged in bringing down cattle here. I thought the present was a good opportunity to show him all the roads and halting places in order that he might the better carry out the business."

"Your story has been well got up," one of the magistrates said, "though I doubt whether there be a single word of truth in it. However, you will be at present searched, and detained until we get to the bottom of the matter. This is not a time when men can travel to and fro through the country without exciting a suspicion that they are engaged upon other than lawful business. At present I tell you that in our eyes your conduct appears to be extremely suspicious."

The prisoners were then taken to a cell and searched with the utmost rigour. Their clothes were examined with scrupulous care, many of the seams being cut open and the linings slit, to see if any documents were concealed there. Their shoes were also carefully examined; but the mud had dried over the opening where the quill was concealed, and the officials failed to discover it. Even their sticks were carefully examined to see if they contained any hollow place; but at last, convinced that had they been the bearers of any documents these must have been discovered, the officials permitted them to resume their clothes, and then paying no heed to the angry complaints of Malcolm at the state to which the garments had been reduced, they left the prisoners to themselves.

"Be careful what you say," Malcolm whispered to Ronald. "Many of these places have cracks or peepholes, so that the prisoners can be watched and their conversation overheard."

Having said this Malcolm indulged in a long and violent tirade on the hardship of peaceful men being arrested and maltreated in this way, and at the gross stupidity of magistrates in taking an honest drover known to half the countryside for a Jacobite spy. Ronald replied in similar strains, and any listeners there might have been would certainly have gained nothing from the conversation they overheard.

"I should not be surprised," Malcolm said in low tones when night had come and all was quiet, "if some of our friends outside try to help us. The news will speedily spread that two men of the appearance of drovers have been taken on suspicion of being emissaries from Scotland, and it will cause no little uneasiness among all those on whom we have called. They cannot tell whether any papers have been found upon us, nor what we may reveal to save ourselves, so they will have a strong interest in getting us free if possible."

"If we do get free, Malcolm, the sooner we return to Scotland the better. We have seen almost all those whom we are charged to call upon, and we are certainly in a position to assure the prince that he need hope for no rising in his favour here before he comes, and that it is very doubtful that any numbers will join him if he marches south."

The next morning they were removed from the cell in which they had been placed to the city jail, and on the following day were again brought before the magistrates.

"You say that you have been calling on people who know you," one of the magistrates began; "and as I told you the other day we know that you have been wandering about the country in a strange way, I now requite that you shall tell us the names of all the persons with whom you have had communication."

The question was addressed to Malcolm as the oldest of the prisoners. Ronald looked round the court, which was crowded with people, and thought that in several places he could detect an expression of anxiety rather than curiosity.

"It will be a long story," Malcolm said in a drawling voice, "and I would not say for sure but that I may forget one or two, seeing that I have spoken with so many. We came across the hills, and the first person we spoke to was Master Fenwick, who keeps the Collie Dog at Appleswade. I don't know whether your worship knows the village. I greeted him as usual, and asked him how the wife and children had been faring since I saw him last. He said they were doing brawly, save that the eldest boy had twisted his ankle sorely among the fells."

"We don't want to hear all this nonsense," the magistrate said angrily. "We want a list of persons, not what you said to them."

"It will be a hard task," Malcolm said simply; "but I will do the best I can, your worship, and I can do no more. Let me think, there was Joseph Repton and Nat Somner -- at least I think it was Nat, but I won't be sure to his Christian name -- and John Dykes, and a chap they called Pitman, but I don't know his right name."

"Who were all these people?" the magistrate asked.

"Joe Repton, he is a wheelwright by trade, and Nat Somner he keeps the village shop. I think the others are both labouring men. Anyhow they were all sitting at the tap of the Collie Dog when I went in."

"But what have we to do with these fellows?" the magistrate exclaimed angrily.

"I don't know no more than a child," Malcolm said; "but your worship ordered me to tell you just the names of the persons I met, and I am doing so to the best of my ability."

"Take care, prisoner," the magistrate said sternly; "you are trifling with the court. You know what I want you to tell me. You have been to these villages," and he read out some fifteen names. "What did you go there for, and whom did you see?"

"That is just what I was trying to tell your worship in regular order, but directly I begin you stop me. I have been going through this district for fifteen years, and I am known in pretty well every village in Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Lancashire. Having been away for three years, and my trade being stopped by the war, as your worship well knows, I have been going round having a crack with the people I know. Such as were butchers I promised some fine animals next time I came south; such as were innkeepers I stayed a night with and talked of old times. If your worship will have patience with me I can tell you all the names and what I said to each of them, and what they said to me, and all about it."

"I don't want to know about these things. I am asking you whether you have not been calling on some of the gentry."

"Indeed, now," Malcolm said with an air of astonishment, "and this is the first time that I have heard a word about the gentry since I came into the court. Well, let me think now, I did meet Squire Ringwood, and he stopped his horse and said to me: 'Is that you, Malcolm Anderson, you rascal;' and I said, 'It's me, sure enough, squire;' and he said, 'You rascal, that last score of beasts I bought of you -- '"

"Silence!" shouted the magistrate as a titter ran through the court. "All this fooling will do you no good, I can tell you. We believe that you are a traitor to the king and an emissary of the Pretender. If you make a clean breast of it, and tell me the names of those with whom you have been having dealings, there may be a hope of mercy for you; but if not, we shall get at the truth other ways, and then your meanness of condition will not save you from punishment."

"Your worship must do as you like," Malcolm said doggedly. "I have done my best to answer your questions, and you jump down my throat as soon as I open my mouth. What should a man of my condition have to do with kings or pretenders? They have ruined my trade between them, and I care not whether King George or King James get the best of it, so that they do but make an end of it as soon as possible, and let me bring down my herds again. There's half a dozen butchers in the town who know me, and can speak for me. I have sold thousands of beasts to Master Tregold; but if this is the treatment an honest man meets with I ain't likely to sell them any more, for as soon as I am let free and get the money the constables have taken from me I am off to Glasgow and if I ever come south of the border again, may I be hung and quartered."

Finding that nothing was to be made out of the prisoners, the magistrate ordered them to be taken back to jail.



CHAPTER XVI: The March to Derby.


Two days later when the jailer brought in breakfast to their cell he dropped on the table by the side of the loaf a tiny ball of paper, and then without a word went out and locked the back door. Malcolm put his finger to his lips as Ronald was about to utter an exclamation of joy.

"One's appetite is not as good here as it was when we were tramping the hills, Ronald; but one looks forward to one's meals; they form a break in the time."

So saying, he took up one of the lumps of bread and began to ear, securing at the same time the pellet of paper. "We can't be too careful," he said in a whisper. "It is quite possible that they may be able to overhear us."

"I don't see how," Ronald replied in the same tone; "I see no crack or crevice through which sound could pass."

"You may not see one," Malcolm said, "but it may exist for all that. One of the boards of the ceiling may be as thin as paper, and anyone listening through could hear every word we say when we speak in our natural voices. The magistrates evidently believe that they have made a valuable capture, and would give anything to prove that their suspicions are correct. Now, I will go and stand at that grated opening and look at this paper, if they are watching us they will see nothing then."

The little piece of paper when unfolded contained but a few words: "Keep up your courage. You have friends without working for you. Destroy this."

Malcolm at once again rolled up the pellet, put it into his mouth and swallowed it, and then whispered to Ronald what he had just read.

"I thought," he whispered, "that we should soon get a message of some sort. The news of our arrest will have set the hearts of a score of people quaking, and they would do anything now to get us out from this prison. They have already, you see, succeeded in bribing our warder."

At his evening visit the warder passed into Ronald's hand a small parcel, and then, as before, went out without speaking.

"I am confirmed in the belief that we can be overheard," Malcolm said. "Had the man not been afraid of listeners he would have spoken to us. Now let us see what he has brought us this time."

The parcel contained a small file, a saw made of watch spring, and a tiny phial of oil.

"So far so good," Malcolm said quietly. "Our way through these bars is clear enough now. But that is only the beginning of our difficulties. This window looks into the prison yard, and there is a drop of some forty feet to begin with. However, I have no doubt our friends will send us the means of overcoming these difficulties in due course. All we have to concern ourselves about now is the sawing through of these bars."

As soon as it was dark they began the work, relieving each other in turns. The oil prevented much sound being made, but to deaden it still further they wrapped a handkerchief over the file. The bars had been but a short time in position and the iron was new and strong. It was consequently some hours before they completed their work. When they had done, the grating was left in the position it before occupied, the cuts being concealed from any but close observation by kneading up small pieces of bread and pressing them into them, and then rubbing the edges with iron filings.

"That will do for tonight," Malcolm said. "No one is likely to pay us a visit; but if they did, they would not notice the bars unless they went up and shook them. Tomorrow morning we can put a finishing touch to the work."

As soon as it was daylight they were upon their feet.

"It does very well as it is," Malcolm said, examining the grating. "It is good enough to pass, and we need not trouble further about it. Now collect every grain of those iron filings. No, don't do that on any account," he broke in, as Ronald was preparing to blow some of it from the lower stonework through the opening. "Were you to do that, it would be quite possible that one of the prisoners walking in the yard might see it, and would as likely as not report the circumstance to one of the warders in order to curry favour and perhaps obtain a remission of his sentence. Scrape it inside and pour every atom down the crevices in the floor. That done, we are safe unless anyone touches the grating."

They watched their warder attentively when he next came into the cell, but this time he had no message for them. "We must not be impatient," Malcolm said; "our friends have a good many arrangements to make, for they will have to provide for our getting away when we are once out; besides, they will probably have to bribe other warders, and that kind of thing can't be done in a hurry."

It was not for another two days that the warder made any fresh sign. Then, as on the first occasion, he placed a pellet of paper on the table with their bread.

"This is a good deal larger than the last," Ronald whispered.

It was not until some little time after they had finished their meal that Ronald moved to the grating and unrolled the little ball of paper; it contained only the words:

"You will receive a rope this evening. With this lower yourselves from your window into the courtyard. Start when you hear the church bells strike midnight, cross the court and stand against the wall near the right hand corner of the opposite side. The third window on the second floor will be opened, and a rope lowered to you. Attach yourselves to this, and you will be pulled up from above."

After reading the note Ronald passed it on to Malcolm, who, as before, swallowed it, but had this time to tear it into several pieces before doing so. The warder was later bringing their supper than usual that evening, and it was dark when he came in. As he entered the room he let the lamp fall which he carried.

"Confound the thing!" he said roughly. "Here, take hold of this bread, and let me feel for the lamp. I can't be bothered with going down to get another light. You can eat your supper in the dark just as well, I have no doubt."

As he handed Ronald the bread he also pushed into his hand the end of the rope, and while he pretended to search for the lamp he turned round and round rapidly, and so unwound the rope, which was twisted many times round his body. As soon as this was done he picked up the lamp, and with a rough "Goodnight," left them.

"It is just as I suspected," Malcolm said in Ronald's ear. "There is a peephole somewhere, otherwise there could be no occasion for him to have dropped the lamp. It is well that we have always been on our guard."

They ate their bread in silence, and then after a short talk on the stupidity of the English in taking two drovers for messengers of Prince Charles, they lay down on their rough pallets to pass with what patience they could the long hours before midnight, for it was late in October, and it was little after five o'clock when the warder visited them. They felt but slight anxiety as to the success of the enterprise, for they had no doubt that every detail had been carefully arranged by their friends without, although certainly it seemed a strange method of escape that after lowering themselves from a third floor window they should afterwards be hauled up into a second. At last, after what seemed almost an endless watch, they heard the church clocks strike twelve, and simultaneously rose to their feet. Not a word was spoken, for although it was improbable in the extreme that any watcher would be listening at that hour of the night, it was well to take every precaution. The grating was lifted out and laid down on one of the couches so that all noise should be avoided. The rope was then strongly fastened to the stump of one of the iron bars.

"Now, Malcolm, I will give you a leg up; I am younger and more active than you are, so you had better go first."

Without debating the question, Malcolm put his foot on Ronald's hand, and in a moment was seated in the opening of the window. Grasping the rope he let himself quietly out, and lowered himself to the ground, reaching it so noiselessly that Ronald, who was listening, did nor hear a sound. After waiting a minute, however, he sprang up on to the sill, and feeling that the rope was slack, was soon by Malcolm's side below. Then both removed their shoes and hung them round their necks, and walking noiselessly across the court they took up their post under the window indicated in the note. In less than a minute the end of a rope was dropped upon their heads.

"You go first this time, Ronald," Malcolm said, and fastened it beneath Ronald's arms. Then he gave a pull at the rope to show that they were ready. The rope tightened, and Ronald found himself swinging in the air. He kept himself from scraping against the walls by his hands and feet, and was especially careful as he passed the window on the first floor. In a minute he was pulled into the room on the second floor by the men who had hoisted him up. A low "Hush!" warned him that there was still a necessity for silence. The rope was lowered again, and Ronald lent his aid to hoist Malcolm up to the window. As soon as he was in, it was as slowly and carefully closed.

"You are mighty heavy, both of you," a voice whispered. "I should not have thought it would have been such hard work to lift a man up this height. Now, follow us, and be sure you make no noise."

Two flights of stairs were descended, and then they stood before a small but heavy door; some bolts were drawn and a key turned in the lock, this being done so noiselessly that Ronald was sure they must have been carefully oiled. The two men passed through with them, locking the door behind them.

"Thank God we are out!" Malcolm said fervently. "I have been in a watch house more than once in my young days, but I can't say I like it better as I grow older." They walked for some minutes, and then their guides opened a door and they entered a small house.

"Stir up those peats, Jack," one of the men said, "and blow them a bit, while I feel for a candle."

In a minute or two a light was obtained.

"That's very neatly done, I think, gentlemen," laughed the man addressed as Jack, and who they now saw was the warder who had attended upon them. "We had rare trouble in hitting upon that plan. The cell you were in opened upon a corridor, the doors to which are always locked by the chief constable himself; and even if we could have got at his key, and opened one of them, we should have been no nearer escape, for two of the warders sleep in the lodge, and there would be no getting out without waking them, and they could not be got at. They are both of them married men, with families, and that sort of man does not care about running risks, unless he happens to be tired of his wife and wanting a change. Nat here and I have no incumbrances, and weren't sorry of a chance to shift. Anyhow, there was no way, as far as we could see, of passing you out through that part of the prison, and at last the idea struck us of getting you out the way we did. That wing of the jail is only used for debtors, and they are nothing like so strict on that side as they are on the other. Some of the warders sleep there, so there was no difficulty in getting hold of the key for an hour and having a duplicate made. Till yesterday all the cells were full, and we had to wait till a man, whose time was just up, moved out. After that it was clear sailing."

"Well, we are immensely obliged to you," Ronald said.

"Oh, you needn't be obliged to us," the warder replied; "we are well paid for the job, and have a promise of good berths if Prince Charles gets the best of it. Anyhow, we shall both make for London, where we have acquaintances. Now we are going to dress up; there's no time to be lost talking. There is a light cart waiting for us and horses for you half a mile outside the town."

He opened a cupboard and took our two long smock frocks, which he and his companion put on.

"Now, gentlemen, will you put on these two suits of soldiers' clothes. I think they will about fit you."

Ronald and Malcolm were soon attired as dragoons.

"There's a regiment of them here," the man said, "so there was no difficulty in buying a cast off suit and getting these made from it. As to the helmets, I guess there will be a stir about them in the morning. We got hold of a soldier today and told him we wanted a couple of helmets for a lark, and he said, for a bottle of brandy he would drop them out of a barrack window at ten o'clock tonight; and he kept his word. Two of them will be surprised in the morning when they find that their helmets have disappeared; as to the swords and belts, I don't know that they are quite right; they were bought at an old shop, and I believe they are yeomanry swords, but I expect they are neat enough. I was to give you this letter to take with you; it is, as you see, directed to General Wade at Newcastle, and purports to come from the colonel of your regiment here, so that if by any chance you are questioned on the way, that will serve as a reason for your journeying north. Here is a purse of twenty guineas; I think that's about all."

"But are we not to see those who have done us such service," Ronald asked, "in order that we may thank them in person?"

"I don't know who it is any more than the man in the moon," the warder replied. "It was a woman dressed as a serving wench, though I doubt it was only a disguise, who came to me. She met me in the street and asked me if I should like to earn fifty pounds. I said I had no objection, and then after a good deal of beating about the bush it came out that what was wanted was that I should aid in your escape. I didn't see my way to working it alone, and I told her so. She said she was authorized to offer the same sum to another, so I said I would talk it over with Nat. He agreed to stand in, and between us we thought about the arrangements; but I never got to know any more about her. It was nothing to me whom the money came from, as long as it was all right. We have had half down, and are to have the other half when we get to the cart with you. And now if you are ready we will be starting. The further we get away from here before morning the better."

They made their way quietly along the streets. The town was in total darkness, and they did not meet a single person abroad, and in a quarter of an hour they were in the open country. Another ten minutes and they came upon the cart and horses. Three men were standing beside them, and the impatient stamp of a horse's hoof showed that the horses were tied up closely. A lantern was held up as the party came up.

"All safe?"

"All safe," Ronald replied. "Thanks, many thanks to you for our freedom."

The man holding the lantern was masked, so they could not see his face. He first turned to the two warders, and placed a bag of money in their hand.

"You have done your work well," he said; "the cart will take you thirty miles on your road, and then drop you. I wish you a safe journey. You had best hide your money in your boots, unless you wish it to fall into the hands of highwaymen. The London road is infested with them."

With a word of farewell to Ronald and Malcolm, the two warders climbed into the cart, one of them mounted beside them and took the reins, and in another minute the cart drove away in the darkness. As soon as it had started the man with the lantern removed his mask.

"Mr. Ratcliff!" Ronald exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes, it is myself. There are half a dozen of us engaged in the matter. As soon as we heard of your arrest we determined to get you out. I was only afraid you would have been taken up to London before we could get all our plans arranged, for I knew they had sent up for instructions. It was well that we were ready to act tonight, for orders were received this afternoon that you should be sent up under an escort tomorrow. You puzzled them rarely at your examination, and they could make nothing of you. Our greatest fear was that you might betray yourselves in the prison when you fancied you were alone, for we learned from the men who have just left us that you were placed in a special cell where all that you said could be overheard, and your movements to some extent watched through a tiny hole in the wall communicating with the cell next to it. It widens out on that side so that a man can get his ear or his eye to the hole, which is high up upon the wall, and but a quarter of an inch across, so that it could scarcely be observed unless by one who knew of its existence. The warder said that they could hear plainly enough through this hole, but could see very little. However, they do not seem to have gathered much that way."

"We were on guard, sir; my friend Malcolm thought it possible that there might be some such contrivance."

"And now, my young friend," Mr. Ratcliff said, "you had best mount at once; follow this road for half a mile, and then take the broad road to the left; you cannot mistake it. It goes straight to Penrith. You have got the letter to General Wade?"

"Yes, sir, and the money; we are indeed in every way greatly indebted to you."

"Say nothing about it," Mr. Ratcliff said. "I am risking my life as well as my fortune in the cause of Prince Charles, and this money is on his service. I hear he is already on the march south. Repeat to him when you join him what I have already told you, namely, that I and other gentlemen will assuredly join him; but that I am convinced there will be no general rising in his favour unless a French army arrive to his assistance. The delay which has taken place has, in my opinion, entirely destroyed his chances, unless he receives foreign assistance. Wade has ten thousand men at Newcastle, the Duke of Cumberland has gathered eight thousand in the Midlands, and there is a third army forming to cover London. Already many of the best regiments have returned from Holland, and each day adds to their number. Do all you can to dissuade him from advancing until French aid arrives; but tell him also that if he comes with but half a dozen followers, Charles Ratcliff will join him and share his fate, whatever it be."

With a hearty shake of the hand he leapt on his horse, and, followed by his servant, galloped off in one direction, while Ronald and Malcolm set out in the other.

"This is a grand disguise," Ronald said. "We might ride straight into Wade's camp at Newcastle without being suspected."

"I have no doubt we could," Malcolm agreed. "Still, it will be wiser to keep away from the neighbourhood of any English troops. Awkward questions might be asked, and although the letter you have for the general may do very well to impress any officers of militia or newly raised troops we may meet on the road, and would certainly pass us as two orderlies conveying despatches, it would be just as well not to have to appear before the general himself. Our swords and belts would probably be noticed at once by any cavalry officers. I know nothing about the English army, and do not know how much the yeomanry swords and belts may differ from those of the line. However, it is certain the less observation we attract from the soldiers the better; but as to civilians we can ride straight on through towns and villages with light hearts."

"We may as well breathe our horses a bit, Malcolm, now there is no occasion for haste, and we can jog along at our own pace. There is no probability of pursuit, for when they find that we and the warders are missing and see the rope from our window they will be sure that we shall have started early and are far away by the time they find out we are gone."

Accordingly they travelled quietly north, boldly riding through small towns and villages, putting up at little inns, and chatting freely with the villagers who came in to talk over the news, for the north was all excitement. Orders had been issued for all the militia to turn out, but there was little response, for although few had any desire to risk their lives in the cause of the Stuarts, fewer still had any intention of fighting for the Hanoverians.

When they arrived within a few miles of Newcastle they left the main road and struck across country, their object being to come down upon the road running north from Carlisle, for they thought it likely that parties of General Wade's troops would be scattered far over the country north of Newcastle. At a farm house they succeeded in buying some civilian clothes, giving out that they were deserters, and as they were willing to pay well, the farmer, who had no goodwill towards the Hanoverians, had no difficulty in parting with two of his best suits.

They were now in a country perfectly well known to Malcolm, and travelling by byways across the hills they crossed the Cheviots a few miles south of Carter Fell, and then rode down the wild valleys to Castletown and thence to Canobie of the Esk. As they entered the little town they found the wildest excitement prevailing. An officer with two orderlies had just ridden in to say that quarters were to be prepared for Prince Charles, and a quantity of bullocks and meal got in readiness for the use of the army, which would arrive late that evening. Ronald soon found the officer who had brought the order and recognized him as one of Lord Perth's aides de camp. He did not know Ronald in his present dress, but greeted him heartily as soon as he discovered who he was.

"How is it the troops are coming this way?" Ronald asked.

"They are marching through Liddesdale from Kelso. We halted there for two days, and orders were sent forward to Wooler to prepare quarters. This was to throw Wade off the scent and induce him to march north from Newcastle to oppose us on that road, while, as you see, we have turned west and shall cross into Cumberland and make a dash at Carlisle."

A few hours later the prince arrived with his army, and as soon as he entered the quarters prepared for him Ronald proceeded there and made his report.

"I could wish it had been better, Captain Leslie," the prince said; "but the die is cast now, and I cannot think that our friends in the north, who proved so loyal to our cause in '15, will hang back when we are among them. When they see that Charles Ratcliff and other gentlemen whom you have visited range themselves under our banner I believe the common people will join us also. Now give me a full account of your mission."

Ronald gave the list of the gentry he had visited, and described his arrest and imprisonment in Manchester and the manner in which Mr. Ratcliff had contrived his escape.

"You have done all that is possible, sir," the prince said, "and at an early opportunity I will show you I appreciate your services."

On the next day, the 8th of November, the corps crossed the border; on the 9th they were joined by another column, which had marched from Edinburgh by the western road, and the united force marched to Carlisle and sat down before it. The walls of the city were old and in bad condition, the garrison was ill prepared for a siege. It consisted of a company of invalids in the castle, under the command of Colonel Durand, and a considerable body of Cumberland Militia. The walls, however, old as they were, could for some time have resisted the battery of four pounder guns which formed the prince's sole artillery.

The mayor returned no answer to the prince's summons and orders were issued to begin to throw up trench works, but scarcely had the operations begun when news arrived that Marshal Wade was marching from Newcastle to relieve the city. The siege was at once abandoned, and the prince marched out with the army to Brampton and took up a favourable position there to give battle. The news proved incorrect, and the Duke of Perth with several regiments were sent back to resume the siege.

On the 13th the duke began to raise a battery on the east side of the town, but after a few shots had been fired from the walls the courage of the besieged failed them. The white flag was hung out, and the town and castle surrendered on the condition that the soldiers and militia might march away, leaving their arms and horses behind and engaging not to serve again for a year. On the 17th the prince made a triumphal entry into the place, but was received with but little show of warmth on the part of the inhabitants.

A halt was made at Carlisle and a council was held to determine upon the next step to be taken. The news which had been received from Scotland was very unfavourable. Lord Strathallan, who had been appointed by the prince as commander in chief, and directed to raise as many troops as possible, had collected between two and three thousand men at Perth, and Lord Lewis Gordon had raised three battalions in Aberdeenshire; but on the other hand a considerable force had been collected at Inverness for King George. The towns of Glasgow, Paisley, and Dumfries had turned out their militia for the house of Hanover. The officers of the crown had re-entered Edinburgh and two regiments of cavalry had been sent forward by Marshal Wade to their support.

While even Scotland was thus wavering it seemed almost madness for the little army to advance into England. The greater portion of the Highlanders had from the first objected strongly to leave their country, and upwards of a thousand had deserted and gone home on the march down from Edinburgh. They had started less than six thousand strong, and after leaving a garrison of two hundred men in Carlisle, but four thousand five hundred were available for the advance south, while Wade, with his ten thousand men, would be in their rear and two English armies of nearly equal strength be waiting to receive them. At the council the opinions of the leaders were almost unanimous against an advance, but upon Lord George Murray saying that if Prince Charles decided upon advancing the army would follow him, he determined upon pressing forward.

The army began its advance on the 20th of November, and halted a day at Penrith, upon the news that Marshal Wade was moving to attack them; but the English general had not made any move, and the Scotch again pushed on through Shap, Kendal, and Lancaster, to Preston. During the march Prince Charles marched with his troops clad in Highland garb, and with his target thrown across his shoulder. He seldom stopped for dinner, but ate his food as he walked, chatting gaily with the Highlanders, and by his cheerfulness and example kept up their spirits. The strictest discipline was enforced, and everything required by the troops was paid for. At Preston the prince on his entry was cheered by the mob, and a few men enlisted.

From Preston the army marched to Wigan, and thence to Manchester. The road was thronged with people, who expressed the warmest wishes for the prince's success; but when asked to enlist, they all hung back, saying they knew nothing about fighting. Still the feeling in favour of the prince's cause became stronger as he advanced south, and at Manchester he was received with the acclamations of the inhabitants, the ringing of the bells, and an illumination of the city in the evening. The people mounted white cockades, and the next day about two hundred men enlisted and were enrolled under the name of the Manchester Regiment, the command of which was given to Mr. Francis Townley, a Roman Catholic belonging to an old Lancashire family, who, with Mr. Ratcliff and a few other gentlemen, had joined the army on the advance.

The leaders, however, of the prince's army were bitterly disappointed at the general apathy of the people. Lancashire had in '15 been the stronghold of the Jacobites, and the mere accession of two or three hundred men was evident that nothing like a popular rising was to be looked for, and they had but themselves to rely upon in the struggle against the whole strength of England. Marshal Wade was in full march behind them. The Duke of Cumberland lay at Lichfield in their front with a force of eight thousand veteran troops; while a third army, of which the Royal Guards were the nucleus, was being formed at Finchley. Large bodies of militia had been raised in several districts. Liverpool had declared against them; Chester was in the hands of the Earl of Cholmondeley; the bridges of the Mersey had been broken down; difficulties and dangers multiplied on all sides.

Prince Charles, ever sanguine, was confident that he should be joined by large numbers as he advanced south; but his officers were now thoroughly alarmed, and the leaders in a body remonstrated with Lord George Murray against any further advance. He advised them, however, to offer no further opposition to the prince's wishes until they came to Derby, promising that, unless by that time they were joined by the Jacobites in considerable numbers, he would himself, as general, propose and insist upon a retreat. Ronald utilized the short halt at Manchester to obtain new uniforms for himself and Malcolm, which he was glad to exchange for the farmer's garb, which had been the occasion of a good deal of joking and mirth among his fellow officers on the downward march.

On the first of December, Prince Charles, at the head of one division, forded the Mersey near Stockport, where the water was waist deep. The other division, with the baggage and artillery, crossed lower down, at Cheadle, on a hastily constructed bridge, and the two columns joined that evening at Macclesfield. Here Lord George Murray succeeded in misleading the Duke of Cumberland as to his intentions by a dexterous manoeuvre. Advancing with a portion of his force he dislodged and drove before him the Duke of Kingston and a small party of English horse posted at Congleton, and pursued them some distance along the road towards Newcastle under Tyne.

The Duke of Cumberland, supposing that the prince's army were on their march either to give him battle or to make their way into Wales, where the Jacobite party were extremely strong, pushed forward with his main body to Stone. Lord George Murray, however, having gained his object, turned sharp off to the left, and after a long march arrived at Ashborne, where the prince, with the other division of the army, had marched direct. The next afternoon they arrived at Derby, having thus altogether evaded the Duke of Cumberland, and being nearly three days' march nearer London than was his army.

The prince that night was in high spirits at the fact that he was now within a hundred and thirty miles of London, and that neither Wade's nor Cumberland's forces interposed between him and the capital. But his delight was by no means shared by his followers, and early next morning he was waited upon by Lord George Murray and all the commanders of battalions and squadrons, and a council being held, they laid before the prince their earnest and unanimous opinion that an immediate retreat to Scotland was necessary.

They had marched, they said, so far on the promise either of an English rising or a French descent upon England. Neither had yet occurred. Their five thousand fighting men were insufficient to give battle to even one of the three armies that surrounded them -- scarcely adequate, indeed, to take possession of London were there no army at Finchley to protect it. Even did they gain London, how could they hold it against the united armies of Wade and Cumberland? Defeat so far from home would mean destruction, and not a man would ever regain Scotland.

In vain the prince replied to their arguments, in vain expostulated, and even implored them to yield to his wishes. After several hours of stormy debate the council broke up without having arrived at any decision. The prince at one time thought of calling upon the soldiers to follow him without regard to their officers; for the Highlanders, reluctant as they had been to march into England, were now burning for a fight, and were longing for nothing so much as to meet one or other of the hostile armies opposed to them. The prince's private advisers, however, Sheridan and Secretary Murray, urged him to yield to the opinion of his officers, since they were sure that the clansmen would never fight well if they knew that their chiefs were unanimously opposed to their giving battle. Accordingly the prince, heartbroken at the destruction of his hopes, agreed to yield to the wishes of his officers, and at a council in the evening gave his formal consent to a retreat.



CHAPTER XVII: A Baffled Plot.


Utterly disheartened and dispirited the army commenced its march north. The prince himself was even more disappointed than his soldiers, and showed by his manner how bitterly he resented the decision at which his officers had arrived. It had seemed to him that success was within his grasp, and that he had but to march to London to overthrow the Hanoverian dynasty. And it is by no means improbable that his instincts were more correct than the calculations of his advisers. The news of his rapid march south had sent a thrill through the country; and although so far the number of those who had joined him was exceedingly small, at that moment numbers of gentlemen in Wales and other parts of the country were arming their tenants, and preparing to take the field.

There was no hostile force between himself and London, for the force at Finchley was not yet organized, and could have offered no effectual opposition. A panic reigned in the metropolis, and the king was preparing to take ship and leave the country. Had the little army marched forward there is small doubt that James would have been proclaimed king in London. But it may be doubted whether Prince Charles could have maintained the advantage he had gained. Two armies, both superior to his own, were pressing on his rear, and would have arrived in London but a few days after himself; and although the Londoners might have accepted him, they would hardly have risen in arms to aid him against Cumberland's army. Had this halted at a distance, the reinforcements which might have joined the prince would have been more than counterbalanced by the regiments of English and Hanoverian troops which the king could have sent over, and although the strife might have been lengthened the result would in all probability have been the same.

Prince Charles had no ability in governing. His notions of the absolute power of kings were as strong as those of his ancestors, and, surrounded as he was by hotheaded Highlanders, he would speedily have caused discontent and disgust even among those most favourably inclined by hereditary tradition to the cause of the Stuarts. But of all this he was ignorant, and in the retreat from Derby he saw the destruction of his hopes.

Hitherto he had marched on foot with the Highlanders, chatting gaily as he went. Now he rode in rear of the column, and scarce exchanged a word with even his most intimate advisers. The Highlanders no longer preserved the discipline which had characterized their southward march. Villages were plundered and in some cases burned, and in retaliation the peasantry killed or took prisoners stragglers and those left behind. Even at Manchester, where the reception of the army had been so warm a few days before, its passage was opposed by a violent mob, and the prince was so offended at the conduct of the townspeople that he imposed a fine of five thousand pounds upon the city.

The next morning the march was continued. The Highlanders laid hands on every horse they could find, and so all pressed on at the top of their speed for the border. The Duke of Cumberland, who had fallen back in all haste for the protection of London, was close to Coventry when he heard that the Scotch had retreated northward. With all his cavalry, and a thousand foot whom he mounted on horses supplied by the neighbouring gentry, he set out in pursuit. At Preston he was joined by another body of horse, sent across the country from the army of Marshal Wade; but it was not until he entered Westmoreland that he came up with the rear guard of the insurgents, which was commanded by Lord George Murray.

Defeating some local volunteers who molested him, Lord George learned from the prisoners that the duke with four thousand men was close at hand, and he sent on the news to the prince, who despatched two regiments, the Stuarts of Appin and the Macphersons of Cluny, to reinforce him. It was nearly dark when by the light of the moon Lord George saw the English infantry, who had now dismounted, advancing. He at once charged them at the head of the Macphersons and Stuarts, and in a few minutes the English were completely defeated, their commander, Colonel Honeywood, being left severely wounded on the field, with a hundred killed or disabled men, while the loss of the Scotch was but twelve.

It was with great difficulty that the Highlanders could be recalled from the pursuit, and Lord George himself sent an urgent message to the prince begging for a further reinforcement, in order that he might maintain his ground and defeat the whole force of the duke. As usual his wishes were disregarded, and he was ordered to fall back and join the main body at Penrith. The check, however, was so effective that the duke made no further attempt to harass the retreat of the Highlanders.

Passing through Carlisle, some men of a Lowland regiment, and Colonel Twonley with his regiment raised at Manchester, were left there as a garrison, so that the road should be kept open for another and, as the prince hoped, not far distant invasion. The step was, however, a cruel one, for the Duke of Cumberland at once laid siege to the place, battered a breach in its ancient wall, and the garrison were forced to surrender. Many of them were afterwards executed and imprisoned, and ruin fell upon all.

Charles with his army marched north to Glasgow, where they remained eight days, requisitioning supplies from the town. During their stay Ronald and Malcolm put up at the house of Andrew Anderson.

"What think you of the chances now, Malcolm?" Andrew asked his brother, after hearing what had taken place since he had last seen him.

"I think no better and no worse of it than I did before, brother. They have had more success than I looked for. I did not think they would ever have got as far south as Derby. Who would have thought that a few thousand Highlanders could have marched half through England? But I see no prospect of success. The prince is badly advised. He has but one really good soldier with him, and he is set against him by the intrigues and spite of Secretary Murray and his friends, and partly, it may be, by Lord George's own frankness of speech. He has at his back but half the Highlands, for the other portion stand aloof from him. In the Lowlands he has found scarce an adherent, and but a handful in England. The Highlanders are brave; but it is surely beyond human expectation that five or six thousand Highlanders can vanquish a kingdom with a brave and well trained army with abundant artillery. Ronald and I mean to fight it out to the end; but I do not think the end will be very far off."

"I am sorry for the young prince," Andrew said. "He is a fine fellow, certainly -- handsome and brave and courteous, and assuredly clement. For three times his life has been attempted, and each time he has released those who did it without punishment. I could not but think, as I saw him ride down the street today, that it was sad that so fine a young man should be doomed either to the block or to a lifelong imprisonment, and that for fighting for what he has been doubtless taught to consider his right. There are many here who are bitter against him; but I am not one of them, and I am sorry for him, sorry for all these brave gentlemen and clansmen, for I fear that there will be a terrible vengeance for all that has been done. They have frightened the English king and his ministers too sorely to be ever forgiven, and we shall have sad times in Scotland when this is all over."

Two evenings later Ronald noticed that Andrew, who had been absent for some time, and had only returned just in time for supper, looked worried and abstracted, and replied almost at random to any questions put to him.

"It is of no use," he said suddenly when his wife had left the room after the conclusion of the meal. "I am a loyal subject of King George, and I wish him every success in battle, and am confident that he will crush out this rebellion without difficulty, but I cannot go as far as some. I cannot stand by and see murder done on a poor lad who, whatever his faults, is merciful and generous to his enemies. Malcolm, I will tell you all I know, only bidding you keep secret as to how you got the news, for it would cost me my life were it known that the matter had leaked out through me."

"This evening five of the council, knowing that I am a staunch king's man, took me aside after the meeting was over, and told me that there was a plan on foot to put an end to all the trouble by the carrying off or slaying of Prince Charles. I was about to protest against it, when I saw that by so doing I should, in the first place, do no good; in the second, be looked upon as a Jacobite; and in the third, be unable to learn the details of what they were proposing. So I said that doubtless it was a good thing to lay by the heels the author of all these troubles, and that the life of one man was as nought in the balance compared to the prosperity of the whole country. Whereupon they revealed to me their plan, asking me for a subscription of a hundred pounds to carry it out, and saying truly that I should get back the money and great honour from the king when he learned I had done him such service. After some bargaining I agreed for fifty pounds."

"But what is the plot, Andrew?" Malcolm said anxiously.

"It is just this. The prince, as you know, goes about with scant attendance, and though there are guards in front of his house, there are but two or three beside himself who sleep there. There is a back entrance to which no attention is paid, and it will be easy for those who know the house to enter by that door, to make their way silently to his chamber, and either to kill or carry him off. I threw my voice in against killing, pointing out that the king would rather have him alive than dead, so that he might be tried and executed in due form. This was also their opinion, for they had already hired a vessel which is lying in the stream. The plan is to seize and gag him and tie his arms. There will be no difficulty in getting him along through the streets. There are few folks abroad after ten o'clock, and should they meet anyone he will conclude that it is but a drunken Highlander being carried home. You see, Malcolm, there is not only honour to be gained from the king, but the thirty thousand pounds offered for the prince's person. I pretended to fall in with the plan, and gave them the fifty pounds which they lacked for the hire of the vessel, the captain refusing to let them have it save for money paid down. Now, Malcolm, I have told you and Ronald all I know about the matter, and it is for you to see how a stop may be put to it."

"The scoundrels!" Malcolm said. "Their loyalty to the king is but a veil to hide their covetousness for the reward. When is it to take place, and how many men are likely to be engaged in it?"

"Six trusty men of the city watch and their five selves. I said I would subscribe the money, but would have no active share in the business. They might have all the honour, I would be content with my share of the reward offered. Two of them with four of the guards will enter the house and carry off the prince. The rest will wait outside and follow closely on the way down to the port ready to give aid if the others should meet with any obstruction. The whole will embark and sail to London with him."

"And when is this plot to be carried out?" Malcolm asked.

"Tomorrow at midnight. Tide will be high half an hour later; they will drop down the river as soon as it turns, and will be well out to sea by the morning. And now I have told you all, I will only ask you to act so that as little trouble as possible may arise. Do not bring my name into the matter if you can avoid doing so; but in any case I would rather run the risk of the ruin and death which would alight upon me when this rebellion is over than have such a foul deed of treachery carried out. There is not a Scotchman but to this day curses the name of the traitor Menteith, who betrayed Wallace. My name is a humble one, but I would not have it go down to all ages as that of a man who betrayed Charles Stuart for English gold."

"Make yourself easy, brother; Ronald and I will see to that. When once treachery is known it is easy to defeat, and Ronald and I will see that your name does not appear in the matter."

"Thank God that is off my mind!" Andrew said. "And I will off to bed, or Janet will wonder what I am talking about so long. I will leave you two to settle how you can best manage the affair, which you can do without my help, for matters of this kind are far more in your way than in mine."

"This is a villainous business, Ronald," Malcolm said when they were alone; "and yet I am not surprised. Thirty thousand pounds would not tempt a Highlander who has naught in the world save the plaid in which he stands up; but these money grubbing citizens of Glasgow would sell their souls for gain. And now what do you think had best be done in the matter, so that the plot may be put a stop to, and that without suspicion falling upon Andrew? It would be easy to have a dozen men hiding in the yard behind the house and cut down the fellows as they enter."

"I do not think that would do, Malcolm; it would cause a tumult, and the fact could not be hidden. And besides, you know what these Highlanders are; they already loathe and despise the citizens of Glasgow, and did they know that there had been a plot on foot to capture and slay the prince, nothing could prevent their laying the town in ashes."

"That is true enough. What do you propose then, Ronald?"

"I think it best that if there should be any fighting it should be on board the ship, but possibly we may avoid even that. I should say that with eight or ten men we can easily seize the vessel, and then when the boat comes alongside capture the fellows as they step on to the deck without trouble, and leave it to the prince to settle what is to be done with them."

"That is certainly the best plan, Ronald. I will get together tomorrow half a dozen trusty lads who will ask no questions as to what I want them to do, and will be silent about the matter afterwards. We must get from Andrew tomorrow morning the name of the vessel, and see where she is lying in the stream, and where the boat will be waiting for the prince."

The next night Ronald and Malcolm with six men made their way one by one through the streets so as not to attract the attention of the watch, and assembled near the strand. Not until the clock struck twelve did they approach the stairs at the foot of which the boat was lying. There were two men in it.

"You are earlier than we expected," one said as they descended the steps. "The captain said a quarter past twelve."

"Yes, we are a little early," Malcolm replied as he stepped into the boat; "we are ready earlier than we expected."

A moment later Malcolm suddenly seized one of the sailors by the throat and dragged him down to the bottom of the boat, a handkerchief was stuffed into his mouth, and his hands and feet tied. The other was at the same time similarly secured.

So suddenly and unexpected had been the attack that the sailors had had no time to cry out or to offer any resistance, and their capture was effected without the slightest sound being heard. The oars were at once got out and the boat was rowed out towards the vessel lying out in the middle of the stream with a light burning at her peak. As they approached the side the captain appeared at the gangway.

"All is well, I hope?" he asked.

"Could not be better," Malcolm replied as he seized the rope and mounted the gangway, the others closely following him. As he sprang upon the deck he presented a pistol at the captain's head.

"Speak a word and you die," he said sternly.

Taken by surprise, the captain offered no resistance, but suffered himself to be bound. Two or three sailors on deck were similarly seized and secured, the hatchway was fastened to prevent the rest of the crew from coming on deck, and the ship being thus in their possession two of the men at once took their places in the boat and rowed back to the stairs.

A quarter of an hour later those on board heard a murmur of voices on shore, and two or three minutes later the splash of oars as the boat rowed back to the ship. Ronald put on the captain's cap and stood at the gangway with a lantern.

"All right, I hope?" he asked as the boat came alongside.

"All right, captain! You can get up your anchor as soon as you like."

Two men mounted on to the deck, and then four others carried up a figure and were followed by the rest. As the last one touched the deck Ronald lifted the lantern above his head, and, to the astonishment of the newcomers, they saw themselves confronted by eight armed men.

The six men of the watch, furious at the prospect of losing the reward upon which they had reckoned, drew their swords and rushed forward; but they were struck down with handspikes and swords, for Ronald had impressed upon his men the importance of not using their pistols, save in the last extremity. In two minutes the fight was over. The five citizens had taken little part in it, save as the recipients of blows; for Malcolm, furious at their treachery, had bade the men make no distinction between them and the watch, and had himself dealt them one or two heavy blows with his handspike after he had seen that the guard was overpowered.

The whole of them were then bound, and warned that their throats would be cut if they made the least noise. The prince was released from his bonds, and he was at once conducted by Malcolm and Ronald to the cabin, where a light was burning.

The prince was so much bewildered by the events that had occurred that he did not yet understand the state of the case. He had been awoke by a gag being roughly forced into his mouth, while at the same moment his hands were tightly bound. Then he was lifted from his bed, some clothes were thrown on to him, a man took his place on either side, and, thrusting their arms into his, threatened him with instant death if he did not come along with them without resistance. Then he had been hurried down stairs and along the streets, two men keeping a little ahead and others following behind. He had been forced into a boat and rowed up to a ship, and on reaching the deck a desperate combat had suddenly commenced all round him. Then the gag had been removed and the bonds cut. Bewildered and amazed he gazed at the two men who had accompanied him to the cabin.

"Why, Captain Leslie!" he exclaimed. "Is it you? What means all this scene through which I have passed?"

"It means, your royal highness," Ronald said respectfully, "that I and my friend Malcolm obtained information of a plot on the part of some of the citizens to carry you off and sell you to the English. We could have stopped it by attacking them as they entered the house to seize you; but had we done so an alarm must have been raised, and we feared that the Highlanders, when they knew of the treachery that had been attempted against you, might have fallen upon the citizens, and that a terrible uproar would have taken place. Therefore we carried out another plan. We first of all obtained possession of the ship in which you were to have been taken away, and then overcame your captors as they brought you on board. All this has been done without any alarm having been given, and it now rests with you to determine what shall be done with these wretches."

"You have done well, indeed, Captain Leslie, and I thank you and your friend not only for the great service you have rendered me, but for the manner in which you have done it. I ought to have foreseen this. Did not the Lowlanders sell King Charles to the English? I might have expected that some at least would be tempted by the reward offered me. As for punishment for these men, they are beneath me. And, moreover, if I can trust my eyes and my ears, the knocks which you gave them will be punishment enough even did I wish to punish them, which I do not. I could not do so without the story of the attempt being known, and in that case there would be no keeping my Highlanders within bounds. As it is they are continually reproaching me with what they call my mistaken clemency, and there would be no restraining them did they know of this. No, we had best leave them to themselves. We will order the captain to put to sea with them at once, and tell him he had best not return to Glasgow until I have left it. They will have time to reflect there at leisure, and as, doubtless, they have each of them given reasons at home for an absence of some duration there will be no anxiety respecting them. And now, gentlemen, will you fetch in those who have aided in my rescue. I would thank every one of them for the service they have rendered, and impress upon them my urgent desire that they should say nothing to anyone of this night's work."

While the prince was speaking to the men, Malcolm went out, and having unbound the captain, ordered him to deliver up the sum which he had received for the conveyance of the prince and his captors to England.

The captain did as he was ordered.

"How much is there here?" Malcolm asked.

"Three hundred pounds."

Malcolm counted out fifty of it and placed them in his pocket, saying to Ronald:

"There is no reason Andrew should be a loser by the transaction. That will leave two hundred and fifty, which I will divide among our men when we get ashore."

Malcolm then gave the prince's orders to the captain; that he must, immediately they left the ship, get up his anchor as before intended, and make out to sea; and that under pain of being tried and executed for his share in this treacherous business, he was not to return to Glasgow with his eleven passengers for the space of a week.

The prince and his rescuers then entered the boats and rowed to shore, and the prince regained his apartment without anyone in the house being aware that he had been absent from it. The next day the prince sent for Ronald and Malcolm, and in a private interview again expressed to them his gratitude for his rescue from the hands of his enemies.

"I have none but empty honour to bestow now," he said; "but believe me, if I ever mount the throne of England you shall see that Charles Edward Stuart is not ungrateful."

The incident was kept a close secret, only two or three of the prince's most intimate advisers ever informed of it. These were unanimous in urging that an absolute silence should be maintained on the subject, for the fact that the attempt would have certainly been crowned with success had it not been for the measures Ronald had taken, might encourage others to attempt a repetition of it.

Having rested his army by a stay of eight days at Glasgow, Prince Charles set out on the 3rd of January, 1746, for Stirling, where he was joined by Lords John Drummond, Lewis Gordon, and Strathallan, the first named of whom had brought some battering guns and engineers from France. Their following raised the force to nearly nine thousand men -- the largest army that Charles mustered during the course of the campaign. The siege of Stirling was at once commenced; but the castle was strong and well defended, and the siege made but little progress.

In the meantime the Duke of Cumberland had been recalled with the greater part of his force to guard the southern coasts of England, which were threatened by an invasion by a French force now assembled at Dunkirk, and which, had it sailed before the Highlanders commenced their retreat from Derby, might have altogether altered the situation of affairs. The command of the English army in the north was handed by the duke to General Hawley, a man after his own heart, violent in temper, brutal and cruel in conduct.

He collected at Edinburgh an army of nearly the same strength as that of Prince Charles, and with these he matched out as far as Falkirk to raise the siege of Stirling, and, as he confidently boasted, to drive the rebels before him. Prince Charles, leaving a few hundred men to continue the siege, matched out to Bannockburn. The English did not move out from Falkirk, and the prince, after waiting for a day, determined to take the initiative.

Hawley himself was stopping at Callendar House at some distance from his army and General Huske remained in command of the camp. To occupy his attention the prince despatched Lord John Drummond, with all the cavalry, by the straight road by Stirling to Falkirk, which ran north of the English camp. They displayed, as they marched, the royal standard and other colours, which had the desired effect of impressing Huske with the idea that the prince with all his army was moving that way. In the meantime Charles with his main force had crossed the river Carron to the south and was only separated from the English by Falkirk Muir, a rugged and rigid upland covered with heath.

Just as the English were about to take their dinner some country people brought in the news of the approach of the Highlanders. Huske at once got his men under arms, but he had no authority, in the absence of Hawley, to set them in motion. Messengers, however, were sent off on horseback at once to Callendar House, and the general presently galloped up in breathless haste, and putting himself at the head of his three regiments of dragoons, started for Falkirk Muir, which he hoped to gain before the Highlanders could take possession of it. He ordered the infantry to follow as fast as possible. A storm of wind and rain beat in the face of the soldiers, and before they could gain the crest of the muir the Highlanders had obtained possession. The English then halted and drew up on somewhat lower ground.

Between them was a ravine which formed but a small depression opposite the centre of the English line, but deepened towards the plain on their right. The English artillery, in the hurry of their advance, had stuck fast in a morass, but as the Highlanders had brought no guns with them the forces were equal in this respect. Lord John Drummond had from a distance been watching the movements of the English, and as soon as he saw that they had taken the alarm and were advancing against the prince, he made a detour, and, riding round the English, joined the Highland infantry. The prince's army was divided into two lines: its right was commanded by Lord George Murray, the left by Lord John Drummond; the prince, as at Preston, took up his station in the centre of the second line on a conspicuous mound, still known by the name of Charlie's Hill.

The English infantry were also drawn up in two lines, with the Argyle militia and the Glasgow regiment in reserve behind the second line. The cavalry were in front under Colonel Ligonier, who, at the death of Colonel Gardiner, had succeeded to the command of his regiment. General Hawley commanded the centre and General Huske the right.

The battle commenced by a charge of Ligonier with his cavalry upon the Highland right. Here the Macdonald clansmen were posted, and these, at Lord George Murray's order, reserved their fire until the dragoons were within ten yards, and then poured in a scathing volley, under which numbers of the horsemen went down. The two dragoon regiments, which had fled so shamefully at Preston and Coltbridge, turned and galloped at once from the field; but Cobham's regiment fought well, and when compelled to retreat rallied behind the right of the line.

Lord George Murray endeavoured to get the victorious Macdonalds into line again; but these were beyond control and rushing forward fell upon the flank of Hawley's two lines of foot, which were at the same moment furiously assailed in front; the Highlanders, after pouring in their fire, dropped their muskets and charged broadsword in hand.

The English, nearly blinded by the wind and rain, were unable to withstand this combined assault. General Hawley, who at least possessed the virtue of courage, rode hither and thither in their front, trying to encourage them, but in vain, the whole centre gave way and fled in confusion. On the right, however, the English were defending themselves successfully. The three regiments placed there, on the edge of the ravine, maintained so steady a fire that the Highlanders were unable to cross it, and Cobham's dragoons charged down upon the scattered and victorious Highlanders in the centre and effectually checked their pursuit. Prince Charles, seeing the danger, put himself at the head of the second line and advanced against the three English regiments who still stood firm.

Unable to withstand so overwhelming a force these fell back from the ground they had held, but did so in steady order, their drums beating, and covering, in their retreat, the mingled mass of fugitives. Had the Highlanders, at this critical moment, flung themselves with their whole force upon these regiments the English army would have been wholly destroyed; but night was already setting in, and the Scottish leaders were ignorant how complete was their victory, and feared an ambuscade. Lord John Drummond, a general officer in the French service, especially opposed the pursuit, saying, "These men behaved admirably at Fontenoy; surely this must be a feint."

The Highlanders remained stationary on the field until some detachments, sent forward by the prince, brought back word that the English had already retreated from Falkirk. They left behind them on the field four hundred dead or dying, with a large portion of officers, and a hundred prisoners; all their artillery, ammunition, and baggage fell into the hands of the Highlanders, whose total loss was only about a hundred. The English, on their retreat, burned to the ground the royal palace at Linlithgow.



CHAPTER XVIII: Culloden.


The victory of Falkirk brought but little advantage to Prince Charles, and dissensions arose among the officers; Lord George Murray being furious with Lord John Drummond for preventing the complete destruction of the English army, while Lord John Drummond severely criticised Lord George for the confusion which had taken place among his troops after their success.

Great numbers of the Highlanders, who had spent the night after the battle in plundering the English camp and stripping the slain, made off with their booty to the mountains, and the number of desertions was increased by the withdrawal of the greater part of Glengarry's clansmen. On the day after the battle the musket of one of the Clanranald clansmen went off by accident and killed the son of Glengarry. His clansmen loudly demanded life for life, and Clanranald having reluctantly consented to surrender his follower, the poor fellow was immediately led out and shot; but even this savage act of vengeance was insufficient to satisfy the Glengarry men, the greater part of whom at once left the army and returned to their homes.

After the battle the siege of Stirling was renewed; but owing to the gross incompetence of a French engineer, who had come over with Lord Drummond, the batteries were so badly placed that their fire was easily silenced by that of the castle guns. The prince, in spite of the advice of Lord George Murray and the other competent authorities, and listening only to his favourite councillors, Secretary Murray and Sir Thomas Sheridan, continued the siege, although on the 30th of January the Duke of Cumberland arrived in Edinburgh and took the command of the army.

Never had Scotland a more bitter enemy. Relentless and savage as General Hawley had been, his deeds were more than rivalled by those of the Duke of Cumberland, who was justly branded by contemporary historians with the name of "the butcher." He was, however, an able general, of great activity and high personal courage.

After halting but one night in Edinburgh he set out at the head of his army to meet the enemy; but these did not repeat their tactics at Falkirk. Disgusted at the conduct of the prince in slighting their advice and listening only to his unworthy counsellors, Lord George Murray with all the principal military leaders held a consultation, and presented a memorial to the prince. In this they stated that, seeing the great numbers of Highlanders who had gone home, they were of opinion that another battle could not be fought with a chance of success, and therefore recommended that the army should at once retire to the Highlands, where a sufficient number of men could be kept together to defy the efforts of the enemy at such a season of the year, and that in the spring ten thousand Highlanders could be got together to go wheresoever the prince might lead them. Prince Charles was struck with grief and dismay at this decision, but as all the military leaders had signed it he was forced to give way.

The army at once blew up its magazines, spiked its guns, and marched for the north in two divisions with much confusion and loss of order. The Duke of Cumberland pursued, but was unable to come up to them, and halted at Perth.

Ronald, who had, from the time he returned to the army, again taken up his former appointment of aide de camp to Lord George Murray, had during this time tried his best to reconcile the differences which were constantly breaking out between that general, the prince, and the clique who surrounded him. It was a difficult task, for Lord George's impetuosity and outspoken brusqueness, and his unconcealed contempt for Secretary Murray and Sheridan, reopened the breach as fast as it was closed.

Since the day when he had saved the prince from being carried off at Glasgow the latter had shown a marked partiality for Ronald's society, and the latter had therefore many opportunities of intervening to prevent open quarrels from breaking out. The prince himself was frequently greatly depressed in spirits, and the light hearted gaiety which had distinguished him on the first landing was now fitful and short lived. His disappointment at the failure of a campaign in which he had won every battle was deep and bitter. He had relied upon the aid of France, but no aid had come. He had been grossly misinformed as to the willingness of the Jacobites of England to take up arms in his favour; and although a portion of the Highlanders of Scotland had warmly embraced his cause, yet many on whom he had relied stood aloof or were in arms against him, while in the Lowlands he had found but few adherents.

So far from gaining ground, he was losing it. Numbers of the Highlanders had gone off to their homes. The retreat from Derby had completely chilled the enthusiasm of his adherents, while the waverers and time servers had been induced thereby to declare against him. The Duke of Cumberland's army steadily increased, and even had the advice of the Highland chiefs been followed and the army dispersed to reassemble in the spring, the chances of success would have been no more favourable than at present, for now that the first surprise and panic were past England would put forth her whole strength, and would by the spring have an army assembled in Scotland against which the Highland clans, even if unanimous, could not hope to cope.

Ronald was perfectly alive to the hopelessness of final success. He had seen the British infantry at Dettingen and Fontenoy, and felt sure that although the wild Highland rush had at first proved irresistible, this could nor continue, and that discipline and training must eventually triumph over mere valour. When he and Malcolm talked the matter over together they agreed that there could be but one issue to the struggle, and that ruin and disaster must fall upon all who had taken part in the enterprise.

"I feel thankful indeed," Ronald said one day, "that I am here only as a private gentleman risking my own life. I do not know what my feelings would be, if, like these Highland chiefs, I had brought all my kinsmen and followers with me into the field. The thought of the ruin and misery which would fall upon them would be dreadful. I fear that the vengeance which will be taken after this is over will be far greater and more widespread than that which followed '15. All say that the Duke of Cumberland is brutal and pitiless, and the fact that we were nearly successful will naturally add to the severity with which the English government will treat us if we fall into their power. Had the enterprise been defeated at its commencement they could have afforded to be lenient. As it is, I fear that they will determine to teach the Highlands such a lesson as will ensure their never again venturing to rise in arms against the house of Hanover."

"And I don't know that they are altogether to be blamed," Malcolm said. "I am not so young as I was, Ronald, and I see now that I was wrong in teaching you to be a Jacobite. It is all very well for men like Tullibardine, who knew the Stuarts on the throne, to fight to put them back again; but to your generation, Ronald, the Stuarts are after all only a tradition, and it is a sort of generous madness for you to risk your life to set them again on the throne of England. It cannot matter a brass pin to you whether James or George rules at St. James's. It is not, as in the case of the Royalists in England in Charles's time or of the Covenanters of Scotland, that a great principle is involved -- a principle for which men may well risk their lives and all they hold dear. It is a question of persons only, and although I may hold that by right of descent Charles Edward is Prince of Wales and rightful heir to the throne of England, that is no reason why I should risk my life to place him there; and after all it seems to me that if the majority in these islands determine that they will be ruled by the house of Hanover instead of the house of Stuart they have some right to make their own choice."

"You argue like a philosopher, Malcolm," Ronald said laughing, "and do not remind me in the slightest degree of the Malcolm who used to chat with me in Glasgow."

"You are right there, lad. You see I was brought up a Jacobite, and I have been a soldier all my life, accustomed to charge when I was told to charge and to kill those I was told to kill; but I own that since I have been out now I have got to look at matters differently. The sight of all these poor Highland bodies blindly following their chiefs and risking life and all for a cause in which they have no shadow of interest has made me think. A soldier is a soldier, and if he were to sit down to argue about the justice of every cause in which he is ordered to fight there would be an end to all discipline. But these poor fellows are not soldiers, and so I say to myself, What concern have they in this matter? Their chiefs would gain honours and rewards, patents of high nobility, and additions to their estates if the Stuarts conquered, but their followers would gain nothing whatever. No, lad, if we get over this scrape I have done with fighting; and I hope that no Stuart will ever again succeed in getting Scotland to take up his cause. I shall go on fighting for Prince Charles as long as there is a man left with him; but after that there is an end of it as far as I am concerned, and I hope as far as Scotland is concerned."

"I hope so too, Malcolm. When Scotland is herself divided, Ireland passive, and all England hostile, success is hopeless. The Stuarts will never get such another chance again as they had on the day when we turned our backs on London at Derby, and I hope that they will not again make the attempt, especially as it is manifest now that France has only used them as tools against England, and has no idea of giving them any effectual aid."

Charles on approaching Inverness found it toughly fortified and held by Lord Loudon with a force of two thousand men. The prince halted ten miles from the town at Moy Castle, where he was entertained by Lady M'Intosh, whose husband was serving with Lord Loudon, but who had raised the clan for Prince Charles. The prince had but a few personal attendants with him, the army having been halted at some distance from the castle.

One evening Ronald had ridden over to Moy Castle with some despatches from Lord George Murray to the prince, and had remained there to dine with him. It was late before he mounted his horse. He was, as usual, accompanied by Malcolm. They had ridden but a short distance through the wood which surrounded the castle when a shot was fired, and almost immediately afterwards four or five men came running through the trees.

"What is the matter?" Malcolm shouted.

"The English army are upon us!" one of the M'Intoshes -- for they were clansmen who had been sleeping in the wood -- answered.

"They must intend to seize the prince," Ronald said, "and will already have sent round a body of horse to cut off his retreat. Scatter through the wood, men, and do each of you raise the war cry of one of the clans as if the whole army were here. This may cause a delay and enable the prince to ride off. Malcolm, do you ride back with all speed to the castle and warn the prince of Loudon's approach."

The Highlanders at once obeyed Ronald's orders, and in a minute or two the war cries of half a dozen of the principal clans in Prince Charles's army rang through the woods, while at the same time the Highlanders discharged their muskets. Ronald also shouted orders, as to a large body of men.

The English, who had made sure of effecting a successful surprise, hesitated as they heard the war cries of the clans ringing through the woods, and believing that the whole of Prince Charles's army were at hand and they were about to be attacked in overwhelming numbers, they retreated hastily to Inverness. No sooner had Ronald discovered that they had fallen back than he rode off to inform the prince that the danger was over.

He found Prince Charles mounted, with Lady M'Intosh on horseback by his side, and the retainers in the castle gathered round, broadsword in hand, in readiness to cut their way through any body of the enemy's horse who might intercept their retreat. Charles laughed heartily when he heard of the strategy which Ronald had employed to arrest the advance of the enemy, and thanked him for again having saved him from falling into the hands of the enemy.

The English made their retreat to Inverness in such confusion and dismay that the affair became known in history as the "rout of Moy."

The next morning, the 17th of February, the prince called up his army, and the next day advanced against Inverness. Lord Loudon did not await his coming. The panic of his soldiers two days before showed him that no reliance could be placed upon them, and embarking with them in boats he crossed the Moray Frith to Cromarty, where the troops shortly afterwards disbanded upon hearing that the Earl of Cromarty was marching against them with some Highland regiments.

The town of Inverness was occupied at once, and the citadel surrendered in a few days. The army, now in a barren and mountainous region, were deprived of all resources. Many ships with supplies were sent off from France, but few of them reached their destination; several being captured by British cruisers, and others compelled to go back to French ports.

The supply of money in the treasury was reduced to the lowest ebb, and Charles was obliged to pay his troops in meal, and even this was frequently deficient, and the men suffered severely from hunger. Many deserted, and others scattered over the country in search of subsistence.

In the meantime the Duke of Cumberland's army was receiving powerful reinforcements. In February Prince Frederick of Hesse Cassel, with five thousand of his troops, who had been hired by the British government, landed at Leith. These troops were placed in garrison in all the towns in the south of Scotland, thus enabling the Duke of Cumberland to draw together the whole of the English forces for his advance into the Highlands.

On the 8th of April he set out from Aberdeen with eight thousand foot and nine hundred horse. He marched along the coast accompanied by the fleet, which landed supplies as needed. At the Spey, Lord John Drummond had prepared to defend the fords, and some works had been thrown up to protect them; but the English cannon were brought up in such numbers that Lord John, considering the position untenable, retired to Inverness, while the English army forded the Spey, and on the 14th entered Nairn, where some skirmishing took place between their advance guard and the Highland rear.

Prince Charles and his principal officers rested that night at Culloden House and the troops lay upon the adjacent moor. On the morning of the 15th they drew up in order of battle. The English, however, rested for the day at Nairn, and there celebrated the Duke of Cumberland's birthday with much feasting, abundant supplies being landed from the fleet.

The Highlanders, on the other hand, fasted, only one biscuit per man being issued during the day. Consequently many straggled away to Inverness and other places in search of food. Lord Cromarty, with the regiments under his command, were absent, so that barely five thousand men were mustered in the ranks. At a council of war Lord George Murray suggested that a night surprise should be made on the duke's camp at Nairn, and as this was the prince's own plan it was unanimously agreed to.

Before, however, the straggling troops could be collected it was eight o'clock at night. Nairn was twelve miles distant, and the men, weakened by privation and hunger, marched so slowly across the marshy ground that it was two o'clock in the morning before the head of the columns arrived within four miles of the British camp, while the rear was still far away, and many had dropped out of the ranks from fatigue.

It was now too late to hope that a surprise could be effected before daylight, and the army retraced its steps to Culloden Moor. Worn out and exhausted as they were, and wholly without supplies of provisions, Lord George Murray and the other military officers felt that the troops could not hope to contend successfully against a vastly superior army, fresh, well fed, and supported by a strong force of artillery, on the open ground, and he proposed that the army should retire beyond the river Bairn, and take up a position there on broken ground inaccessible to cavalry.

The prince, however, supported by Sir Thomas Sheridan and his other evil advisers, overruled the opinion of the military leaders, and decided to fight on level ground. The Highlanders were now drawn up in order of battle in two lines. On the right were the Athole brigade, the Camerons, the Stuarts, and some other clans under Lord George Murray; on the left the Macdonald regiments under Lord John Drummond. This arrangement, unfortunately, caused great discontent among the Macdonalds, just as their being given the post of honour at Falkirk had given umbrage to the other clans.

At eleven o'clock the English army was seen approaching. It was formed in three lines, with cavalry on each wing, and two pieces of cannon between every two regiments of the first line. The battle began with an artillery duel, but in this the advantage was all on the side of the English, the number of their pieces and the skill of their gunners being greatly superior.

Prince Charles rode along the front line to animate his men, and as he did so several of his escort were killed by the English cannonade. A storm of snow and hail had set in, blowing full in the face of the Highlanders. At length Lord George Murray, finding that he was suffering heavily from the enemy's artillery fire, while his own guns inflicted but little damage upon them, sent to Prince Charles for permission to charge.

On receiving it he placed himself at the head of his men, and with the whole of the right wing and centre charged the enemy. They were received with a tremendous musketry fire, while the English artillery swept the ranks with grape; but so furious was their onslaught that they broke through Munro and Burrel's regiments in the first line and captured two pieces of cannon. But behind were the second line drawn up three deep, with the front rank kneeling, and these, reserving their fire until the Highlanders were close at hand, opened a rolling fire so sustained and heavy that the Highlanders were thrown into complete disorder.

Before they could recover themselves they were charged by horse and foot on both flanks, and driven together till they became a confused mass. In vain did their chiefs attempt to rally them. Exhausted and weakened in body, swept by the continuous fire of the English, they could do no more, and at last broke and fled. In the meantime the Macdonalds on the left remained inactive. In vain Lord John Drummond and the Duke of Perth called upon them to charge, in vain their chief, Keppoch, rushed forward with a few of his clansmen and died in front of them. Nothing would induce them to fight, and when the right and centre were defeated they fell back in good order, and, joining the remnants of the second line, retired from the field unbroken.

Charles, from the heights on which he stood with a squadron of horse, could scarce believe the evidence of his eyes when he saw the hitherto victorious Highlanders broken and defeated, and would have ridden down himself to share their fate had not O'Sullivan and Sheridan seized his horse by the bridle and forced him from the field. Being pressed by the English, the retreating force broke into two divisions. The smaller retreated to Inverness, where they next day laid down their arms to the Duke of Cumberland; the other, still preserving some sort of order, marched by way of Ruthven to Badenoch.

Fourteen colours, two thousand three hundred muskets, and all their cannon fell into the hands of the English. The loss of the victors in killed and wounded amounted to three hundred and ten men, that of the Highlanders to a thousand. No quarter was given to the stragglers and fugitives who fell into the hands of the English. Their wounded were left on the ground till the following day without care or food, and the greater portion of them were then put to death in cold blood, with a cruelty such as never before or since disgraced an English army.

Some were beaten to death by the soldiers with the stocks of their muskets, some were dragged out from the thicket or caverns to which they had crawled and shot, while one farm building, in which some twenty wounded men had taken refuge, was deliberately set on fire and burned with them to the ground. In any case such conduct as this would have inflicted eternal discredit upon those who perpetrated it; but it was all the more unjustifiable and abominable after the extreme clemency and kindness with which Prince Charles had, throughout the campaign, treated all prisoners who fell into his hands.

Ronald had ridden close beside Lord George Murray as he led the Highlanders to the charge; but he had, as they approached the first English line, received a ball in the shoulder, while almost at the same instant Malcolm's horse was shot under him. Ronald reeled in the saddle, and would have fallen had not Malcolm extricated himself from his fallen horse and run up to him.

"Where are you hit, lad?" he asked in extreme anxiety.

"In the shoulder, Malcolm. Help me off my horse, and do you take it and go on with the troops."

"I shall do nothing of the kind," Malcolm said. "One man will make no difference to them, and I am going to look after you."

So saying he sprang up behind Ronald, and placing one arm round him to support him, took the reins in the other and rode to the rear. He halted on rising ground, and for a short time watched the conflict.

"The battle is lost," he said at last. "Lord George's troops are in utter confusion. The Macdonalds show no signs of moving, though I can see their officers are urging them to charge. Now, Ronald, the first thing is to get you out of this, and beyond the reach of pursuit."

So saying he turned the horse and rode away from the field of battle.

"Does your shoulder hurt much?" he asked after they had gone a short distance.

"It does hurt abominably," Ronald said faintly, for he was feeling almost sick from the agony he was suffering from the motion of the horse.

"I am a fool," Malcolm said, "not to have seen to it before we started. I can't do much now; but at least I can fasten it so as to hurt you as little as possible."

He took off his scarf, and, telling Ronald to place his arm in the position which was most comfortable to him, he bound it tightly against his body.

"That is better, is it not?" he asked as he again set the horse in motion.

"Much better, Malcolm. I feel that I can go on now, whereas before I could not have gone much further if all Cumberland's cavalry had been close behind. How far are you thinking of going? I don't think my horse can carry double much further. Poor beast, he has had as short rations as his master, and was on the move all last night."

"No. But we shall not have to make a very long journey. The English marched twelve miles before they attacked us, and I do not think they are likely to closely pursue far tonight; besides, I have no intention of riding now that there is no fear of immediate pursuit. I think that in another two miles we shall be safe from any fear of the English cavalry overtaking us, for we shall then reach a forest. Once in that we shall be safe from pursuit, and shall soon be in the heart of the hills."

On reaching the forest Malcolm dismounted, and leading the horse turned off from the road. Following a little trodden path they were soon in the heart of the forest, and after keeping on for two hours, and crossing several hills, he stopped by the side of a stream.

"We are perfectly safe here," he said, "and can sleep as securely as if we were in a palace."

The saddle was taken off and the horse turned loose to graze. Malcolm then removed Ronald's coat and shirt, bathed the wound for some time with water, cut some pieces of wood to act as splints, and tearing some strips off his sash bound these tightly.

"The ball has regularly smashed the bone, Ronald, and we must be careful to keep the shoulder in its proper position or you will never look square again."

"That does not seem very important to me just at present, Malcolm."

"No. Just at present the most important question is that of getting something to eat. We have had nothing today and not much yesterday, and now that we are no longer in danger of pursuit one begins to feel one is hungry. You stay here while I go and forage. There ought to be a village somewhere among the hills nor far away."

"Do you know the country, Malcolm?"

"I never came by this path, lad; but I have travelled pretty well all over the Highlands, and, just as you found to be the case in Lancashire, there are few villages I do not know. I will first pull you a couch of this dead bracken, and then be off; an hour's sleep will do you almost as much good as a meal."

Ronald lay down on the soft couch Malcolm prepared for him, and before he had been alone for a minute he was fast asleep.

The sun was setting when he awoke. Malcolm stood beside him.

"Here is supper, lad. Not a very grand one, but there's enough of it, which is more than has been the case for some weeks."

So saying he laid down by Ronald's side a large loaf of black bread, a cheese made of sheep's milk, and a bottle of spirits.

"The village is five miles away, which is farther than I expected. However, I came back quicker than I went, for I had had a bowl of milk and as much bread as I could eat. I found the place in a state of wild excitement, for two or three of the men had just come in from the battlefield, and brought the news with them. They are all for the Stuarts there, and you would be well entertained, but there is sure to be a search high and low, and you would not be safe in any village. However, a lad has promised to be here in the morning, and he will guide us to a lonely hut in the heart of the hills, used by the shepherds in summer. You will be perfectly safe there."

"It is about three miles from the village, he said. So I can go down two or three times a week and get food, and learn how things are going on. The Highlanders may rally again and make another fight of it; but I hardly expect they will. They are not like regular troops, whose home is naturally with their colours, and who, after the first rout, try to rejoin their regiments. There is no discipline among these Highlanders. Each man does as he likes, and their first impulse after a battle is to make for their homes -- if it is a victory, to carry home their spoil; if they are defeated, for rest and shelter. At any rate, whether they gather again or not, you will have to keep perfectly quiet for a time. When your shoulder is perfectly healed we can act according to circumstances, and make for the army if there be an army, or for the seacoast if there is not."

Although he had eaten but a short time before, Malcolm was quite ready for another meal, and sitting down beside Ronald he joined him in his assault upon the black bread and cheese. Then he collected some more of the bracken, mixed himself a strong horn of whiskey and water, and a much weaker one for Ronald, after which the two lay down and were fast asleep.

They were awake at sunrise, and shortly afterwards the lad whom Malcolm had engaged to act as guide made his appearance. The horse was saddled, Ronald mounted, and they started at once for their destination among the hills. They followed the path which Malcolm had taken the afternoon before for some three miles, and then struck off to the left. Half an hour took them out of the forest, and they journeyed for an hour along the bare hillsides, until, lying in a sheltered hollow, they saw the hut which was their destination.

"They are not likely to find us here," Malcolm said cheerfully, "even were they to scour the mountains. They might ride within fifty yards of this hollow without suspecting its existence. Where are we to get water?" he asked the lad in Gaelic.

"A quarter of a mile away over that brow is the head of a stream," the lad replied. "You cannot well miss it."

"That is all right," Malcolm said. "I don't mind carrying up provisions or a bottle of spirits now and then; but to drag all the water we want three miles would be serious."

The door of the hut was only fastened by a latch, and they entered without ceremony. It consisted of but a single room. There were two or three rough wooden stools, and a heap of bracken in one corner. Nor a large amount of furniture, but, in the opinion of a Highlander, amply sufficient.

"We shall do here capitally," Malcolm said. "Now, what do you think about the horse, Ronald?"

"Of course he might be useful if we were obliged to move suddenly; but we have no food to give him, and if we let him shift for himself he will wander about, and might easily be seen by anyone crossing these hills. A horse is always a prize, and it might bring troops out into our neighbourhood who would otherwise not have a thought about coming in this direction."

"I quite agree with you, Ronald. The lad had better take him down to the village, and give him to the head man there. He can sell him, or keep him, or get rid of him as he likes. At any rate he will be off our hands."



CHAPTER XIX: Fugitives.


For three weeks Ronald and Malcolm remained in hiding in the hut among the hills. Every two or three days Malcolm went down to the village and brought back food. He learned that the remains of the army at Ruthven had entirely dispersed, the prince himself seeing the hopelessness of any longer continuing the struggle. Terrible tales of slaughter and devastation by Cumberland's troops circulated through the hills. The duke had fixed his headquarters at Fort Augustus, and thence his troops ravaged the whole country of the clans lately in insurrection. Villages were burned, cattle slaughtered, women subjected to the grossest insult and ill treatment, and often wantonly slain, and the fugitives among the mountains hunted like wild beasts, and slain as pitilessly whenever overtaken.

Ronald's arm was healing fast. Youth and a good constitution, and the care and attention of Malcolm, aided perhaps by the pure mountain air, did wonders for him. The splints had proved efficacious, and although they had not yet been taken off, Malcolm was confident that the injury would be completely repaired. One morning Malcolm had left but half an hour for the village when he returned.

"The enemy are in the village," he said. "I can see clouds of smoke rising in that direction. We had better be off at once. They will be scouring all the hills here, as they have done elsewhere, and we had better get out of the neighbourhood."

There was no packing to be done, and taking with them what remained of the food Malcolm had last brought, they started on their way. They made first for the spring from which they had drawn their water, and then followed the little stream on its way down the hill, as it flowed in the opposite direction to the village. An hour's walking took them into the forest.

"Before we go further let us have a consultation," Malcolm said. "We are safe now from pursuit, and had better settle upon what course we intend to adopt. Shall we make for Glasgow, and lie hid there until things blow over a little; or make for the isles, and stay there until we get a chance of being taken off by some French ship? That is what they say the prince has done; and indeed as there would be no chance of his getting a ship on the east coast, and all the Lowlands are against them, he is certain to have made for the isles. The Clanranalds and most of the other islemen are loyal to him, and would receive and shelter him. Skye is hostile, but elsewhere he will be safe, and would move from island to island or get across to the mainland by night if the pursuit became too hot. What do you say, Ronald?"

"I would not try Glasgow unless as a last resource, Malcolm; you are known to many there, and as I was there as one of the prince's officers on two occasions I might easily be recognized. You may be sure that there is a very strict lookout for fugitives, and every stranger who enters a town will be closely examined. After some time, when Prince Charles and the principal chiefs and the leaders will either have escaped across the water or been hunted down, things will calm down; but at present we must not try to pass through the Lowlands."

"At any rate we cannot try to do so till your shoulder is completely healed, and you can use your arm naturally; but I do not think that we had better try and cross to the isles just at present. If Prince Charles is there, or is believed by the English to be there, the search will be so keen that every stranger would be hunted down; and although the Highlanders might risk imprisonment and death for the prince himself, they could not be expected to run the same risk for anyone else. If the prince escapes it will be because the whole population are with him, and every man, woman, and child is trying to throw the pursuers off the scent. No, I think we should be safer in Edinburgh itself than in the isles. We will make a shift to live as we can for a month or so; by that time I hope you will be able to use one arm as well as the other, and we will then boldly go down into the Lowlands in our old characters as two drovers."

"That will be the best plan, no doubt," Ronald agreed; "the difficulty will be the getting over the next month."

"We shall manage that," Malcolm said; "fortunately you have still got some money left."

"Yes, I have over fifty pounds; it was lucky I was able to draw it, as we returned north, from the man I left it with at Carlisle."

"Yes, and you wanted to give it back to the treasury," Malcolm said, "and would have done it if I had not almost quarrelled with you about it, saying that it had been given you for a certain purpose, that you had carried out that purpose, and had, therefore, a right to it, and that you would be only looked upon as a fool if you offered to pay it back. However, there it is now, and lucky it is you have got it. However hard the times, however great the danger, a man will hardly starve in Scotland with fifty pounds in his pocket; so now we will turn our faces west, and make for the head of one of the lochs; there are plenty of fish to be had for catching, and with them and a little oatmeal and a bottle or two of whiskey we can live like lords."

They walked for some hours, and stopped for the night in the hut of a shepherd, who received them hospitably, but could give them but little food, his scanty supplies being almost exhausted, for, as he told them, "the hills are full of fugitives, and those who come all cry for meal; as for meat, there is no want of it. Men won't starve as long as there are sheep and cattle to be had for lifting them, and at present there are more of these than usual in the hills, for they have all been driven up from the villages lest they should fall into the hands of the troopers; but meal is scarce, for men dare not go down to the villages to buy, and we only get it when the women bring it up as they have a chance."

In the morning the shepherd gave them directions as to the way they should take, and a few hours later they came down upon the head of one of the many deep inlets on the western coast. A small fishing boat stood on the shore, but they dared not descend into this, but made their way to the point where, as the shepherd had told them, a stream which flowed from a mountain tarn some miles inland made its way down into the sea.

The banks were thickly wooded for some two miles from its outlet; beyond that was a moorland covered with heather. They determined to encamp near the upper edge of the wood, and at once set to with their swords to cut down branches and construct a hut. This was completed before dusk, and Malcolm then started for the village on the seashore. Ronald besought him to be most careful.

"There is likely," he said, "to be a party of soldiers in every village round the coast, for they will know that all the chiefs and officers would be making for the sea. The clansmen have only to remain in the hills until this persecution dies out, and then go quietly home again; but for the leaders the only hope is escape by sea."

"I will be careful, lad," Malcolm said. "I shall not enter the village, but will hang about in its outskirts until I come across someone, and with plenty of money in my pocket it is hard if I cannot manage to get a bag of meal and a net, even if the place is full of English soldiers."

Three hours later Malcolm returned laden with a sack containing forty pounds of meal, a jar with two gallons of whiskey, and a net.

"There," he said as he entered; "we can do for a month now, if needs be. There is a party of militia in the village, and I hear the whole coast is closely watched, and there are a number of English cruisers among the islands."

"How did you get the things?"

"I waited till a woman came down with a bundle of faggots, and told her what I wanted. She said at first it was impossible; but when I said I was prepared to pay well she altered her tone, and said she would send her husband out to me. He soon came, and after some bargaining he agreed to bring me out the things I wanted for three pounds, and here they are. I see you have got a fire alight, so we will make some cakes at once. I have brought a griddle and two horns with me."

The next morning they set to work to fish. The net was stretched across the lower end of a pool, and they then stripped and waded in, splashing and throwing stones as they went. It was just up to their necks in the deepest parts, shallowing to two feet below. When they reached the net they found two fine salmon caught there, and carrying these ashore they split one and placed it above the fire. The net was then removed, and in half an hour they were sitting down to a breakfast of grilled salmon and hot oatmeal cakes, which Ronald thought the most delicious repast he had ever tasted.

For three weeks they remained at this spot. They were not always alone, being sometimes joined for a day or two by other fugitives, who, like themselves, were wandering near the sea coast seeking escape. These seldom stayed long, for it was felt unsafe to keep in parties of more than two or three at the utmost. Some of the fugitives were in wretched condition, having been wandering among the moors and forests for weeks, and as the fishing was very successful, Ronald and Malcolm were able to give them at parting a good supply of smoked salmon, and a portion of meal, of which Malcolm from time to time brought a fresh supply up from the village.

The people there knew little of what was passing in the outer world; but from the conversation of the soldiers they were sure that Prince Charles had so far escaped capture, and an opinion began to prevail that he had succeeded in making his escape by sea, in spite of the vigilance of the English cruisers.

By the end of the three weeks even Malcolm admitted that Ronald's wound was completely cured. Two large blue scars showed where the bullet had passed through, and beneath this could be felt a lump where the broken bone had knitted together, and this would in time become as strong as the rest of the shoulder. Malcolm's splints had done their duty, and the eye could detect no difference between the level or width of the two shoulders. Ronald could move his arm freely in all directions, and, except that he could not at present venture to put any strain upon the arm, he might be considered as perfectly cured. They determined, therefore, to continue their way. In the first place, however, it was necessary to procure other clothes, for Ronald was still in uniform, and although Malcolm's attire was not wholly military, it yet differed materially from that of a countryman.

"We shall have to get other clothes when we get south," Malcolm said; "for a Highlander's dress would be looked upon with as much suspicion in Glasgow as would that uniform of yours. But until we get down to the Lowlands the native garb will be the best."

Accordingly he paid another visit to the village, and with the utmost difficulty persuaded the man he had before dealt with to bring him two suits of clothes, such as were worn by the fishermen there. In these, although Malcolm's small stock of Gaelic would betray them at once for other than they seemed to the first clansman who might address them, they could pass muster with any body of English troops they might meet by the way.

Before starting they caught and smoked as many salmon as they could carry, as the fishermen of the coast were in the habit of exchanging fish for sheep with their inland neighbours. They cut each a short pole, and slung some fish at each end, and then placing it on their shoulder, started on their way. They kept along the hillside until they struck the track -- for it could scarcely be called a road -- leading from the village into the interior, and then boldly followed this; for the difficulty of travelling across the hilly and broken country was so great that they preferred to run the slight extra risk of keeping to the road, feeling certain that for the first day's march at least their appearance and the fish they carried would answer for themselves with any body of troops they might meet.

Of this, however, they did not think there was much chance. The authorities would have long since learned the futility of hunting the fugitives among the hills, and would be confining their efforts to the sea coast. They were now at a considerable distance from the scene of the bloody persecutions of Cumberland and Hawley, and although in other parts of Scotland severe measures might be adopted against known adherents of the Stuarts, it was among the Highland clans only that savage and wholesale massacres were being carried into effect.

Occasionally in the course of the day's walk they met with clansmen passing along the road. These generally passed with a brief word of greeting in Gaelic. One or two who stopped to speak recognized at once by Malcolm's accent that the wayfarers were not what they pretended to be; but they asked no questions, and with a significant smile and an expression of good wishes went on their way.

At the village where they stopped, after a long day's journey, the same line of conduct was observed towards them. The inhabitants guessed at once that they were in disguise; but the edicts against those who assisted fugitive insurgents were so severe that none made any open sign of their recognition. They paid for their night's lodging and food with a portion of their fish, which they were indeed glad to get rid of.

The next day they resumed their journey, and towards sunset arrived at a village where they saw a party of English cavalry, who had apparently but just arrived. The men were cleaning their horses, and an officer was sitting on a bench in front of the principal house in the village; for he had already made a close inspection of every house in the village, and the angry faces of the women and the sullen looks of a few men there were about showed how they resented the disturbance of their households.

It was too late to retreat, and Malcolm and Ronald walked boldly to the public house in the centre of the village. The officer at once rose and walked across to him.

"Who are you?" he asked; "and where do you come from?"

Malcolm shook his head and said in Gaelic:

"I do not understand English."

"What fools these people are!" the officer exclaimed. "Ho, within there!"

The landlady came to the door.

"Do you speak English?"

"I speak a little," the woman said.

"Just ask these men who they are and where they come from."

The woman asked the question in Gaelic, and Malcolm replied:

"We are, as you see, fishermen, and we come from Huish."

As he spoke there was a slight change in the woman's face; but it passed away, and she translated Malcolm's answer to the officer.

"But that is forty miles away," the officer said. "What do they do with their fish at this distance from their home?"

The question being put in Gaelic by the woman, Malcolm replied that owing to the boats being seized by the soldiers, and trade being at a standstill, they could no longer make a living at home, and were therefore on their way to Glasgow to ship as sailors. They were carrying their fish with them to pay for their food and lodging on the way.

The story was probable enough, and the officer's suspicion was allayed.

"They are fine looking fellows, both of them," he said to himself as he returned to his bench. "Father and son, I suppose. The young one would make a strapping soldier. Like enough he was at Culloden. However, thank goodness, I have no grounds for suspecting or detaining them. I am sick of this brutal business of fugitive hunting. We are officers and not butchers, and this slaying of brave men who have met us fairly in battle is a disgrace to the British name."

Ronald and Malcolm followed the woman into the house.

"I am ready to buy some of your fish," she said in a loud tone of voice in Gaelic, "for there will be many to feed this evening; as my house is full of soldiers I cannot take you in, but if you like you can sleep in that shed over there. I can cook one of your fish for you, and let you have some black bread; but that is all I can do. Now, how much do you want for the fish?"

Malcolm named a low price, and the woman took three or four of the largest. For these she offered him the price he had asked. He glanced round, and seeing that they were not overlooked, he shook his head.

"We don't want money," he said. "We are well provided. Many thanks for keeping our secret."

The woman nodded, and without another word the two went out and sat down on a stone bench outside until the landlady brought out a platter with a fish and some black bread. This they ate where they sat. Malcolm then went in to get some tobacco, and returned with his pipe alight, and sat with Ronald watching with apparent interest the operations of the soldiers until night closed in. Then they retired to the shed the landlady had pointed out, and found that a large bundle of freshly gathered rushes had been shaken out to form a bed. Carrying in their poles with their now diminished load of fish, they closed the door and threw themselves down upon the rushes.

"That has passed off well," Malcolm said. "Tomorrow we will only go a mile or so out of the village, and stop in the first wood we come to, and go on at night. Thirty miles will take us close down to Dumbarton, and there we must manage to get some fresh clothes."

"We shall be able to leave our poles behind us," Ronald said, "and that will be a comfort. Although my load of fish was not nearly as heavy as yours, still carrying it on one shoulder was no joke, and I shall be heartily glad to get rid of it."

"I shall not be sorry myself," Malcolm said; "but there will be no occasion to waste the fish. We shall be up and away long before the soldiers are stirring, and we may as well hand them over as a present to the landlady."

This was done, and at an early hour in the morning they were upon the road again. After an hour's walking they stopped in a wood till evening and then continued on their way until they reached Dumbarton, where they threw themselves down beside some boats drawn up upon the shore, and slept till the morning.

They then boldly entered the town, and as their garb was similar to that of the men who brought down the fish caught at the villages on the coast, no attention whatever was paid to them. They had no difficulty in purchasing the clothes they required, and carrying them out of the town they changed in the first retired spot they reached, and, as two Lowland drovers, tramped on to Glasgow. With their bonnets pulled well down over their eyes they entered the town. They had little fear of discovery, for none would be likely to recognize in Ronald the gaily dressed young officer of Prince Charles.

As to Malcolm, he felt safe from molestation. He was, of course, known to many drovers and others, but they would not concern themselves with what he had been doing since they last saw him, and even had they noticed him when he was there with Ronald, would not denounce an old comrade. He went, therefore, boldly to the little inn where he had been in the habit of staying when in the city.

"Ah, Malcolm, is that you, man?" the landlord said as he entered. "I didna think o' seeing you again. I thought it likely ye were laying stiff and stark somewhere out on the muirs. Eh, man, you are a foolish fellow to be mixing yourself up in the affairs of ithers."

"I have done with it now, Jock, for good and all," Malcolm said, "and am going back to my old trade again."

"I think you are a fule to come back here so soon. There's mony a one marked ye as ye rode in behind that young officer of the prince's, and if they denounce you now they would soon clap you in between four walls."

"Hoots, man!" Malcolm laughed; "who would trouble themselves about a body like me!"

"There are bleudy doings up i' the Highlands," the landlord said gravely, "if a' they say is true."

"It is true, Jock, more shame to them; but they wouldn't do in Glasgow what they are doing there. They are hunting down the clansmen like wild beasts; but here in the Lowlands they will not trouble themselves to ask who was for King George and who was against him, except among those who have got estates they can confiscate."

"May be no," the landlord replied. "Still, Malcolm, if you will take my advice you won't show yourself much in the streets, nor your friend either," he added significantly. "You may be safe, but the citizens are smarting yet over the requisitions that were made upon them, and your friend had best keep in his room as long as ye stay here."

Malcolm nodded.

"He will be careful, Jock, never fear. We shall be off again as soon as we get a chance. I will leave him here while I go down the town and find whether there is a herd starting for England. If there is we will go with it; if not, I shall try and get a passage by sea."

Malcolm could not hear of any drove of cattle going south. The troubles had, for the time, entirely put a stop to the trade. After it was dark he went to Andrew's. His brother's face expressed both pleasure and dismay at seeing him.

"Right glad I am to see you have got safely through it all, Malcolm, but you must be mad to show yourself here again at present. But how is the boy? We have troubled sorely over him. I trust that he too has come safely through it?"

"Safe and sound, Andrew, save that he had a bullet through his shoulder at Culloden; but he is tight enough again now."

"And what have you been doing ever since?"

"Curing his shoulder and fishing;" Malcolm briefly related their adventures since Culloden.

"And is he with you here in Glasgow, Malcolm? Surely you are not mad enough to bring him here, where he is known to scores of people as one of the rebel officers!"

"He is here, sure enough," Malcolm said, "and safer than he has been for some time. It is nearly two months since Culloden, and people are beginning to think of other things, except in the Highlands, where those fiends Cumberland and Hawley are burning and slaying. Ronald is dressed like a drover, and no one is likely to recognize him. However, he will remain within doors. And now, brother, I want you to take us a passage in the next vessel sailing for London. If I go to a shipper he may ask questions, and like enough it may be necessary to get passes signed before we can go on board."

"Certainly it is," Andrew said. "A strict lookout is kept to prevent the rebel leaders from escaping, and no captain of a ship is permitted to take a passenger unless he is provided with a pass, signed by a magistrate, saying that he is a peaceable and well known person."

"But just at present we are both peaceable persons, Andrew, and we can certainly claim to be well known citizens."

"It is no joking matter, Malcolm, I can tell you," Andrew said irritably; "but of course I will see what I can do. And now I will put on my bonnet and come with you and have a chat with Ronald. It will not do to bring him here tonight, but we must arrange for him to come and see Janet before he sails. I shall not tell her anything about it till he is ready to start, for you know she is very particular, and I am afraid I shall have to say what is not quite true to get the order. I can sign it myself, but it must have the signature of the provost too."

So saying he took his cap and accompanied Malcolm to the lodging.

"Stay here a moment, Andrew," Malcolm said when he arrived within a few yards of the little inn. "I will see that there is no one drinking within. It wouldna look well to see a decent bailie of the city going into a liquor shop after dark. It will be best for me to fetch him out here, for I doubt there's any room where you could talk without fear of being overheard."

Ronald, who was sitting with his cap pulled down over his eyes as if asleep, in a corner of the room, where three or four drovers were smoking and talking, was called out by Malcolm.

"I am right glad to see you again," Andrew Anderson said heartily. "Janet and I have passed an ill time since the battle was fought. Elspeth has kept up our hopes all along. She said she was sure that you were alive, quite downright sure; and though neither Janet nor I have much faith in superstitions, the old woman's assertions that she should assuredly know it if you were dead did somehow keep up our spirits. Besides, I had faith in Malcolm's knowledge of the country, and knew you were both famous for getting into scrapes and out of them, so I thought that if neither bullet nor sabre had stretched you on the moor of Culloden you would manage to win your way out of the trouble somehow. However, I think you are pretty safe here. The bloody doings of Cumberland have shocked every Scotchman, and even those who were strongest against the Stuarts now cry shame, and so strong is the feeling that were the prince to appear now with a handful of followers I believe the whole country would rise in his favour. So deep is the wrath and grief at the red slaughter among the Highlands there would not be many Scotchmen found who would betray a fellow Scot into the hands of these butchers. I will make inquiry tomorrow as to what ships are sailing, and will get you a passage in the first. There may be some difficulty about the permit; but if I can't get over it we must smuggle you on board as sailors. However, I don't think the provost will ask me any questions when I lay the permit before him for his signature. He is heart and soul for the king, but, like us all, he is sick at heart at the news from the North, and would, I think, shut an eye if he saw a Jacobite making his escape. And now, lad, I must be going back, for the hour is getting late and Janet does not know why I am away. Come to us tomorrow evening as soon as the shop closes. Janet and Elspeth will be delighted to see you, and we will have a long talk over all that you have gone through."

On the following evening Ronald and Malcolm presented themselves at Andrew's and were received with delight by Elspeth and Mrs. Anderson. The latter had, while the rebellion appeared to have a chance of success, been its bitter opponent, and had spoken often and wrathfully against her husband's brother and Ronald embarking in such an enterprise; but with its overthrow all her enmity had expired, and she would have been ready to give assistance not only to them, but to any other fugitive trying to escape.

"I have good news for you," Andrew said, when the first greetings were over. "A vessel sails in the morning, and I have taken passages for you in it; and what is more, have brought your permits. I went to the provost and said to him, 'Provost, I want you to sign these permits for two friends of mine who are wanting to go up to London.'

"'Who are they?' said he.

"'They are just two drover bodies,' I said. He looked at me hard.

"'One question, Andrew. I know how you feel just at present. You are a loyal man like myself, but we all feel the same. I will sign your permit for any save one. Give me your word that neither of these men is Charles Stuart. I care not who they may be beside, but as a loyal subject of King George I cannot aid his arch enemy to escape.'

"'I give you my word, provost,' I said. 'One is -- '

"'I don't want to know who they are,' he interrupted. 'I had rather not know. It is enough for me that you give me your word that neither of them is Charles Stuart,' and he took the pen and signed the permit. 'Between ourselves,' he went on, 'I shall be glad to hear that the misguided young man is safe across the water, but as Provost of Glasgow I could lend him no help to go.'

"'They say he has got safe away already,' I said.

"'I think not, Andrew; the coast has been too closely watched for that. The young man is hiding somewhere among the isles, among the Clanranalds or Macdonalds. I fear they will have him yet. I dread every day to get the news; but I hope beyond all things, that if they do lay hands on him it will be through the treachery of no Scot.'

"'I hope not, provost,' I said. 'They haven't got over throwing it in our teeth that we sold King Charles to Cromwell.' So we just shook hands and said goodbye, and here is the permit."

They spent a long evening talking over the past.

"I wonder if I shall ever see you again, Ronald!" Mrs. Anderson said, with tears in her eyes, as they rose to say goodbye.

"You need nor fear about that, Janet, woman," her husband said. "Ronald and Malcolm aye fall on their legs, and we shall see them back again like two bad pennies. Besides," he went on more seriously, "there will be an end of these savage doings in the north before long. Loyal men in Scotland are crying out everywhere against them, and the feeling in England will be just as strong when the truth is known there, and you will see that before long there will be a general pardon granted to all except the leaders. Fortunately Ronald and Malcolm are not likely to be in the list of exceptions, and before a year is up they will be able to come back if they will without fear of being tapped on the shoulder by a king's officer."

"I shall come back again if I can, you may be sure," Ronald said. "Of course I do not know yet what my father and mother's plans may be; but for myself I shall always look upon Scotland as my home, and come back to it as soon as I have an opportunity."

"You do not intend to stay in the French army?"

"Certainly not. After the treatment my father has received I have no inclination to serve France. The chief reason why Scotchmen have entered her service has been that they were driven from home, and that they looked to France for aid to place the Stuarts on the throne again. Now that the time has come, France has done nothing to aid, and has seen the Stuart cause go down without striking a blow to assist it. I consider that cause is lost for ever, and shall never again draw my sword against the House of Hanover. Nor have I had any reason for loving France. After living in a free country like Scotland, who could wish to live in a country where one man's will is all powerful -- where the people are still no better than serfs -- where the nobles treat the law as made only for them -- where, as in my father's case, a man may not even marry according to his own will without incurring the risk of a life's imprisonment? No, I have had enough of France; and if ever I get the opportunity I shall return to Scotland to live."

The next morning early Ronald and Malcolm embarked on board a ship. Their permits were closely scrutinized before the vessel started, and a thorough search was made before she was allowed to sail. When the officers were satisfied that no fugitives were concealed on board they returned to shore, and the vessel started on her voyage for London.



CHAPTER XX: Happy Days.


On arriving in London, after ten days' voyage, Ronald and Malcolm obtained garments of the ordinary cut. The one attired himself as an English gentleman, the other in a garb suitable to a confidential attendant or steward, and after a stay of two or three days they made their way by coach down to Southampton.

Here they remained for a week, and then effected a bargain with the captain of a fishing lugger to set them on shore in France. As the two countries were at war this could only be done by landing them at night at some quiet spot on the French coast. The lugger cruised about a couple of days, and then, choosing a quiet night when there was a mist on the water, she ran in as closely as she dared, then the boat was lowered, and Malcolm and Ronald were rowed to shore and landed a few miles south of Boulogne.

When it was light they made their way to a village; here but few questions were asked them, for many refugees from Scotland and England were crossing to France. As they had been well provided with funds by Andrew they posted to Paris, and on arriving there put up at the inn where they had stopped on the occasion of their first visit.

"We must be careful," Malcolm said, "how we stir out until we know how things stand. The first thing to do is to find out whether the regiment is still in Paris."

This they were not long in doing, as their host was able to inform them at once that it had left the capital several months before, and on comparing dates they found that its departure had followed within a day or two that of their own flight from Paris.

"It was no doubt meant as a punishment," Ronald said, "on Colonel Hume for acting as my second in that affair with the duke. I hope that no further ill befell him."

His mind was set easy on this score by the news that Colonel Hume had accompanied his regiment. On asking after Marshal Saxe they learned that he was away on the frontier, where he had been carrying on the war with great success, Antwerp, Mons, Namur, and Charleroi all having been captured.

The king was in person with the army. This being the case Ronald saw that it was of no use remaining in Paris, as he was without friend or protector there, and he dared not rejoin his regiment until he learned whether the king's anger was as hot as ever. He therefore started at once with Malcolm and travelled down to La Grenouille.

It was a joyful meeting between him and his parents, who were in the greatest anxiety respecting him, for although he had written several times, communication was uncertain owing to the war, the only chance of sending letters being by such French vessels as arrived at Scottish ports after running the gauntlet with English cruisers. Some of these had been captured on the way back, and only two of Ronald's letters had arrived safely. The last of these had been written a few days after the battle of Falkirk, and Ronald had then stated that he no longer had any hope of the final success of the expedition. They had received the news of the defeat at Culloden, and had since passed nearly three months of painful suspense, relieved only by the arrival of Ronald himself. He found his mother looking well and happy; his father had somewhat recovered from his rheumatism, and looked a younger man by some years than when he saw him last.

"He will recover fast now," the countess said; "but he has worried about you night and day, Ronald. I hope that you will stay with us for a time. We have seen so little of you yet."

Ronald learned that a few days after his flight an officer had appeared at the chateau with the royal order for his arrest, and it was from him that his parents had first learned the news of his duel with the Duke of Chateaurouge and its result.

"I could hardly believe my ears, Ronald," his father said; "to think that my son, scarce a man yet, should have killed in fair fight one of the first duellists in France. It seemed almost incredible. Malcolm told me that you were a first rate swordsman, but this seemed extraordinary indeed. The officer remained here for three days, and then, convinced that you had not made in this direction, left us. A day or two afterwards we received the letter you wrote us from Nantes, saying that you were starting for Scotland with the prince. I grumbled sorely over my rheumatism, I can tell you, which prevented my drawing my sword once more for the Stuarts; but it was no use my thinking of it."

"No, indeed," the countess said; "and I can tell you, Ronald, that had he been ever so well I should not have let him go. After being separated from one's husband for sixteen years one is not going to let him run off to figure as a knight errant at his pleasure."

"Your friend Colonel Hume wrote to us," the colonel said with a smile at his wife's word, "giving us details of the duel, and speaking of your conduct in the highest terms. He said that at present the king was furious; but that he hoped in time he would get over it. Colonel Hume had seen Marshal Saxe, who had promised on the first opportunity to speak to the king, and to open his eyes to the character of his late favourite, and to tell him of the attempts which the duke had made to prevent the royal orders for our release being carried out, and to remove you by assassination. Two months ago he wrote again to us from Antwerp, which had just fallen, saying that Marshal Saxe had bid him tell us that the king was in a much more favourable disposition, and that he had taken the opportunity when his majesty was in a good humour to tell him the whole circumstances of your journey with the orders for our release, and that in consequence the king had made other inquiries respecting the late duke, and had acknowledged that he had been greatly deceived as to his character. At the same time, as your name had been by the king's order removed from the list of officers of the Scottish Dragoons immediately after the duel, he recommended that should you return to France you should not put yourself in the king's way or appear at all in public for the present.

"'The marshal,' Colonel Hume wrote, 'has made your affair a personal matter, and he, as is his habit in war, will persevere until he succeeds. His reputation and influence are higher than ever, and are daily rising; be assured that when the campaign is over, and he reaps all the honours to which he is entitled, he will push your claim as before.'"

In the first week in October the suspense from which they had suffered as to the fate of Prince Charles was relieved by the news that on the 29th of September he had safely landed at the little port of Roscoff near Morlaix. He made his way to Paris, and Ronald, accompanied by Malcolm, took horse at once and rode there to pay his respects to the prince, and congratulate him on his escape. The prince received him with great warmth and cordiality, and from his own lips Ronald learned the story of his adventures.

He had, eight days after Culloden, embarked for the cluster of islets to which the common name of Long Island is applied. After wandering from place to place and suffering greatly from hunger, he gained South Uist, where his wants were relieved by Clanranald. The English, suspecting or learning that he was there, landed two thousand men on the island, and commenced an active search for him. He must have been detected had not Flora Macdonald -- stepdaughter of a captain in a militia regiment which formed part of the troops who had landed -- upon being appealed to by Lady Clanranald, nobly undertaken to save him.

She obtained from her stepfather a passport to proceed to Skye with a manservant and a maid. Charles was dressed in female clothes, and passed as Betty Bourk, while a faithful Highlander, Neil M'Eachan, acted as her servant. They started at night in an open boat, and disembarked in Skye. Skye was ever a hostile country, as its chief, Sir Alexander Macdonald, who had at first wavered, was now a warm supporter of the Hanoverians, and was with the Duke of Cumberland. Nevertheless Flora appealed to his wife, Lady Margaret, a daughter of the Earl of Eglinton, and informed her that her attendant was Prince Charles in disguise. Lady Margaret nobly responded to her appeal. Her own house was full of militia officers, and she intrusted Charles to the charge of Macdonald of Kingsburgh, her husband's kinsman and factor, who took the party to his house.

The next day Charles took leave of Flora Macdonald with warm expressions of gratitude, and passed over to the Isle of Rasay, in the disguise of a male servant. Thence he made his way to the mainland, where on landing he was compelled to lie in concealment for two days cooped up within a line of sentries. After many dangers he took refuge in a mountain cave inhabited by seven robbers, who treated him with the greatest kindness, and supplied his wants for the three weeks he remained with them. After many other adventures he joined his faithful adherents Cluny and Locheil, who were in hiding in a retreat on the side of Mount Benalder, and here he lived in comparative comfort until he heard that two French vessels under the direction of Colonel Warren of Dillon's regiment had anchored in Lochnanuagh.

Travelling by night he made his way to that place, and embarked on the 20th of September, attended by Locheil, Colonel Roy Stuart, and about a hundred other fugitives who had learned of the arrival of the French vessels. It was almost precisely the spot at which he had disembarked fourteen months before. A fog concealed the vessel as she passed through the British fleet lying to intercept her, and they reached Roscoff after a nine days' voyage.

Such was the tale which Prince Charles told to Ronald. He had after Culloden entirely recovered his high spirits, and had borne all his fatigues and hardships with the greatest cheerfulness and good humour, making light of hunger, fatigue, and danger. Ronald only remained two days in Paris, and then returned home.

In October the campaign of Flanders ended with the complete defeat of Prince Charles of Lorraine at Rancaux, and Marshal Saxe returned to Paris, where he was received with enthusiasm by the population. The royal residence of Chambord was granted him for life, and he was proclaimed marshal general of the king's armies. A fortnight later Colonel Leslie received a letter from him, saying that he had received his majesty's command that he with the countess and his son should present themselves in Paris, and that he was happy to say that the king's disposition was most favourable. They set off at once. On their arrival there they called upon Marshal Saxe, who greeted the colonel as an old friend, and refused to listen to the warm expression of gratitude of Leslie and the countess.

"Say nothing about it, madam," he exclaimed. "Your son won my heart, and I was only too glad to be of service to him and my old comrade here. What is the use of a man winning victories if he cannot lend a helping hand to his friends!"

The next day they went down to Versailles, where Marshal Saxe presented them to the king in a private audience. Louis received them graciously.

"I fear, countess, that you and your husband have been treated with some harshness; but our royal ear was deceived by one in whom we had confidence. Your husband and yourself were wrong in marrying without the consent and against the will of your father, and such marriages cannot be permitted; but at the request of Marshal Saxe, who has done so much for France that I cannot refuse anything he asks, I have now consented to pardon and overlook the past, and have ordered my chancellor to prepare an order reinstating you in all the possessions and estates of the countess, your mother. I hope that I shall often see you together with your husband and son, both of whom have done good service as soldiers of France, at my court; and now that I see you," he said with a gracious smile, "I cannot but feel how great a loss our court has suffered by your long absence from it."

Upon leaving the king's private chamber and entering the great audience hall Colonel Hume came up and grasped the hand of his old friend, and was introduced by him to his wife; while many of the courtiers, who were either connections or friends of the family of the countess, also gathered round them, for the news that she was restored to royal favour had spread quickly. The countess knew how small was the real value of such advances, but she felt that it was best for her husband and son's sake to receive them amicably. For a few weeks they remained in Paris, taking part in the brilliant fetes which celebrated the success of the French arms, and they then retired to the handsome chateau which was now the property of the countess.

Here they lived quietly for two years, making occasional visits to Paris. At the end of that time Ronald received a letter from Andrew Anderson, to whom he had written several times since his return to France. He told him that he had just heard that Glenlyon and the rest of the property which had been confiscated after the rising of 1715 was for sale. It had been bestowed upon a neighbouring chief, who had been active in the Hanoverian cause. He was now dead without leaving issue, and his wife, an English lady, was anxious to dispose of the property and return to England.

"I do not know whether your father is disposed to buy back his estates," Andrew wrote, "but I hear that a general amnesty will very shortly be issued to all who took part in the insurrection, saving only certain notorious persons. The public are sick of bloodshed. There have been upwards of eighty trials and executions, besides the hundreds who were slaughtered in the Highlands. Besides this, thousands have been transported. But public opinion is now so strong, and persons of all shades of politics are so disgusted with the brutal ferocity which has been shown, that it is certain government will ere long be compelled to pass an act of amnesty. In the meantime, if it should be your father's wish to purchase the property, I can buy it in my name. The priced asked is very low. The income arising from it is stated to be about four hundred a year, and four thousand pounds will be accepted for it. I understand that as the late owner took no part in the insurrection, and joined the Duke of Cumberland when he came north, the property is in good condition and the clansmen have escaped the harrying which befell all those who sided with Charles Stuart."

Ronald at once laid the letter before his father, who, after reading it through, passed it, without a word, to the countess.

"You would like to return to Scotland?" she asked quietly, when she read it. "Do not hesitate to tell me, dear, if you would. It is no matter to me whether we live there or here, so long as I have you and Ronald with me."

Colonel Leslie was silent.

"For Ronald's sake," she went on, "perhaps it would be better so. You are both of opinion that the cause of the Stuarts is lost for ever, and he is determined that he will never again take part in any rising. He does not care again to enter the French army, nor, indeed, is there any reason why Scotchmen should do so, now that they no longer look for the aid of the King of France to set the Stuarts on the English throne. I myself have no ties here. My fifteen years of seclusion have separated me altogether from my family, and although they are willing enough to be civil now, I cannot forget that all those years they did nothing towards procuring our liberty. The king has so far given way that he has restored me my mother's estates, but it was only because he could not refuse Marshal Saxe, and he does not like French lands to be held by strangers; therefore I feel sure, that were I to ask his permission to sell my estates and to retire with you to Scotland he would at once grant my request."

"No, Amelie, it would not be fair to accept your generous offer."

"But it would be no sacrifice," she urged. "I have little reason to love France, and I can assure you I should be just as happy in your country as in my own."

"But it would be exile," the colonel said.

"No more exile than you and Ronald are suffering here. Besides, I suppose we should get as many comforts in Scotland as here in France. Of course our estates here will fetch a sum many times larger than that which would purchase Glenlyon, and we need not live all our time among the mountains you tell me of, but can go sometimes to Edinburgh or even to London. Even if you did not wish it, I should say it would be far better to do so for Ronald's sake. You have lived so long in France that you may have become a Frenchman; but it is not so with Ronald."

It was not until two or three days later that the discussion came to an end and the countess had her way. Colonel Leslie had resisted stoutly, but his heart beat at the thought of returning to the home of his youth and ending his days among the clansmen who had followed him and his fathers before him. Ronald had taken no part whatever in the debate, but his mother read in his eyes the delight which the thought of returning to Scotland occasioned him. As soon as this was settled they went to Paris, and as the countess had foreseen, the king was pleased at once to give his consent to her disposing of her lands on his approval of the purchaser.

No difficulty was experienced on this score, as a noble whose lands adjoined her own offered at once to purchase them. As soon as this was arranged instructions were sent to Andrew to purchase not only the Glenlyon property, but the other estates of its late owner.

In due time a letter was received from Andrew saying that he had arranged for the purchase of the whole for the sum of thirteen thousand pounds, and the money was at once sent over through a Dutch banking house. Very shortly afterwards, at the end of 1747, the act of general amnesty was passed, and as Ronald's name was not among those excluded from its benefits they at once prepared to return to Scotland. The journey was facilitated by the fact that shortly after the passing of the act, peace was concluded between England and France.

Accompanied by Malcolm, Colonel Leslie, the countess, and Ronald sailed for Scotland. The colonel and his wife remained in Edinburgh while Ronald and Malcolm went to Glasgow, where Andrew had in readiness all the papers transferring the estates purchased in his name to Colonel Leslie, who shortly afterwards journeyed north with his wife and son and took possession of his ancestral home amid the enthusiastic delight of the clansmen, who had never ceased to regret the absence of him whom they considered as their rightful chief.

There is little more to tell. Colonel Leslie lived but a few years after returning home, and Ronald then succeeded him as Leslie of Glenlyon. He had before this married the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman, and passed his time between Glenlyon and Edinburgh, varied by an occasional visit to London.

The countess never regretted her native land, but, happy in the affection of her son and daughter in law and their children, lived happily with them until nearly the end of the century. Malcolm remained the faithful and trusty friend of the family; and his brother and his wife were occasionally persuaded to pay a visit to Glenlyon, where their kindness to Ronald as a child was never forgotten. Happily the rising of '45 was the last effort on behalf of the Stuarts. Scotland accepted the decision as final, and the union between the two countries became close and complete. Henceforth Scotchmen went no longer to fight in the armies of France, but took service in that of their own country, and more than one of Ronald's grandsons fought stoutly in Spain under Wellington.

<eob>

The Boy Scouts Of The Life Saving Crew

By

Robert Shaler



Chapter I. Out On The Trestle.


"We're almost there now," said Alec Sands as he steered the big touring car around a curve in the road and out upon a long stretch of hard, smooth, well-oiled clay. "Unless I'm mistaken, that white church spire over there beyond the fringe of palm trees marks the end of our journey. I really didn't know it was going to be such a long run, or I'd have told Bronson to send some lunch with us."

"Wish you had!" Chester Brownell exclaimed, leaning back in his seat in the tonneau. "I'm almost starved!"

"I reckon we can make up for it to-night," added Billy Worth, who sat in front beside Alec. "This Santario is quite a place, isn't it, Alec?"

"I think so," answered young Sands. "From what I've heard, I guess it's a sizable town now, though only a few years ago it was a mere village inhabited by fishermen. Someone discovered that the soil two miles inland from the village was suited for raising oranges, so he bought up several acres and planted an orange grove. Since then others have followed the leader, and now the village has grown so large that the oldest inhabitant can hardly recognize it."

The three young tourists who were speeding along at a good thirty miles an hour, were all members of a troop of Boy Scouts whose summer headquarters were located at Pioneer Lake, "up North." Alec Sands, the captain of the Otter patrol, and Billy Worth, a member of the Wolf patrol, had been prominent in many of the contests held at Pioneer Camp. Chester Brownell of the Otters was less well known to the boys of the troop, but Alec had come to know him at Hilltop School and had found in him a promising athlete.

At this time the boys were far away from the scene of their earlier adventures, being on a visit at the winter residence of Alec's parents-Palmdune, a splendid mansion near a picturesque old town on the Florida seacoast.

It was early spring and the weather had not yet begun to be oppressively warm. Indeed, the nights were still cold with frequent threats of frost,-that dread enemy of the budding orange groves. Alternating with days and nights of mild stillness were intervals of semi-storm, of rough winds that swept the low-lying shore and menaced coastwise shipping with the danger of being blown landward upon the numerous sandbars and keys.

Like other towns and villages in that part of the country, Santario had thrived all winter on the influx of wealthy Northerners who were accustomed to spend "the worst months of the year" there. And now these pleasant resorts were just beginning to slide back into their usual grooves of inactivity, and to have the quiet, unruffled appearance which was most familiar though not most welcome to their oldest inhabitants. Claynor, the nearest railway station to Santario, was the town where the three boys had spent that day. The place was rich with interesting historical associations, and they had enjoyed visiting it. Its little museum contained many relics not only of the earliest Spanish colonists but also of the later wars with the Seminole Indians under their great chief Osceola. At present the boys were returning, late in the afternoon, to Palmdune, where Alec hoped to have another guest for the Easter vacation.

His expected guest, who had not yet arrived, was Hugh Hardin, formerly leader of the Wolf patrol at Pioneer Camp. After some hesitation on Hugh's part, owing to the fact that he and Alec had not always been on the best of terms in the past, Hugh had persuaded himself that to decline Alec's invitation without sufficient reason would be both ungracious and unfriendly, and so he had accepted it in the same spirit with which it was given. As a matter of fact, Hugh had done so gladly, for he had a genuine liking and respect for his rival, Alec Sands, and he had usually been the first to regret and to make amends for their previous unpleasantness. On his journey down South, Hugh was even now eagerly looking forward to the visit, while at the same time his three friends, bowling along the highway in the big touring car, were discussing his arrival.

"If we take the car out again to-morrow to drive over to Claynor to meet Hugh, we'll take some grub with us,-you can bet on that!" said Alec. "I thought there was some kind of an inn at Claynor, but we found only that clam-and-oyster parlor!"

"Gee, what a joint!" exclaimed Billy in an aggrieved tone. "Bucking broncos wouldn't have dragged me into it!"

"Me, neither," Chester added with ungrammatical emphasis.

"I had a letter from camp to-day-from Buck Winter," he continued. "We left so early I didn't have time to show it to you fellows before we started. Buck says Tom Sherwood has been elected temporary leader of our patrol, Alec. Hope he'll be as good a one as you were, old scout."

"Thanks!" responded Alec, laughing. "How much do you want for handing me that one, Chet? Can you change five cents?"

"At this moment," replied Chester, "I couldn't change a-Hello! look at that!"

As he uttered the words, he leaned forward, pointing over Billy's shoulder. Alec, after one quick glance, threw out the clutch and jammed on the emergency brake with such suddenness that Chester, caught unprepared, tumbled back upon the seat. Before he had recovered from this jolt, he saw Alec and Billy jump out of the auto and run swiftly through the tall grass toward a railway track close to the road. Leaping from the car he followed them at full speed.

The track at this point made a long curve preparatory to crossing a narrow trestle over an inlet of the ocean, scarcely a hundred yards distant from the spot where they had left the car. Not quite halfway across the trestle, a girl, carrying a basket, was advancing, hurrying over the ties, and behind her trotted a big shaggy dog. The three lads had sprinted forward over a sandy embankment toward the track because they heard, in the distance behind the girl, the sudden shrill whistle of a locomotive and the rumble of an approaching train.

The girl also heard it, glanced back over her shoulder, and with a shriek of terror, flung the basket aside and fled onward as fast as she could run.

As the young Scouts dashed to the rescue, the ominous rumbling grew louder and louder; the rails began to hum; then, with another warning blast of the whistle, the freight train appeared around the bend and thundered toward the long bridge.

Billy was the first to reach the end of the trestle toward which the girl was coming rapidly. Running forward, leaping from one tie to another, he realized how precarious was the footing, how easily one misstep might hurl anyone into the depths below. Between the ties underfoot he caught glimpses of the flashing green water swirling around the upright piles as the tide flowed in, and, looking up, he could see the strained, desperate expression on the girl's white face.

"Don't lose your nerve!" he called to her. "You'll get across all right." He was not so confident as he appeared to be, but he knew instinctively that she needed encouragement. "Come on, come on; but take care!" he shouted. "We're going to flag that train."

Alec was close at his heels. Stripping off his coat and waving it frantically, he overtook Billy just as young Worth, bounding forward, almost collided with the girl and caught her outstretched hands in his own. Some little distance behind them, Chester stood at the end of the trestle, gazing with horror-stricken eyes at his friends and wondering what was the best thing he could do at this crisis.

"Oh!" he groaned despairingly. "They'll never stop it! They'll all be killed!"

Without waiting to see what progress Billy and the girl were making as they turned and ran, Alec bounded forward for several yards, and stood in the middle of the track until the train was almost upon him. Then, with quick decision, he leaped to one side and flung himself down on the ground.

The train passed him amid a whirl of dust and sand and small stones, and in another minute it was out upon the bridge. Car after car thundered past, with a deafening rumble of wheels. There was a sudden shriek and a jar of the brakes being applied, but before the engine had come to a standstill it had almost crossed the trestle.

Alec sprang to his feet before the train stopped. He looked wildly around and back to the place where he had last seen Billy and the girl. They had disappeared!

"What has happened?" he wondered, in a stupor of dread. "Did the train hit them, or did they jump off the trestle into the water? I must go back and find out! Oh, there's Chester at the other end of the bridge. He's waving his arms and shouting."

Alec wheeled and ran back swiftly down the track and out on the trestle. The train blocked his way, but he climbed up a small iron ladder at the rear of the last car, ran along the roofs of the cars, and dropped to the ground just behind the tender, on the left side of the track. There, stretched out flat on one of the ties, he peered over, and his eyes met those of Billy Worth, full of the strain of waiting, upturned to his face.

With one arm around the girl, whose arms clung about his neck, and the other flung over one of the trestle rods under the track, Billy hung there straight downward over the water fully twenty feet below. Alec saw that Billy's grip was weakening and that there was no time to lose.

Swiftly he twined his legs around the tie and lowered his body as far as he could. Then he stretched out his arms; but it was not enough; he could not reach the girl.



Chapter II. The Rescue.


"Can you lift her up a little, Billy?" he asked in a low voice.

"I'm afraid to," Billy whispered brokenly. "If I move, I'll-I'll lose my-grip."

"Drop, then! Drop into the water, both of you!"

"Don't dare-she can't swim-current's too swift. Guess I'll have to, though, or else -- " He felt the girl's arms loosen. "Hang on to me!" he said sternly.

"No, no!" cried the girl. "Let me go! I'll try-try to swim. And you can drop after me and-and-pull me out! Let me go!"

"Wait!" shouted Alec. "Can you hold on a minute longer, Billy? There's someone coming!"

Then came the sound of someone running over the ties, and Alec gave a little gasp of relief.

"Is that you, Chet?" he asked, without looking up or turning his head.

"Engineer," answered a gruff but tremulous voice. "Here, let me help you."

"Take hold of my feet, then," Alec replied. "Lower me down another six inches so that I can reach them. Quick, now!"

The man obeyed promptly. While he was speaking, Alec had slackened his hold with his legs, and the engineer lost not a minute in catching his ankles in a firm grip. The next moment Alec held the girl in his arms, and he managed, by a great effort, to pass her to Chester, who had just run up to help.

"Now, catch hold again," he said to the engineer as he leaned over the edge once more. "Get a good grip this time; Billy's no lightweight."

"Hi! what are you going to do?" yelled Chester, dropping down beside him. "Alec, let me take a turn! I can pull Billy up if -- "

"Never mind me; I can climb up alone," called Billy in a faint voice from under the track. And he swung sidewise until he could brace his feet against a cross-pile.

Slowly, with aching muscles, he drew his body upward; inch by inch he climbed, grasping the projecting ends of the ties. The strain on his tired arms was tremendous, his shoulders felt numb, his hands clutched wildly-slipped-and with a gasp, he lost his hold, and fell down, down, into the flowing tide.

A tremendous splash sent a shower of spray up into the faces of his friends. Blinking, they saw him sink, saw the clear green water close over his head, and after waiting breathlessly for several minutes, saw him bob up to the surface and strike out for the nearest point of land. They knew he could swim like a seal, but they feared that, weakened by the strain he had just undergone, he might fail to make any headway against the current. As it was, they saw that he would be swept beyond the point toward which he was struggling into a broader space of open water that looked very dark and deep.

Chester was just about to fling off his coat and shoes on an impulse to dive to the assistance of his friend, when he was checked by an outcry from the girl. Plucky and alert, she had quickly recovered her presence of mind, and now she ran along past the engine to the end of the bridge, calling:

"Carlo! Here, Carlo! Come here, boy!"

A deep-throated bark greeted her, and her companion and protector, the big dog, dashed to meet her, wagging his tail and showing every sign of canine joy at seeing her again. But without pausing to respond to his enthusiasm, she sped along the shore of the inlet until she came opposite where Billy was now floating with the tide, wisely resting before he continued his exertions.

Pointing toward him, the girl urged Carlo into the water. "Get him, Carlo, good boy! Go on! Go on! Get him!"

And the faithful animal seemed to understand at once what was required; at any rate, he plunged boldly into the water and paddled out straight as an arrow toward Billy.

Giving a cheer, Alec and Chester, followed by the trainman, ran over to the spot where the girl was standing. Meanwhile, Carlo had come abreast of the swimmer, who, seeing him, had turned over and was resuming his strokes. Billy was too tired to disdain the noble dog's assistance, so he put out one hand and grasped Carlo's collar. Using his other arm and his legs, he helped the big dog to tow him back to the embankment.

It was slow work, and the tidal current was merciless, but at last they reached shallower water where Billy could touch bottom. Releasing the dog, he waded to the shore and threw himself on the coarse grass.

"Billy, old scout, you're a hero!" exclaimed Alec, bending over his breathless comrade.

"You bet he is, boys!" agreed the engineer. "Anything pluckier or cooler than the way he dropped over the side of the trestle, with the girl hanging onto him for dear life,-when they thought they wouldn't be able to get ahead of the train,-I never saw in all my born days! And I've seen a good many nervy stunts, too,-including your hand-me-up rescue of the girl," he added turning to Alec, whose face, pale with anxiety, flushed crimson at these words of praise.

"Are you all right, Billy Wolf?" queried Chester, alarmed at Billy's silence.

"Yes, I'll be-all right-in a few-minutes," panted Billy, raising his head. As he did so, his gaze met that of the girl, and he saw that her dark blue eyes were filled with tears. "Oh, there you are!" he observed, smiling. "Not hurt, are you?"

"Not at all, thanks to you!" she answered, a little sob in her voice. "I-I tried to thank your friend, a few minutes ago, but I haven't thanked you for saving -- "

"Oh, that's all right!" interposed Billy. "We're only too glad that we happened to come along in time. Aren't we, Alec?"

"Of course we are!" assented the other rescuer warmly. He patted Carlo's fine head. "He's a great old dog, isn't he? Whew! Stop shaking water all over us, Carlo! Can't you see Billy is wet enough already?"

"Down, Carlo!" commanded the young girl.

Carlo bounded away, barking joyously.

Billy stood up, dripping wet and shivering slightly, in spite of the warm afternoon sunlight. His hair was matted with sticky salt water, his clothes were soiled with mud and sand, but he laughed as he shook himself. Chester and Alec began to pat and thump him vigorously to quicken circulation.

"Take a few sprints up and down the bank," advised Chester. "You're chilled, Billy; your teeth are chattering."

"Nonsense!" laughed Billy. "I'm all right."

As if to prove this assertion, he began a wrestling match with Carlo, who had come frisking up to him. But this sport was interrupted by the departure of the engineer.

"Well, I must be getting up steam again," said the man. "Good-by, all!"

After shaking hands all around, he walked rapidly back to his engine, and soon the big freight was on its way again, the various trainmen waving their hands in farewell.

"I must be on my way, too," the girl said, breaking an awkward little pause which followed the last echo of the vanishing train. "I was going over to Santario, to see my father. He is the keeper of the Life Saving Station at Red Key," she explained. "His name is Anderson,-Peter Anderson. Mine is Ruth."

"We're Boy Scouts," replied Alec, feeling that some introduction was due. "This chap is William Worth,-we call him Billy, for short,-this is Chester Brownell, and I'm Alec Sands. We are on our way to Santario, too; we left our machine over yonder. If you like, we'll be glad to give you a ride. Will you come? It's getting late, the sun's going down, and you'll never walk all the way to Santario before dusk. Better come with us."

His suggestion was offered in frank kindness and Ruth Anderson was quick to appreciate it.

"It's very good of you to invite me," she said. "Thank you very much! I'd love a ride. You see, I've never been in an automobile. I've been in a lifeboat, though; but that's not exciting,-unless there's a storm!"

"That's something we've never done-gone out in a lifeboat," Chester remarked. "I visited a station on the coast of Maine two summers ago, but I didn't see the crew at work."

"I've never even seen a Life Saving Station," said Billy.

"I have it-a great idea!" exclaimed Alec. "Some day, soon after Hugh gets here, we'll motor down to Red Key and -- "

Ruth interrupted him with a silvery laugh. "Oh, that will be fine!" she cried gaily. "Dad will be so glad to see you-all and to thank you for all you've done for me to-day. And I'm sure you'll like the crew over at Red Key; they're the nicest, kindest, bravest fellows in the world! And they'll like you, too; I know they will!"



Chapter III. Coming Events.


Ruth's spirits, considering the shock and excitement which she had experienced scarcely an hour ago, seemed to have risen wonderfully. And somehow her light-hearted gaiety was soon felt by the three courageous young Scouts who had shared her danger. As they all walked over to the waiting auto, chattering and laughing, even Billy forgot his sorry plight, though he was still "soaked and sticky," as he said jocosely. Alec went to find his coat which he had cast aside, and, returning with it presently, he made Billy remove his wet one and put on the dry garment as well as the dust-robe which lay folded upon the seat in the tonneau.

"I'll look like an Indian with a blanket," said Billy, laughing.

"Never mind; please put it around you tight-like this," urged Ruth, and forthwith she wrapped it shawl-wise around Billy, who immediately ceased to demur.

She was about to spring into the car, when she paused, one foot on the running board, and looked questioningly at Alec.

"Oh, I almost forgot poor Carlo!" she exclaimed, struck by a sudden misgiving. "What can we do with him? He can't run all the way and keep up with us, can he?"

"Not much!" was Alec's emphatic reply. "He's going to ride with us. There's plenty of room in the car."

"But he's dripping wet!"

"No matter. In he goes! Nothing's too good for old Carlo! Now you and Billy jump in and take the rear seat, and make him sit on the floor."

They obeyed without more ado, though some persuasion was required to make Carlo get into the car and lie down at their feet. He showed a decided preference for jumping up on the seat between Ruth and Billy, and once there, for shaking himself vigorously. Billy good-humoredly protested that he was wet enough, and at last Carlo took the hint to subside.

Chester cranked the machine, sprang in beside Alec, and they were off, bowling over the long smooth road at a rate that defied the rural speed limits.

Alec was an excellent chauffeur, and he handled his big car with skill and assurance. There was very little traffic on the road at this time of day, so he had to look out only for an occasional mule-drawn market wagon driven by a negro in ragged blue "jeans," or now and then a swarthy, smiling pedestrian who waved his hat and called out some jolly greeting, as they flashed by. Ruth was delighted with the ride. When they had gone two or three miles beyond a small settlement near the coast, she asked Alec to drive slower so that she might point out to him some fine fishing grounds between the low-lying keys.

"Dad said there is always good fishing out yonder," she told him, "and he ought to know, because he's very familiar with the shore all the way from Red Key to Santario. You see, he used to be one of the regular beach patrol before he was made captain of the Life Saving Station."

"Is that so?" responded Billy, with interest. "I reckon he could tell us some great yarns about his experiences."

"Yes, indeed. I'll ask him to," promised Ruth, "when you-all come over to Red Key and see the station some day."

"We'll do that as soon as Hugh comes," Alec said, pleased with the suggestion.

"D'you think we could manage to put in a day or two fishing?" ventured Chester, whose enthusiasm for all kinds of water sports was unbounded.

"Yes, I guess so," answered Alec.

"Are you boys all Scouts?" Ruth asked after a few minutes, during which she had listened attentively to reminiscences of their fishing and canoeing trips at Pioneer Camp. And on being assured that they were, she continued: "My brother is, too; he belongs to Florida Troop No.-I forget the troop number, but anyway it's the Bear patrol. They had a camp near Okechobee last summer."

"Where are they now?"

"They're going to meet at Claynor for a week or two, and then go on an exploration of the Everglades," said Ruth. "Perhaps my brother and you-all will get acquainted one of these days; and that would be fine!"

"What's your brother's name?" asked Chester.

"Marcus," answered the girl; "but everybody calls him Mark."

"We'd be glad to know him, of course," said Alec, politely; and Billy promptly added, "Sure thing, we would."

Talking thus, they arrived at a place called Five Corners from the fact that it was the meeting point of five roads, or rather, the point where two other roads cut into the main highway. Ruth then suggested that they should set her down, for by taking one of the roads, she could reach Red Key within an hour, while they could continue their journey to Santario. But Alec would not consent to this suggestion, and he turned the car down the road leading to the little village that clustered around the life saving station.

Arrived there, Ruth introduced the boys to her father, who thanked them warmly for their bravery and invited them to visit the station early in the following week.

"The weather is still sort o' uncertain at this time o' year, and we may have storms almost any day," said Peter Anderson. "Usually they don't amount to much along this coast, but you never can tell. Anyway, come over when you can."

"We will, thanks," Alec replied; and after a cordial farewell, the boys drove away. An hour later they were at Palmdune, where their story had a sympathetic hearing and they were treated to a bountiful supper before they went to bed. Billy retired somewhat earlier than the others, yielding to Mrs. Sands' advice. He really was more tired than the rest, and, furthermore, he wanted to write a letter home.

When Alec and Chester went up to the former's room, which they occupied together,-Billy was to share the adjoining room with Hugh, later,-they were not at all sleepy, and they continued their animated discussion of plans for the next week. Even after he put out the light and jumped into bed, Alec continued talking, until a soft snore from the other side of the room showed him that Chester had already fallen asleep. He soon followed the example, but his mind was not idle, for he dreamed that he had gone to sea in a big schooner, and was sailing over the blue ocean.

In his dream, the captain of the schooner was talking to him and telling him what a fine sailor he had become. Presently he invited Alec to breakfast with him and handed the young mariner a plate of hot buttered toast and the fin of a shark fried in oil. When Alec had eaten this, the captain told him to go up on deck and see what the weather was, for the sea had begun to be rough and the ship to pitch and roll in the trough of the waves. Alec did so, and to his astonishment he found the foamy seas tossing and roaring and the officers shouting orders to the men to take in sail.

Presently there came a terrific crash, the masts went by the board, the waves dashed over the ship, and Alec found himself tumbling among huge breakers, until, almost in an instant, he was thrown upon a beach where he lay helpless, unable to crawl out of the way of the angry waters. Every moment they threatened to carry him seaward again. In vain he tried to work his way up the sand dunes with his arms and legs. Presently down he came-to find himself sprawling on the floor!

"What's the matter?" exclaimed Chester, awakened by the noise. He sat up in his bed, looking around in sleepy bewilderment. "What made all that row?"

"I fell out of bed!" answered Alec dolefully. "I dreamed I was shipwrecked."

"I'm glad you're not," chuckled Chester. "Get into bed again,-and for pity's sake dream of something else."

Feeling decidedly foolish, Alec, without a word, meekly did as his friend advised.



Chapter IV. Plans And Projects.


The next morning was dull and foggy with a suspicion of a wet drizzle in the air. Nevertheless, the boys were up early, filled with eager anticipation of the good times in store. Had not Mr. Sands promised to announce that very day the plans he had made for their recreation?

Up at Pioneer Camp in the northern woods they were accustomed to enjoy a plunge in the lake before breakfast. So now, instead of dressing, they donned bathing suits, crept noiselessly downstairs and out on the lawn, and raced to the beach, which was only a short distance from the border of Mr. Sands' estate. Arriving there, they found it deserted, although footprints in the sand showed them that a surfman from the Life Saving Station, two miles further up the shore, had patroled the beach during the night.

Overhead, huge, white, jagged clouds moved slowly across the sky. Their close ranks were broken now and then by shafts of sunlight that pierced through the fog and struck steely-blue gleams from the undulating waves. A few white-caps dotted the ocean, and the heavy swells rolled ponderously toward the shore, breaking into cavernous surf that sounded like far-distant thunder. To Billy Worth, inland born and bred, the ocean seemed a source of endless wonder; to Alec and Chester, it had become a friendly element, and they proved their familiarity with it by wading boldly in and diving straight through the green breakers.

"Come on, Billy!" yelled Chester, bobbing up on the crest of a wave. "The water's fi -- "

No sooner were the words sputtered forth than Chester was lifted bodily, rolled over and over, and flung with a thump upon the beach, almost at Billy's feet. A wave had broken unexpectedly and had tossed him around as though he were a bit of driftwood. He staggered up, his eyes and mouth full of briny sand, and rubbed one shoulder gingerly.

"Where am I?" he inquired. "I must have turned a dozen complete somersaults! Gee! My shoulder's out of joint-at least, it feels so! Why don't you go in, Billy?"

"I'm going," replied Billy, doubling up with laughter. "Look at Alec out there! He's got tangled up with a bunch of seaweed, his arms and legs are covered with the slimy stuff! Seems to me, it's more fun watching you fellows; but here goes, anyway!"

He bounded forward and dived through the green arch of a comber with a skill and daring that rivaled the best feats of his companions. Chester followed him as soon as he could get the sand out of his eyes. For only a short while the three swimmers disported themselves in the waves, for they were sensible enough to go ashore before the exhilaration of the exercise had even begun to wear off.

As they returned to the house, they noticed one of the Revenue Marine Bureau cutters cruising along the shore not far out; and Alec explained that the cutters made regular trips up and down the coast during winter and early spring, to warn or assist imperiled vessels.

"I didn't know they came as far south as this," said Chester.

"Oh, yes; but not so often as they do along our northern coasts," Alec rejoined.

After breakfast, Mr. Sands called the three boys out on the broad veranda, and they all ensconced themselves in comfortable wicker chairs.

"Well, what have you got to say for yourself, Dad?" inquired Alec. "What's the good word?"

His father looked at him and laughed.

"I suppose you mean you're waiting to know what I intend to do with three lively lads who are making themselves too numerous to mention? Am I right?"

"Yes, since you put it that way. If you want to get rid of us, how are you going to do it?"

"Oh, there are plenty of ways. For instance, I might hustle you back to school before this quite unnecessary vacation is over," said Mr. Sands, who was fond of teazing and joking.

"Not much! Not if we know it!" protested Alec, glancing at Billy and Chester, whose faces were twisted into broad grins. "Besides, Hugh is coming to-day, and it wouldn't be decent of you, Dad, to punish us all like that. What have we done, anyway? We've been good and -- "

Here Chester gave way to laughter.

"You see!" cried Alec's father. "That was too much for Chester! He knows some secret which I'll have to worm out of him before I'll commit myself to any program."

"No, sir, not guilty!" declared Chester.

"On the level?"

"On the level," solemnly echoed Chester.

"All right, then. What would you all say to a trip down the coast?"

"A hunting and fishing trip?" Alec asked eagerly.

"Yes, if you want to try any fishing. You can't hunt; it's not the season, you know."

"We wouldn't want to, even if we could," his son replied on second thoughts. "But the fishing would be great sport! That's a bully idea of yours, Dad! I'm keen for the trip!"

"How about you two?" Mr. Sands turned to the others. "Does the plan strike your fancy?"

"It surely does!" was Billy's prompt reply.

"Simply great!" added Chester.

"Good. Do you think Hugh will like it?"

"I'm sure he will," Billy said. "Hugh's the boy for any sort of outing and adventure, sir, and this one will be just the thing."

"The ayes have it, then," said Mr. Sands. "Well, my plan is this: I've found out that I can charter the small sloop Arrow, Lemuel Vinton, owner and master,-you remember him, Alec?-and engage his services as captain. For crew, he'll have you four boys and a certain young man from my New York office whom I'm sending over to Havana on business. His name is Roy Norton; he's a good sailor, and one of the most sensible and likable young men I've ever had the good fortune to know. I'll expect you boys to stand by him as your leader on this trip, just as you would if he were George Rawson or your scout master, Denmead."

"Is he a scout?" asked Alec.

"I believe so; anyway, he knows a lot about scoutcraft, and he's deeply interested in it. He was delighted when I suggested his going on this trip."

"Aren't you going too, Dad?"

"Sorry, I can't. I'm obliged to go out to Chicago next week. Business. But Norton'll manage you chaps better than I could; he knows the ropes. He'll go as far as Key West with you. You'll leave him there and come back in the sloop, under strict sailing orders from Captain Vinton. Mind you, I want each one of you to give me his word to render prompt and willing obedience to any instructions you may receive, either from Norton or from the captain."

"We promise," replied the three Scouts. To himself Alec added: "Hope this man Norton isn't going to boss us around like four kids! George Rawson and Chief Denmead never do that. They never have to; a few words are enough! Wonder what Norton'll be like?"

Mr. Sands rose from his chair.

"What train is Hugh coming on?" he asked, consulting his watch.

"Why, Dad! You know there's only one a day now arriving at Claynor. It's due at eleven-eighteen."

"Well, you'd better be on the jump toward the garage, if you're going to drive the car over to meet that train. You've only a little more than an hour."

"We'll get there in time, all right," said Alec. "I wouldn't miss meeting Hugh-not for a lot! Come on, fellows."

About an hour later the touring car drew up at the platform of the station at Claynor, and its three occupants alighted to seek shelter from the clouds of dust that a stiff breeze was blowing from the roads. With the exception of the station agent and a few negro porters asleep on a long bench, not a soul was in sight near the little terminal. Across a small plaza, where a few dusty palm trees swayed dejectedly in the wind, could be seen a row of quaint shops, an old Spanish church, and a moving-picture theater; beyond this was a vista of the main street of the town, with people coming and going, to and fro, in a leisurely manner.

Presently, long after schedule time, the train rolled up and came to a standstill. Almost the first passenger to alight was a tall, slender, yet well-developed young fellow, who rushed forward at sight of his three comrades and seized their hands.

"Hugh, old scout, we thought you'd never get here!" exclaimed Alec.

"Your beastly old train's late," added Billy.

"I know it is-worse luck! Don't blame me! It wasn't my fault. I couldn't get here sooner or I would, you may be sure."

"Well, we're mighty glad to see you," said Chester.

"Come on, Hugh! We've got a lot of news to tell you on the way home!" exclaimed Alec.

"I'm all ears," replied Hugh, laughing.



Chapter V. A Visit Of Inspection.


Red Key, on which the Life Saving Station stood, was virtually an island, half sand, half coral reef. It was about one-quarter of a mile in length, very irregular in its general formation, and commanded an extensive sweep of shore,-being one of a group of Keys which are so small that they rarely appear on ordinary maps. Yet it was a fairly important post, one which required the presence of a regular crew on duty at certain seasons of the year.

In addition to the building which housed two surfboats, a big chest full of signal flags, another of rockets, a Lyle gun,-used for shooting coils of rope out to a floundering ship,-and a heavy cart on which the gun could be mounted like a piece of artillery when it was necessary to drag it to another part of the shore,-in addition to this building, there was a small cabin occupied by Peter Anderson, his wife, their son Mark, and their young daughter Ruth, who, however, spent most of the time with her aunt at Santario. The men of the crew were quartered in the loft of the main building, above the beach apparatus, and they took their meals at Anderson's cabin.

From this loft a steep and narrow staircase led up into a little tower which served as a lookout, and, in case of emergency, as a lighthouse. A big lamp, seldom lighted, hung on chains fastened to the roof of the tower.

All these details the boys learned on their first visit at the station, two days after Hugh's arrival. Anderson himself took them over the boathouse and explained everything to them, much to their satisfaction. Hugh was impressed with the practical efficiency of such equipment, as well as with the orderly readiness for instant service which marked both the apparatus and the men in charge. Chester admired the boats which were built for contending with the roughest surf, yet capable of being easily managed by the brawny men who wielded the heavy oars. Alec and Billy, glancing at the surf guns or carronades and then at the rows of life-preservers hung upon the walls, expressed a wish that they might some time have a chance to go out in those boats to the rescue of a ship in distress, or, at least, to see the crew in action, even if they should not be permitted to join in the work.

"So you'd like to, eh?" said Anderson, chuckling grimly. "Well, I'll remember you said so. You may have a chance one of these days,-if there's not too much danger. Anyway, since you know all about signaling, you might be able to work the flags and communicate with a vessel in distress. Here's a chart showing the complete flag signal code. Just run your eye over that."

They did so, and their interest in his explanations made them indifferent to the passing of time. All the while the tide was rising steadily and, before they realized it, they found themselves cut off from the mainland by several feet of rough water which covered the connecting sandbar.

"Here's a nice fix we're in!" exclaimed Alec. "What can we do now? Swim ashore?"

"It's not much of a distance," observed Chester, measuring it with level gaze. "But the water's pretty rough, and there's a strong set toward the ocean. Better not risk it, I say."

It was quite unusual for Chester to be so cautious. His companions looked at him in surprise.

"I second Chester's motion," remarked Billy, who had had quite enough strenuous swimming for the present.

"You certainly are not going to try any fool stunt like that, boys!" declared Anderson. "I know what a current there is through that inlet, and you couldn't hire me to let you try to swim it! Why, out there,"-he pointed to the nearest extremity of the island,-"is what is called a sea puss, a place where cross currents meet and form a whirlpool at mid-tide. It would swallow you up before you could guess what had happened to you! No, sirree! Here you'll stay until low tide again. Do your folks know you came over here to-day?"

"Oh, yes; I told them," Alec answered.

"All right, then; they won't be worried. If you hadn't told them, I'd get out a boat and take you over, but -- "

"We'd hate to give you that trouble," said Hugh. "Besides, we're not a bit sorry to stay here in this interesting place; that is, if you don't mind. We're not in the way?"

"Not a bit of it! The boys'll be glad of your company. Sorry that Mark and Ruth are away, though. You'll be marooned here twelve hours. That means all night, as it's four o'clock now. Well, never mind. I guess we can put you up for the night, if you're not too particular, and the missus can rustle enough grub for us all."

"Thanks, ever so much," said Alec and Billy, almost in one breath, and Hugh added: "It's mighty good of you, Captain Anderson." He was much pleased with the hospitable captain's "us all." It seemed to include all four boys in a fellowship with the crew of life-savers, for whom the young scouts had begun to feel a genuine liking and respect.

"I guess you boys can find enough to do to amuse yourselves till supper time," the keeper continued. "If you want to, you can go out with the beach patrols."

"Are they going over to the mainland?"

"No, not this afternoon. I guess it won't be necessary," said Anderson, gazing up into the leaden sky. "It's pretty windy, to be sure; but unless this wind shifts to the northeast, all they'll need to do, until dark, will be to cross from one key to another, and so on down for quite a long way."

"How will they cross?"

"We keep a dory at each end of Red Key, and there's a small pontoon bridge connecting that point out yonder with the Key just beyond it. Beyond this end of Red Key"-he turned around and pointed in a new direction-"the Keys are so near together you can wade from one to another, if you wear oilskins and if the tide isn't full. Run along now, and tell Downs and Baley that you'd like to make the beat with them."

With a joyous whoop, showing that the captain's suggestion had met with instant favor, the four scouts dashed away to find the men.

Jim Downs and Fred Baley-Surfman Four and Six, respectively-were more than willing to "tote the youngsters" with them, as Jim said. They would not start out until sunset, so there was an interval of impatient waiting. To while away the time, Surfman Three, a genial young Irishman named Larry Flynn, proposed a series of track games between the crew and their visitors. Larry prided himself on his speed in the quarter-mile, and his mates-all but Baley and Downs, who had to hold themselves fresh for their coming duties-were prompt to respond to the call of play.

In the good-natured competition that followed, Alec captured the hundred-yard dash; Hugh and Larry actually tied in the quarter-mile; while Surfman Five, a tall, lanky, muscular fellow named Culver, won the broad-jump, in which all took part. Billy easily carried off a hurdle race,-the improvised hurdles were chairs with boards laid upon their backs,-and Chester distinguished himself in the high-jump, his chief rivals being Culver and Hugh. When it came to the weights, the boys had very little chance against the larger and brawnier men, and Frank Bowers, Surfman One, threw the hammer several feet farther than anyone. He was as skilful with his left hand as with his right.

"Frank is our best all-round athlete," said Surfman Two, addressing the captain.

"You're a fairly husky one, yourself, Ed," returned Anderson, slapping him on the back. "It isn't everyone can pull stroke oar in a lifeboat as steady and strong as you."

The games over, all repaired to the loft, where Mrs. Anderson helped them arrange "a couple o' shake-downs" for the visitors. Bowers then took his station in the lookout, Hugh and Chester remaining with him to hear his interesting accounts of bygone wrecks and rescues, while Alec and Billy studied maps and charts downstairs. They were full of enthusiasm for the proposed sailing trip down the coast, and they wanted to become familiar with the shore line, the bays, inlets, keys, etc.

About six o'clock the jangling of a metal gong, which hung outside Mrs. Anderson's kitchen, summoned the crew to supper. True to the scout principle of being helpful and useful whenever they could, the four boys insisted on helping Mrs. Anderson and her aged colored cook serve the wholesome meal, though she would fain have treated them as guests.

"It's great fun!" they declared. "We're having the time of our lives!"

After supper they returned to the boathouse.

With the setting of the sun there was a lull in the wind, but when Baley and Downs started out, at seven o'clock, on their four hours' tour of duty, it had risen again and was blowing with renewed force-but still not from the northeast. Alec and Chester, the two Otters, accompanied Baley; while the Wolves, Hugh and Billy, went with Downs. Thus they set forth in the long twilight, laughing and talking, thrilled with this new adventure, unaware of the danger and disaster that loomed large in the immediate future.



Chapter VI. The Beach Patrols.


"Wind's blowing some," observed Baley, raising his voice so that he could be heard above the angry snarl of the surf.

"Hope nothing hits the bar to-night," Downs answered.

Then the surfmen trudged off in opposite directions, following the line of the wave-beaten strand, each carrying on his back a recording clock in a leather case, several candle-like Coston lights, and a wooden handle.

With oilskins buttoned tightly and hip-boots drawn up, Jim Downs and his youthful comrades fought the stiff breeze on their watch. Darkness was slow in coming, so they were not yet in imminent peril from shifting sands, driftwood, or tidal waves. Their mission was a serious one, requiring alertness and keen observation. Soon a sense of solemn responsibility subdued even the high spirits of the boys, finally checking the flow of their eager conversation altogether.

"Isn't that a ship 'way out there?" Hugh asked at length, gazing at something which seemed to be the dark bulk of a vessel in a sea of foam.

"Guess it's only a cloud," answered Downs, and Billy agreed with this opinion.

Hugh said nothing in contradiction, but he was by no means convinced that the slowly moving form was not that of a schooner. Indeed, he believed he saw the faint lines of spars and rigging.

After a few minutes Downs, to make sure, looked again at the distant object. Then, taking a Coston signal from his pocket and fitting it to the handle, he struck the end on the sole of his boot. Like a match it caught fire and flared out through the mist, a dull red light. He stood still, holding the torch above his head, waiting for some answering signal from the vessel,-if it were one, after all.

No signal was shown in response. Either the ship was still too far out to catch sight of the warning beacon, or none of her crew was on deck at the moment. The glowing torch sputtered and went out, and with a shrug of his broad shoulders, Downs trudged on down the beach.

"Come on, kids, we'll set off another light farther on," he said. "If that's really a ship, give her a few minutes to watch for signals."

In awed suspense, Hugh and Billy followed him to the end of Red Key. Chained to a post driven in the sand, they found a stout dory with two pairs of oars.

"Pile in," said Downs, "and sit tight. Hardin, you take one pair of oars, I'll take t'other, and we'll be over on the next key in a jiffy."

The crossing was soon made. Billy tied the boat to another post, while Downs again lighted a signal. They were still near enough the station to notify the lookout there of a possible ship in distress, and in a few minutes they caught the gleam of the big lamp in the tower, shining out through the vapor blown from the crests of the waves.

Still no sign from the object of their concern.

"Look!" cried Hugh. "It can't be a cloud; it hasn't changed its shape, and -- "

"And it seems to be comin' nearer," added Downs, interrupting him quickly. "You're right, son; it's a sailing vessel. She's being blown landward, but with good luck, she'll slip past the bar out there, and maybe she'll make for the lee o' Turtle Island. Watch and see. Come on,-but we won't hike over the pontoon to-night. I'll go alone."

Through long vigils in all kinds of weather, the patrol learns every foot of his beat thoroughly, and he is able to tell with reasonable accuracy how and where a storm-tossed vessel will be driven, or where a stranded one lies. Downs was no exception to this rule, yet there were times when, experienced surfman as he was, he felt uncertain whether a ship was likely to be forced over on the mainland beach, or whether she would run aground on the outer bar at the end of the keys. The latter situation was the more to be dreaded, for the bar was far beyond the reach of a line shot from shore.

Deciding to continue his beat, Downs left the two scouts seated together on a mound of sand and driftwood, and made his way alone across the swaying, tossing pontoon.

"I'll be back in about twenty minutes," he said, and he was as good as his word.

At the end of his beat he stopped to take a watchkey attached to a post, and, inserting it in the clock he carried, to record the time of his visit at that spot. By this means is kept an actual record of the movements of the patrol at all times.

Returning to the place where he had left the boys, he found them sitting in awed silence.

"No signs from the ship yet?" he shouted.

So quietly had he approached, and so thunderous was the booming of the surf, Billy and Hugh were startled at the sound of Downs's voice. Even had they not been staring out to sea, waiting in suspense for the ship's signal, they would not have seen him come up, so thick was the mist.

Billy gasped and jumped up. "What-what are we going to do now?" he asked.

"Want to go back to the station?"

"No, no!" exclaimed Hugh, springing to his feet. "We're out here with you. We'll stick by you."

"But I'm out here for four hours' duty. You don't want to stick it out that long, son?"

"Yes, we do-if you don't mind," replied Billy.

"Is there anything you'd rather have us do?" asked Hugh, beginning to understand a kindly hint in Jim Downs's words. "We'd like to be of real service, if we can."

"Sure you can! Seeing as the weather's so thick, suppose you lads race back to the station and report what we've seen. Then, if the cap'n sends Larry out to join me, you can come back with him. See?"

"All right," they responded.

Again they climbed into the dory and rowed back to Red Key. Jim waited to light another torch, and the boys sped up to the boathouse, where they informed the keeper, who already knew of the ship, of what they had seen.

* * * * * * * *

Meanwhile Baley, with Alec and Chester, had walked the opposite beat. From the first, however, they felt sure that the distant object against the murky horizon was a vessel. With lighted Coston signal in hand, Baley pursued his difficult way along the shore, buffeted by the wind and drenched with flying spray. He explained to the boys how the outer line of sandbars, which in summer breaks the blue ocean into sunny ripples and flashing white caps, has power to churn the spring tides into fury and to grip with a mighty hold the keel of any vessel that is unlucky enough to be driven on it.

As they trudged doggedly on, the wind whipped through the beach grasses on the dunes and spitefully swirled handfuls of cutting sand into their faces. Fortunately, the night was not cold, else they might have fared worse. As it was, the two scouts rather enjoyed the novel experience. They felt that they were, for the time being, a part of Uncle Sam's coast guard,-members of a crew of brave men whose vigilance and strength and presence of mind save hundreds of lives and valuable property every year.

They told Baley how they had learned to become efficient signalers, and he heartily approved of that branch of their training. Knowing a lot about the Boy Scout organization,-for his son was then a tenderfoot in a Florida troop,-he was not surprised at the amount of general "prepared-ness" which Alec and Chester modestly displayed.

"You never can tell, my lads, just when and where and how you'll need to use what you've learned," he said pleasantly. "For instance: Suppose we had to signal that ship out there to-morrow morning, or even to-night, if she gets into trouble? Could you do it?"

"Reckon we could, Mr. Baley," replied Chester quietly.

"If we have a chance, you'll see," was Alec's even more confident answer. The vague possibility implied in Baley's question gave him an adventurous thrill.

When these three reached the end of their beat and turned back toward the starting point, they were surprised to meet Culver. He had been sent out to keep watch with Baley, for Keeper Anderson thought it best to have four men on patrol that night. Larry Flynn had been sent to reinforce Downs.

When the first watch was over, four other surfmen took the places of those on duty; but the boys were quite ready to seek the "shakedowns" prepared for them. The long night hours passed, and daylight crept slowly and feebly across a cloudy sky and over a turbulent sea.



Chapter VII. The Stranded Schooner.


"It's lucky we went across to the mainland last week for a fresh supply o' provisions," remarked Larry Flynn at breakfast that morning. "I'm as hungry as a tinker's goat, and them lads can stow away enough fodder for a whole regiment of -- "

His jocularity was interrupted by a laugh from the men, and then by a strange and sinister sound. Beneath the howl of the wind could be heard a dull booming, so foreign to anything the gale brought to their ears that even Captain Anderson sprang from his seat at table and ran to the window in alarm.

It was useless. The fog was so thick he could not see further than twenty feet. The gray light of day had dispelled the darkness, but the vapor rolling in from the ocean obscured even the crests of the surf. Culver and Ed Strong joined him at the window, and all three remained silent and motionless.

"Never dreamed she'd run aground this morning," Bowers muttered, rising from his chair. "Everybody thought she'd slip past the bar."

"There was only a slim chance, after all," said Downs.

"Has the ship struck?" asked Hugh, tense with excitement.

Keeper Anderson nodded.

"Seems so," he replied gravely. "Get to work, boys!"

All hurried out of the cabin.

Then came that which they feared to hear: another dull report brought on the wings of the wind and fog. All doubt now vanished from the minds of the crew.

"Saints help 'em!" Larry exclaimed fervently, when they entered the boathouse. He began to pace the floor impatiently as he worked like a hound in leash.

"Help who, sir?" asked Chester, following him.

"The poor divils who are firin' that 'ere gun, knowin' there's some one near who can lind 'em a helpin' hand."

"Do you mean that there's a wreck?" Alec queried in a tone so low that none save Captain Anderson heard him.

"Ay, son," he answered. "The craft, whatever she may be, has run aground on the bar."

"How can you tell without seeing her, sir?" Billy inquired, wishing that he knew enough to lend a hand with the boat.

"In the first place, she must be there because the wind brings us the sound of her signal gun; she might be only half as far away on the other side, and we couldn't hear it so loud."

"It seems to me that any half-sober skipper would have been more careful!" declared Culver reproachfully, pulling on his oilskins. "He would have clawed off shore at sunset last night, if he knew his way."

"What do you count on doing now?" asked Hugh, always ready for action.

"We're going to launch the boats!" roared Anderson, and even before the words were uttered every man, equipped for the venture, sprang to his appointed task.

The crew ran the ever-ready surf boat through the double doors of its house and down an inclined plane to the beach. Resting in a carriage provided with a pair of broad-tired wheels, the staunch craft was hauled by Powers and Flynn and the four boys through the clinging sand and into the very teeth of the wind to the point nearest the vessel.

"Can we go out with you?" yelled Hugh excitedly.

The surf rolled in with a deafening roar that seemed to shake the ground, drowning the sound of his voice. No one paid the slightest attention to the eager lads; the men were too busy and too deeply concerned with the grave task ahead of them to heed, even had they heard Hugh's request. It was but natural and right; and Hugh was surprised only at his daring to ask such permission. Nevertheless, he was keen to share the danger; he longed to be one of the rescuers.

Each breaker curved high above the heads of the men, and, receding, the undertow sucked at their feet and tried to drag them down. In such surf it seemed impossible to launch a boat; yet with scarcely a word of command, every man, knowing from long practice his position and duties, took his station beside the boat and, shoving it directly into the surf, launched it, after a severe tussle. Climbing aboard, each man took his place. The captain, grasping a long steering oar in his hands, stood at the stern.

It was then that Anderson, glancing at the crew who were pulling steadily, saw that Alec and Hugh, carried away by their eager excitement, had leaped into the boat with the others and were adding their strength to that of two oarsmen.

A dark frown furrowed his brow, for he could not approve of this intrusion; the next moment, however, he gave a short, grim laugh.

"They'll have to take their chance with the rest of us," he said to himself. "And, unless the worst happens, nobody'll ever know about their doing this. Confound the plucky young chumps, they ought to have stayed on shore; but they're as venturesome as my Mark!"

With a sweep of his oar, he kept the boat's head to the seas, skilfully avoiding the most dangerous crests. To do this required strength, coolness, and judgment; but Anderson possessed all three qualities to a remarkable degree. Instinctively, the two boys had placed themselves so that the weight in the boat was evenly balanced, and this fact the steersman was quick to notice.

At last the first watery rampart was crossed. Then, adapting their stroke to heavier swells, the six stalwart rowers propelled their twenty-five-foot, unsinkable boat at good speed, although it seemed dreadfully slow to them, no doubt. Hugh thought of the crew of the stranded vessel, which was now plainly visible, now hidden behind a veil of fog with every gust of wind. Were they helpless and hopeless, he wondered, or were they taking heart at the assurance that help was coming?

All of a sudden, Anderson noticed that the two boys had not donned cork jackets, such as the men had buckled on.

"Here, you crazy scamps!" he shouted. "Put on those lifebelts!" And he pointed to some that were fastened to the inside of the boat.

They obeyed him at once, awed by his furious tone. Perhaps they had done wrong, after all, in coming out in the lifeboat! They began to repent of their rashness; though they felt no fear; it was an opportunity, an adventure such as might never again come into their lives. At any rate, it was too late for repentance! There they were, rowing like mad with all their strength and enthusiasm! If only Captain Anderson would not be too angry with them afterward when it was over!

Over! The adventure had only begun! How would it end?

Once, indeed, a thought of his parents flashed into Alec's mind. He could imagine his father's wrath if this perilous escapade should become known! But Hugh would never tell, and as for himself-here a wave dashed up over the thwart, drenching him in a fountain of foam.

And now, when they were actually nearing the vessel, an unforeseen mischance occurred. Before the surfboat could reach her, she lurched over the bar on a mightier wave, veered halfway around, and drove directly toward Turtle Island. The crew in the boat could do nothing, and the few men aboard the schooner were helpless. With straining eyes, the lifesavers saw the vessel drift rapidly past them; they even heard shouts and frantic yells from the deck, and, in return, they shouted encouragement.

Climbing up into the rigging, the sailors, eight in number, waited for their craft to strike the beach. The surfmen, turning their boat, put for shore again to get the apparatus needed for the new situation.



Chapter VIII. The Rescue.


To load the surfboat with the crew of the luckless vessel, when there was none too much room for the oarsmen, and then to encounter the heavy surf, would have shown great lack of judgment on the part of the rescuers. It was a method to be pursued only in case of dire need. To reach the ship after it had become stranded on the key shore or near it was a much safer and surer method of saving life for all concerned.

Rowing hard against the now outflowing tide, yet helped by the wind, the lifesavers approached the beach. With a rush their boat rolled in on a giant wave and, no sooner had the keel grated on the sand, than the crew, including the two scouts, were out knee-deep in the undertow dragging the boat up high and dry. No one could deny that the boys showed remarkable quickness in action and an alert understanding of what had to be done.

"Get the beach wagon!" commanded Anderson.

Billy and Chester, who had hurried to the spot where the surfboat landed, greeted their scout comrades with a whoop of joy, envy and relief. No time was lost. A minute later the entire crew, some pulling, some steering, dragged out the beach wagon: a light framework supported by two broad-tired wheels, and carrying a sand-anchor, which was like a huge cross, in addition to other apparatus.

Over hummocks of sand, across pools of water, in the face of wind and waves, they ran, dragging the beach wagon along the key to the place where the driven schooner had run aground. It lay some distance out, and was now lurching groggily from side to side. Then, bringing the wagon to the nearest point opposite the stranded hulk, the crew unloaded their appliances.

"Hey there, lads!" shouted Anderson, "dig a hole in the sand!"

Flynn tossed some shovels to the boys, and at once they set to work with a will.

While this was being done, two men placed a small bronze cannon in position and another got out boxes containing small rope criss-crossed on wooden pins set upright in the bottom. These pins merely held the rope wound in coils until it was ready to be used, when board and pegs were removed.

Captain Anderson carried the free end of this line, which was attached to a ring in the end of a cylindrical projectile, over one shoulder; over the other was slung a box of ammunition. In a few minutes, aided by Baley and Culver, he sighted the gun, aiming for the outstretched yardarms of the schooner. Long practice under various difficulties and in all sorts of weather had taught him just how to aim. As he pulled the lanyard, the gun spat fire into the mist, and the long projectile sailed off on its mission, its attached line whirring out of the box, coil after coil. Baley and Culver peered out over the breakers to see if the keeper's aim had been true.

At last the line stopped uncoiling, and Anderson knew that the shot had landed somewhere. Minutes of suspense passed. Nothing happened. The rope spanned the tossing waves, but no answering tugs conveyed messages from the sailors to the waiting surfmen.

"What ails 'em?" muttered Larry Flynn impatiently "Are they all dead or drunk or have we -- ?"

"Shut up, Larry!" came the command. "Ah, there she goes now!"

Hugh and Chester sprang forward.

"The line's moving!" cried Chester.

"Quit hoppin' around like a sand-flea!" Larry admonished him severely. "Don't make so much noise! They can't hear ye, boy."

Indeed, as Chester had declared, the line began to slip through Anderson's fingers and move seaward. Those on shore knew that it had been found and that its use was understood; that is, that this line carried out by the projectile served merely to drag out a heavier rope, on which was run a sort of trolley carrying a breeches-buoy.

And now the eight mariners, securing the line, made the end of the strong rope fast to the mast well above the reach of the waves, and the surfmen wound their end firmly around the deeply buried sand-anchor. Wading out a little way, Bowers placed an inverted V-shaped crotch under the rope, holding it above water on that end. When this had been done, as much of the slack was taken up as possible, and the vessel was connected with the beach by a kind of suspension bridge.

Willing arms then hauled out the buoy along that suspended line.

Presently they saw a sailor climb into the stout canvas breeches of the buoy, and felt the tug on the whip-line that told them the rescue had begun. All together, with a will, they pulled on the line. Carrying its human burden, the buoy rolled along the hawser, swinging in the wind, now and then dipping the man in the crests of the waves.

"As long as the old tub holds together and the masts stay upright, they're safe," muttered Anderson, watching the first passenger on this aerial railway.

"Do you think the waves will pound her to pieces?" asked Alec, who stood beside the keeper.

"Don't know. Depends on how solid she's built. By the slab-sided! I can make out her name now for the first time. Sun's getting stronger. It's the Mary Jane,-I know her cap'n. Look out there, Frank! He's coming! Catch him-easy now-that's the way!"

The sailor, brought up with a thud against the V-shaped support of the rope bridge, scrambled out of the buoy and slid down on the sand. Without stopping to gasp out his thanks, he helped the surfmen send the buoy swiftly back to the vessel, where another man climbed into it.

Forward, then, and back again they hauled the buoy, working like madmen to complete their work.

"She'll bust to pieces in ten minutes, 'pon my word!" declared the fourth sailor to come ashore. "The sea's running high, and the infernal old hulk'll never weather the poundin' she's getting!"

"Make haste, then!" roared Anderson, and his crew redoubled their efforts.

Two more sailors swung to safety ashore. None too soon, for the sixth man had hardly been dragged to the beach when the schooner's mast, unable to stand the buffeting of the waves any longer, snapped at the middle and toppled over into the sea, dragging with it a tangled mass of rigging. Two sailors were left on the deck of the Mary Jane.

But not for long. A mighty wave struck the vessel's side. They were washed off the sloping deck, and soon were floundering in deep water, clinging to the broken mast that was being hauled toward shore. At last they gained the land, and their rescuers were overwhelmed with thanks.

Such breathless exclamations of gratitude, such handshakes and hearty greetings! The four boys stood aside, listening to the story of the shipwreck, listening in a daze of wonderment, in a silent thrill of pride because they had shared in this memorable morning's work. Captain Anderson, even, was kind enough to praise them for their work; and, in turn, they thanked him for having allowed them to do whatever they could to assist the regular crew.

In the midst of this rejoicing there was a loud crash, and the abandoned Mary Jane's timbers yielded to the force of the waves. Broken and bruised and buffeted, she keeled over on the sandy reef, and the sullen ocean surged over her again and again, pounding her mercilessly.



Chapter IX. Home Again-And Away.


Though the crew of the vessel was saved, the surfmen's work was not yet over. The breeches-buoy had to be disentangled from the broken mast, spars and ropes, and the other apparatus had to be packed on the beach wagon and returned to the station. All this occupied some time. The hands of both sailors and lifesavers were sore and slippery with brine, the ropes were badly snarled, and the wind and waves tore viciously at the tackle. The task was completed at last, however, and then all made their way to a small shanty or refuge adjoining the boathouse. Here the shipwrecked men were provided with dry clothing and with food which they devoured ravenously.

"My stars! that grub looks good to little Willie!" declared one of the sailors, hastily climbing into dry flannels and a suit of overalls. "Thank'ee, cap'n; I'll take corned beef an' brown bread an'-an' a swig o' the hot coffee that ye have handy. Here's to ye all, sir, with many thanks and a blessin' on ye!"

All joined in the toast, and then made an onslaught on the plain but bountiful repast set before them.

One man, the captain of the ill-fated schooner, dejectedly explained between huge mouthfuls that they had been making for Santario, to get provisions for a voyage to Key West. The schooner's rudder had broken on a reef, and they had drifted for thirty-four hours without food, each man filling "the aching void" with nothing more substantial than water.

While the process of refreshment was going on, two patrols outside were continuing their beat, watching for portions of the ship's cargo of bales of cotton to be washed ashore. Without regard to the hardships already undergone, these men, taking turns, remained on duty all that stormy day.

Late in the afternoon the wind died down, and at ebb tide the crew of the Mary Jane and the four scouts took leave of their brave friends.

"We'll never forget this experience as long as we live," Hugh said as he grasped Keeper Anderson's hand. "It's meant a lot to us and has taught us more than we could ever learn from books."

"Well, well, guess that's true, son," replied Anderson. "Perhaps I ought not to have let you boys-but we won't say anything more about that, since there's no harm done."

"Hope we weren't too much in the way, sir," said Billy and Chester, and Alec added his word to the general chorus. Then, with a parting invitation from the surfmen to come again, they departed.

It was a long time before the boys were to pay another visit to the Red Key Life Saving Station, and when they did so, it was to be under very different conditions, They saw it next at midsummer when the great ocean was calm, when gentle breezes filled the sails of vessels passing along the horizon, and when the sun shone benignly over land and sea.

Meanwhile, soon after their arrival at Palmdune, and in the midst of preparations for their cruise on the Arrow, they wrote a joint letter to Keeper Anderson and his crew thanking him again for his kindness to them. To this letter Mr. Sands added a pair of field-glasses for each of the crew,-even better than those they already possessed,-and a huge packing-case full of books and magazines.

Roy Norton arrived on the day following the boys' return. He had read newspaper accounts of the unusual storm along the coast, and he was much interested in hearing all about the adventures of the youthful lifesavers.

From the first, the boys liked Norton; in many ways he reminded them of George Rawson, their assistant scout master at Pioneer Camp. Unlike Rawson, however, who was tall and lean and sinewy, Norton was a young man of medium height, rather thick-set and muscular, yet agile and quick in action. He, too, possessed an apparently inexhaustible fund of energy and good humor.

Captain Lemuel Vinton, who met them one morning on the main fishing dock at Santario, proved to be a stout, grizzled, salt water veteran of fifty years or more. He greeted them with gruff cordiality and escorted them aboard the Arrow, where he assigned them their sleeping quarters.

With him, as their future guide through the Everglades, was Wastanugee, a Seminole Indian who answered to the more convenient nick-name of Dave. He was much given to living among the whites, and, while it was clear that he liked civilized ways and also hard dollars, or "chalks," as the Indians term them, it soon became evident,-toward the end of the first day's cruise,-that he disliked and dreaded "the big salt," as he called the ocean.

"Uh! Bad medicine!" he grunted. "Bad weather. Dave better stay home. Go home, anyhow, when get Big Cypress Harbor. Incah!"

Having baited the boys' hooks, he settled himself resignedly within the folds of his blanket, stretched out his trousered legs and moccasined feet, and yawned loudly.

"Best kind of fishing weather, this," said Alec. "Tarpon are bound to bite now, aren't they, Captain?"

Captain Vinton shook his head slowly.

"You can't never tell 'bout tarpon," he answered. "Sometimes they will, then ag'in they won't. Mostly they'll do as they durn please, which is likely to be jest w'at you don't want 'em to do. One thing, though: we're goin' to have wuss weather afore we have better, mark my words."

Hearing this, Dave grunted dolefully.

Vinton's remarks about the tarpon seemed to be verified, for the boys had such poor luck in getting bites that presently they made their lines fast by wedging the poles under the thwarts and turned their attention to a faint blur of smoke rising far out against the brilliant blue horizon.

"Wonder if Cap'n Bego really did git out?" said Vinton, as if communing with himself.

But Norton overhead the query. "Who's Captain Bego?" he inquired casually.

"Oh, he's a greaser who's been havin' some trouble with a United States revenue cutter from Havana. Cutter's the Eagle. If Uncle Sam gits after Bego ag'in, there'll be one set o' rascils turned back, I reckon."

"You mean -- "

"Filibusters," was the startling answer.



Chapter X. The Silver King.


Within half an hour the mysterious trail of smoke along the keys was obliterated, although it was not far in advance of the Arrow's course. Even before the boys had ceased to wonder what it really was, it seemed to vanish from sight as if blown away by a puff of wind, leaving them nothing but their useless speculation.

Presently they became aware of a new motion of the staunch little Arrow. It rode easily upon long, slow, oily swells, rising and sinking at a rate that soon caused the unhappy Seminole to stagger into the little cuddy of a cabin, with a look on his leathery face which prophesied that one Indian was about to be utterly and unrestrainedly seasick!

"Poor Dave!" said Norton, as the victim's figure slouched dejectedly into a secluded corner. "I can sympathize with him, though I'm lucky enough not to know how he feels!"

"How about you, Billy, you land-lubber?" inquired Alec. "You're beginning to look a trifle pale around the gills!"

"Shut up!" retorted Billy good-naturedly.

"Nice thing to tell a fellow, I must say!" remarked Chester with a grin.

"It's enough to make anyone feel seasick, to be told he looks so!" Hugh added laughing. "Give a dog a bad name, and he'll bite-just to save his reputa -- "

"Something else is biting!" yelled Billy, and he sprang forward eagerly.

There was a rattling noise behind them. The captain, abandoning the wheel for a moment, reached forth and grabbed a tarpon rod that was sliding overboard. He thrust it into Alec's hand.

"Hang on to it," he gruffly directed. "You've got somethin' big, lad. Mebbe, though, it's only a shark."

"Only a shark!" echoed Alec in surprise. "Why, I thought sharks were enormous!"

"There's all kinds o' sharks, big an' little."

"I've heard of land sharks," murmured Norton, "and seen 'em, too; but I've never met with a sea shark. At least, I've never been on speaking terms with one."

"This one pulls like a whale!" Alec declared, playing the long line, one hand on the reel.

Seeing that his own pole was all right, Billy remained close beside Alec, ready to lend a hand if Alec needed assistance. For a while none was needed, but by and by it began to appear that the fish was tiring the fisherman, instead of just the reverse. Alec's wrists and forearms positively ached with the strain of managing the prize, and he allowed Billy to help him. All stood around, tense with interest, watching the contest. Even Dave, hearing their gleeful shouts and exclamations, forgot his misery and came forth from the cuddy to add his grunts and mumbled directions. However, he was unable to remain long on deck. With a portentous groan, he fled again to contend with his woes.

As the sloop plunged onward, they played the fish nearly an hour, taking turns so that all might share in the sport. Twice, by a skilful handling of the reel, Hugh barely kept the line from snapping. At last they drew the game in far enough to see a gleam of silver flash through the dark green water. A big tarpon leaped out of the bosom of a wave, glittered one moment in the sunlight, and then darted back into its native element.

"Gee! Did you see him?"

"Did I! Well, you bet I did!"

"Must be a fifty pounder!"

"All of that. No wonder he pulls so hard!"

"Keep your hand on the reel, Chester. He'll snap the line if we're not careful," advised Norton. "Easy now! He's tired, but there is a lot of fight in him yet."

"Ginger! I should say so! Look at that!"

Again the big fish leaped.

"Where's Dave with the gaff?" demanded Captain Vinton. "Dave, you lazy, good-fer-nothin' sea-cook, come up here. Bring that gaff."

Another frantic leap of the tarpon, not so high this time, brought a shout from Alec.

"Oh, you Dave! Hurry up!"

But the Indian just then was dead to this world. Not even a groan gave assurance that he was still alive and miserable. Silence hung over the deck of the Arrow, silence broken only by the excited gasps of her fishing crew.

Convinced that Dave would not or could not respond to the call, Vinton lashed the tiller, and reached into a locker from which he brought out the gaff. He prepared to use it as soon as the tarpon came within reach.

But there was more strength than he supposed in the tiring yet gamey sea-fighter. Out spun the line from the humming reel; to and fro darted the silver prize, until more than a dozen yards lay between him and the Arrow's gunwale.

"Reel in, reel in!" cried Norton. "Don't give him a chance to jerk away."

"Slow up a little!" the captain added quickly, leaning as far out over the rail as his portly proportions would allow. He was almost as eager as any of the boys. He had forgotten his dignity as master of the Arrow, and was lost in the excitement of capturing a fifty pounder.

"Slow now. That's better-ah! He nearly got away then!"

Just about this time Hugh heard a sudden rasp of line spinning from his rod, which lay on the opposite side of the deck, wedged under another thwart.

"Hello! that pole will go overboard unless I do something," he cried, and sprang forward to seize it as it slid toward the taffrail. He managed to catch it at the instant that the butt was about to slip oceanward. "Oh, come here!" he called out. "Another tarpon hooked!"

Thrusting the rod into Alec's hands once more, Billy crossed over to join Hugh.

"Ready there now?" he heard Captain Vinton ask in a loud tone. And then came Chester's eager, "A little nearer, Alec, a little nearer. There!"

Vinton made a lunge with the gaff.

"Durn him! He dodged it!" exclaimed the captain in great vexation.

"Try it again," urged Norton cheerily. "Better luck next time."

Meanwhile, on their side of the sloop, Hugh and Billy were having their hands full. One was trying to gain command of the reel, and the other was keeping a firm hold on the pole. So absorbed were they in this feat, they were oblivious to a sudden veer of the wind and an increased rolling of the Arrow. Hugh's reel was buzzing furiously. With staring eyes he watched the line cut through the water, and every minute he and Billy expected to see a tarpon just as big as the first one leap from a wave.

They heard a shout, followed by a splash and the spasmodic flapping of a big fish landed on the deck, and they knew that the first tarpon had been caught. But they scarcely turned their heads to look. Their whole attention was given to this one.

Suddenly the captain, becoming aware of the wind flurry, sprang to the wheel.

"Look out, boys!" he cried hoarsely. "She's going to jibe! Watch out, you two there!"

Startled, Billy glanced around and instantly realized the new peril; but Hugh, absorbed with holding the fish and saving his line, saw nothing. At Billy's warning, however, he ducked his head just in time to escape a sweeping blow from the big boom which swung over the starboard beam, requiring Vinton to take a new tack. Still holding his line, desperately hoping that it would not break, Hugh began to reel in his prize swiftly and skilfully. Ordinarily he would not have tried this, but with the shifting of the vessel's course he felt there was no time to spare. Besides, his tarpon seemed to have been more securely hooked than the first one, and Billy now knew just what to do. After about ten minutes of struggle, they succeeded in pulling up on deck a fish that was only a few inches smaller than the other, and their exploit was greeted with a cheer.

"Stow the shoutin', lads!" ordered Captain Vinton. "Here! Take the sheet. That easter is a hummer, I reckon. Be ready to lower the peaks, Norton, if I give the word."

Hugh, Alec, and Chester sprang for the main sheet, loosening it promptly. Billy stood ready to help Norton. The captain pushed the tiller away from the "nor'-easter," and surveyed with "a weather eye" the rolling expanse of waters now darkened by frequent "flaws."

"We're right in the wake of a squall," he stated calmly. "Keep cool, every mother's son o' you-all. Where's that copper-hide rascal, Dave? In the cuddy, eh? Well, this'll either kill him or cure him!"



Chapter XI. Down The Coast.


For the next few minutes the Arrow ran so much risk of having the sails blown off or the mast broken, that all rejoicing over the capture of the two big tarpon was banished by the imminence of the danger. Flaw after flaw darkened the water, flattening the long swells; but at length the squall passed, and once out of a broad inlet, the sloop headed straight down the coast under a good breeze.

"What for so much hurry?" grumbled Dave, emerging from the cabin, and looking around quizzically. "Huh! Plenty time."

"Oh, we're in no hurry, Dave," answered Hugh with a laugh. "This is just sailing for sport. You'll like it after a while when you get more used to it. Go and sit up fore, to windward."

Dave meekly obeyed.

"A whiff of this salt air will do him good," said Norton to the captain, who, ignoring Dave entirely, vouchsafed no reply.

He appeared to be pondering some contingency of which his crew were unaware. He spat profusely, cast his eyes aloft at the topsails that had not been lowered despite the squall, then looked measuringly at his sloop.

"Wind's slackening," he observed.

Hitherto heading southward, the Arrow now began to edge toward the long line of keys. By this time the wind had gradually dwindled almost to a breath, and the sun hung far down the Western sky, glowing like a disc of molten copper.

"Bad weather comin'," croaked Dave, noting these signs. "One day, two day off, p'raps."

This gloomy prophecy was received in silence. No one thought it safe or worth while to deny the assertion.

Presently they came abreast of a fringe of larger keys fronting an important harbor. Beyond the broad inlet that led in toward the bay and mainland, a stretch of smooth, clean, white sand, bordered by clumps of waving cabbage palms, indicated to Captain Vinton that he was near one of his old camping places.

"I'm goin' to stop over thar for supper," he called to the boys. "We might better spend the night on shore, for there'll be wind ag'in and rough water later on."

So the Arrow made in shoreward. The four boys reefed her jib and her topsail and stood ready to reef the main sheet. When everything had been attended to on board the sloop and the anchor had been cast, all piled into a big dory trailing astern.

"'Pull for the shore, boys, pull for the shore!'" sang Norton in a rollicking voice. And they did. Soon they were preparing supper on the beach.

"There's squalls breedin' out yonder," remarked the captain after supper while lighting his corncob pipe. "After dark I'd ruther have these keys atween 'em and us. But perhaps they'll blow over. Yon can't never tell for sure, at this time o' year."

Unpromising as the weather seemed, the evening passed without anything happening to cause discomfort. The storm clouds drifted past, giving way to a host of brilliant stars that took possession of the heavens, and to a steady westerly breeze that bid fair to continue all night. The captain and the Seminole guide, wrapping themselves in blankets which had been brought ashore in the dory, dozed beside the driftwood fire. The four boys and Roy Norton, however, enjoyed a swim in the lagoon before they sought their own blankets and "turned in" for a good night's rest. Their bunks were snug hollows scooped out of the sand, warm and dry, a few feet away from the glowing embers.

At sunrise the breeze freshened a little, but the weather was balmy. The first rays of the rising sun woke the voyagers, and the boys would have been sorry had they missed seeing the gorgeous semi-tropical dawn burst upon the world. The sky was one vast, rosy glow, and the ocean glittered with opalescent hues. Low islands, overgrown with close, green, stunted vegetation, were on every side. They stretched like golden bars across the lagoons, showing the broad sound on one side and on the other the dark blue of the Gulf Stream, far out where the Florida Straits widened toward the distant Bahamas.

When the sun was an hour high, they breakfasted on fruit, fish, toast, and coffee. That simple repast over, they gathered up their belongings and prepared to return to the sloop. Quite unexpectedly, an idea crept into Dave's sluggish mind:

"Good moon last night, much white beach, turtle come out and lay eggs," he remarked slowly. "P'raps we find eggs. Might try."

He rose and strolled lazily along the beach, accompanied by the four young scouts.

"Maybe bear will walk beach after eggs," he added presently. "Young master run back, get rifle."

"Wait for me, then," said Alec, and he ran back to the camping place. Returning in a few minutes, he handed the rifle to Dave. "If we meet a bear, you can shoot him," he said. "I don't want to, even if I could."

Dave gave a low chuckle. "Oh, guess we won't find bear till night," he said. "We just go look for signs now."

Signs proved to be fairly plentiful; so it was decided, to the unseaworthy Indian's great satisfaction, to remain there that day, hunt at night and set sail early on the morrow. The day passed pleasantly, though uneventfully, and, after supper, Captain Vinton went aboard the Arrow. Dave sat up while the others took "forty winks" before being roused for the night hunt. At the rising of the moon, they all set forth in single file, and crossed the little island by an old trail through the chaparral to the ocean side. There they found a firm, wide, sandy strip of shore on which a low surf was murmuring its continuous song. The moon sailed higher and higher, the night was delightfully warm and calm, and there was an excellent prospect of finding game.

Telling Norton, Chester and Hugh to hide in the scrubby growth that fringed a sand dune, Dave took Alec and Billy along the beach for about fifty yards. In the full moonlight they could see quite plainly the curious wobbly trail, rough and broad, of a large turtle, leading to and from the water. Dave followed it for a few paces, then stopped abruptly and began to prod the sand with a stick which he had picked up for that purpose.

"Got 'em! Got eggs!" he announced presently. "Big nest heap full."

"All right," said Alec. "Now we'd better go back to where the others are, and wait for the hungry old -- "

"By and by moon go down," interposed the guide, with an unusual degree of interest. "Then bear may come out for walk,-get his supper, huh? Come."

They went back to the place of ambush, and waited quietly. How long they waited not one of them could tell exactly. It seemed hours. At last their patience was rewarded. A clumsy black form emerged from the thick vegetation on the dunes, stood motionless for several minutes sniffing the air, and then ambled slowly and cautiously toward the water, pausing now and then to nose the warm sand.

"It's a bear, and he smells our tracks," whispered Hugh.

"Will he find the nest?" Billy asked, nudging Dave with his elbow.

"Sure, he find it all right," was the whispered reply of the Indian. "When turtle make nest, lay eggs, scent is stronger than what we leave. Watch him. You can-huh, look!"

The small black bear had stopped near the turtle's nest, and now it uttered a soft grunting squeal of delight. It half raised itself on its hind quarters, looking around warily to make sure it would not have to share the feast with any other of its tribe. Then, quite suddenly, it dropped down on all fours, and lunging forward, began to scoop up the eggs with its paws, smacking its lips greedily.

Dave raised the rifle, took deliberate aim, and --  Just then Hugh pushed the weapon aside with a quick movement of his arm.

"Don't shoot, don't shoot it!" gasped the lad, excitedly. "See,-over there in that clump of bushes!"

With a muttered exclamation, Dave glanced in the direction that Hugh was pointing. The others did likewise. They then beheld a sight which was far more interesting and more worth while than that of a harmless animal lying dead upon the sand, victim of Dave's marksmanship.

Two little black cubs, scarcely larger than terriers, but much rounder, chubbier and more furry, trotted out from the shadow of the dune and waddled toward their feasting mother. As fast as their short legs would carry them, they ran to her side and fell to gobbling up the remaining eggs. When the nest had been emptied, Ursula and her cubs romped together on the moonlit beach, and, finally, walked away, unharmed.

Well pleased with the amusing scene they had witnessed, the hunters returned to their camp site, went to sleep presently, and on the morrow rejoined Captain Vinton on the sloop.



Chapter XII. At The Lighthouse.


On the whole, the boys were enthusiastic about their cruise at the end of the first week. After camping again for a day or two on Palm Island, they sailed idly among innumerable smaller islands, enjoying the fine weather, bathing, fishing, taking photographs, learning how to manage the sloop, and making observations of other ships that passed.

"The Captain says that by running to starboard more we can strike the lee of Elbow Key Light to-morrow," Norton said, as he and the boys were turning into their bunks at nine o'clock one night. "You know that's where the sponging fleet work at this time, so, in case of storm, they can shelter under the lighthouse key. How would you like to spend to-morrow night among the spongers, then make camp at Cypress Key afterward?"

All were agreeable save Dave, who grunted his disapproval.

"What for fool 'way time 'mong sponges? No good. We going to try for sponge? No? Well, why fool time that way? Holawanga! Too much time, no good!"

But they gave him not the slightest heed, and discussed the new plan with enthusiasm.

The next day was marred by a heavy thunderstorm, but in spite of it they made good progress down the coast. As the afternoon waned and the line of keys dwindled behind, the Arrow headed toward a group of islets where the United States has erected a lighthouse.

The keepers there were isolated from home and friends most of the time, but a straggly fleet of sponging craft from Nassau, Key West, and elsewhere flocked there in time of bad weather.

As night came on, the breeze freshened considerably. Across the surging water the light flashed like a great star. Once the Arrow sighted a dark bulk, black and impenetrable as the night then closing down, yet with rows of lights and with smoking funnels that now and then seemed to glow with internal fires. On it passed, heading straight for Elbow Key, but it gave no heed to the wallowing little sloop.

"By Jove, that's a battleship!" exclaimed Norton. "In war paint, too!"

"Je-ru-sa-lem!" Hugh added excitedly. "Wish we were nearer her! Wonder which one she is?"

"We ain't so interested in that, jest now," said Captain Vinton gruffly. "What we want to do is to git under a lee shore soon's possible; there's a reg-lar young gale comin' on."

Through a haze that slowly thickened as the wind increased, they saw several sloops and schooners, most of them larger than the Arrow, riding at short cables; while a few others were driving under reefed sails from the sponging grounds farther out, to take similar positions of safety.

"Stand by to shorten sail," ordered Vinton, and the boys and Norton worked busily. Dave gave his attention to a big coil of rope which he evidently intended to throw-where?

Surely not against the rocky wall toward which they were gliding recklessly!

Alec looked anxiously at the captain, but he did not speak. If Dave did not know what he was about this was no time to question. Like his comrades, the boy resigned himself to obeying orders. These came thick and fast for a few minutes. Hugh and Chester, having lowered and lashed the jib, stood beside Norton-waiting. To Billy it seemed that the Arrow would momentarily strike that reef of rocks.

Suddenly the captain ported the helm three points.

"Haul in the booms! Lower tops'l!" he shouted.

Mechanically, in a sort of daze, they obeyed. The next minute they saw a perpendicular crevice in the face of the rock wall about twenty feet high. This fissure widened until a sheer cleft nearly thirty feet wide yawned directly in the path of the Arrow. Then they understood what the captain was driving at. Here was an ideal shelter from the coming storm.

"Lower away all!"

Almost before they realized the fact, the Arrow had glided into the crevice and was floating on a small sheet of smooth water, all sails lowered. Tugging at the anchor, Billy stood ready, waiting only the word.

"Drop anchor!" sang out Vinton, his deep voice echoing weirdly in that strange retreat.

"How much cable, Captain?"

"Fifty feet. Dave, toss the line over to that little dock."

This was quickly done, the rope being caught by a man who had come on the run as soon as he had seen the Arrow slip into this protected cove. Tying it fast to a pile, he rose and bawled through his cupped hands:

"That you, Lem?"

"Ay, ay, Johnny," responded Vinton. "I didn't fergit this stunt, you see."

"That's right. The Arrow's the only sloop small enough to get in. Comin' ashore?"

"Yep; by an' by."

Presently they all climbed down a rope ladder into the Arrow's dory, which swung alongside, and went up to the lighthouse. All but Dave, who, strange to say, considering his dislike of being on the water, preferred to spend the night in the cuddy.

Outside the cove the wind howled with a fury that nearly swamped some of the anchored craft. Indeed, it flung spray and foam over their rigging, and made them tug desperately at their cables. Now they rose swaying on the crests of the waves, now they sank into the deep troughs as if they were bent on going to the bottom. Yet in the little rock-bound cove the lighthouse boats and the Arrow were secure and safe.

In the house, after supper, the voyagers sat and talked with their host. The lighthouse keeper's name was John Bowling, and he was a brother-in-law of Captain Anderson of the Red Key Life Saving Station. So, naturally, he was interested in hearing about the rescue of Ruth, the boys' recent sojourn at Red Key, and the wreck of the Mary Jane.

"I used to know the cap'n of that schooner," he said, "but it's three years since I saw him last. We don't see many folks or have many visitors here, except the spongers and now and then the crew of some passing craft. So strangers with news to tell are certainly welcome."

"Don't you find it pretty lonely?" inquired Alec.

"Well, there's always enough to do to keep us busy, and most of us have our families here. Sometimes we take trips over to Key West for supplies, and twice a year the steamer belonging to Uncle Sam's lighthouse department brings us the regulation stores of oil, coal, etc., that are furnished to all the stations from Maine to Texas. But life here isn't very -- "

"Hello, down there!" called an assistant keeper from the lantern and, running to the foot of the stairs, Chester answered the hail.

"Tell Cap'n Bowling there's a small craft, probably a sponger, comin' in from the east'ard. As nigh as I can make out there's two men on board, waving lanterns. But they don't seem to have her in hand very well."

"A sponger from the east'ard," repeated Bowling, having heard his assistant's report. "There's like to have been trouble out there, lad, for the most venturesome sponge-fisher who ever lived wouldn't be abroad in this blow unless something had gone wrong. Tell Bill to keep his eye on them."

Chester repeated the instructions, and a grin overspread his face as he heard Bill mutter irritably:

"Keep an eye on 'em! I'd like to know what else he thinks I'd do? Anyone'd have sense enough for that."

"What's he saying?" asked Bowling sharply.

"Just talking to himself, I guess," replied Chester.

"That's a bad habit Bill has got," the keeper said, laughing. "He chews over a lot of words that don't mean anything, though they kind o' rile a man. Go up and see what's eating him, sonny."

Young Brownell obeyed promptly, although he felt quite confident that he would not learn anything more than Bill had already reported.

"There's trouble o' some kind out yonder," the assistant declared and handed Chester a pair of night-glasses. "Thank fortune, we don't have to sit still and see them poor fellows drift past us while we're suckin' our thumbs!"

"Do you think -- "

"I'm tryin' to figger out how we're going to lend a hand if that there sponger strikes a sunken ledge or a coral reef, as I reckon she will."

"You couldn't even stand on the rocks while the sea is running as it is now!" said Chester.

"I ain't so certain 'bout that, though I'll admit that a man couldn't keep his footin' there and 'tend to much else. 'Sides, the tide's risin' now. It's within an hour o' high water."

When Chester descended the stairs in some anxiety and reëntered the keeper's room, Bowling asked sharply: "What's Bill doing-besides his duty? Depend on him for that!"

"Trying to decide how we can help those in the sponger, if she strikes a ledge, sir."

"Oh, so that's what's troubling him! Let's hope his fears won't be justified! Bill Wayne may be mulish and irritable at times, but whenever any danger or hardship comes up, his heart swells out till it's too big for his body."



Chapter XIII. Saved From The Storm.


In spite of Keeper Bowling's light words, inwardly he shared his assistant's anxiety and keen sense of responsibility. His calm, easy manner was assumed chiefly that his other men and his guests might not dread the worst, before the belated sponger had made further progress toward the haven.

However, everyone felt anxious. The men were dividing their watches as usual in order to keep the light in prime order throughout the night. At last word came that the sponger had struck on the nearby shoals. Instantly all was hustle and prompt action in the lighthouse. All but one of the men, followed by Roy Norton and the four scouts, lanterns in hand, hurried down to the scene of the wreck.

"They must have been too close to the light and miscalculated their distance," said Bowling, throwing a coil of rope over his shoulder. "In the darkness it's quite possible to do that. Even experienced seamen have made that mistake.

"Men," he added, a moment later, "I'm going back to the house and rig a block to a bar across the east window of the tower. By overhauling all the spare line in the storeroom, I'll get enough to make a tackle that will reach from that window well down into the water."

"Yes, but what then?" Hugh asked breathlessly. "What will that do, sir?"

"With the loose end-well padded so it won't cut-belayed under the arms, there'll be a good chance for some one to go out into the surf and carry the line to those poor devils out there. And then I -- "

"Oh, Captain!" cried Hugh eagerly. "Let me go! I'm light, I can swim, and I'm not a bit afraid of the rough water. Say, Mr. Bowling, let me go!"

"You, my boy! Not much! You must be crazy!"

The other men protested against Hugh taking such a risk.

"Lad, you don't know what it would be to swim out there in these rough shoals! It takes a heavier chap than you to do the stunt," said one man gravely.

"Why, you'd be battered around like a cork by these waves," said another. "Any moment you might be dashed on a hidden reef and -- "

"Oh, I'm sure I could do it!" declared Hugh.

"No, no, lad!" interposed Bowling decidedly. "It's out of the question, though we all like your courage."

Without waiting to hear more, he and Bill Wayne ran back to the lighthouse. Hastening to the storeroom and opening its window, they shoved a timber through, pulling it across the aperture. They attached to this a large quantity of rope and a pulley block. Bowling then knotted the rope around Bill's body, after which Wayne clambered up on the sill. Bowling hauled the line taut as it ran through the block, and, when the assistant swung off, he lowered Bill slowly to the rocks below.

Standing near, Hugh could see Wayne as he went boldly into the surf. The lad's heart bounded with the thrill of the exploit which he had vainly sought to undertake. Again and again he saw Bill carried off his feet by the force of the waves beating on the line of rocky ledges, bowled over, tossed to and fro; again and again he saw him stagger up, pulled backward and upward by the line fastened to the timber and manipulated by Bowling's strong arms. And, finally, to his horror, he saw Wayne fall under a big roller, and he waited vainly in breathless suspense for him to rise.

It was then that Hugh acted with impetuous courage. Plunging into the surf before anyone could restrain him, he dived and swam and fought his way to the place where he had seen Bill knocked down. He was just in time to seize the floating line, which had become caught around a submerged point of rock, and yank the other swimmer up until he had regained a foothold. Together they staggered back, Wayne gasping his thanks and praise. He was just about to make another attempt to strike out to the sponger, when he was arrested by a loud outcry.

The other members of the rescuing party had ventured further along the ledge of coral limestone, carrying with them their lanterns and ropes. At their feet the surf broke sullenly, foaming on the rock, making it slippery. It was dangerous work, yet they were filled with the high resolve to aid those unknown, helpless fellow beings in even greater peril out there in the darkness. They shouted, waved lanterns and finally saw a light waved in answer-before it was extinguished by a tremendous wave. While they were waving, three half-drowned spongers were flung, still swimming, into shallow water; and Norton, Chester and two men sprang in and dragged them out on the ledge.

It was the shout that greeted this act of heroism which caused Bill Wayne and Hugh to desist from their brave efforts.

Without loss of time, the unfortunate men were hurriedly carried to the lighthouse, where first-aid measures were immediately applied.

Anxiously the boys watched the efforts of the gruff keeper and his assistants, and eagerly they saw the signs of life returning gradually to the half-drowned spongers. As soon as the men were able to take it, the captain gave each of them a cup of steaming coffee. And by the time this hot stimulant had done its work, they were ready to sit up and recount their adventures.

They had, it seemed, passed one available harbor late that afternoon, believing that they could reach their destination before the storm overtook them. But the wind had caught them, the rudder had snapped off short, and they had drifted upon the shoals in spite of their best efforts to avoid them.

They had watched despairingly the futile efforts of the men who had tried to rescue them, and had finally determined to cast themselves into the sea and trust to their swimming powers and the inrushing waves to carry them within reach of safety.

When the thrilling tale was ended, the boys drew deep sighs, realizing only then that they had quite forgotten to breathe in their intense interest.



Chapter XIV. Captain Bowling's Story.


"Were you ever shipwrecked, Captain Bowling?" asked Chester, rather abruptly breaking the pause which followed the sponger's story.

"Bless you, lad, I've seen more wrecks than you could count, I might say."

"Yes, but I mean, were you ever in one? Did you ever have an experience like -- "

"Like the one our friends here have just been through?"

Chester nodded. The others, guessing that he was trying to "draw out" the lighthouse-keeper into a recital of bygone adventures, drew closer around the table or sat in attitudes of quiet expectancy. Bill Wayne handed over to the grateful spongers a pouch of tobacco, pipes and matches, then filled his own pipe.

"Fire away, Cap'n," he said, smiling. "You're in for a third degree!"

Captain Bowling laughed. Evidently he was by no means averse to telling stories of his earlier life as a sailor.

"I was shipwrecked, years ago, a blamed sight worse than you were to-night," he said, turning to one of the spongers.

"Yes, sir, twice as bad," continued the captain. "Say, Lem, quit your snoring!"

"Go on, don't mind me!" was the reply.

"Well, boys," the keeper began willingly, "I'll tell you about one wreck. When I was a young fellow, 'bout twenty, I belonged to an old-fashioned brig, Nancy, commanded by one of the toughest nuts I ever had the luck to know. His name was Lowes, and he was a regular slave-driver,-but a good seaman, though. Give the devil his due, say I! We were fishing and cruising around the Bahamas, under a lively breeze, and one night-I never knew how it happened-we got blown 'way off our course.

"As the night came on, the breeze increased to a reg'lar Atlantic gale," Bowling continued, puffing at his pipe. "Rain fell in sheets and torrents, the thunder was loud enough to crack your ears, and flashes of lightning nearly gave us all blind-staggers. Sometimes it all was bright as daylight, then dark as a pocket, pitchy dark. Suddenly the lookout gave a yell: 'Breakers ahead!'

"'Put the helm a-lee!' shouted the watch.

"But before the order could be obeyed, we felt a shock that lifted her bow clear out of water, it seemed, and we knew she'd struck a reef. My stars! how the sea did swat poor Nancy, banging her down on those rocks! I tell you, boys, there was a wild scramble for the boats!

"Old Lowes, he was shouting curses and orders, trying to keep up some show of discipline. The for'ard mast fell over the side nearer the reef, just as the bo's'n and nine other hands got one boat launched.

"I happened to be in it. As soon as we got clear of the rocks we lay on our oars, waiting to pick up any men that jumped overboard. We urged them on, but they were all busy with the last two boats. They got one of them launched, and then they pulled away toward a rock some little distance from us. It was a big rock, kind of flat, but they never reached it.

"We rowed out to that rock and then a loud crash told us the brig had gone to pieces. We heard sounds like thunder, as the timbers and planks were dashed upon the reef,-then a yell, a frantic shout.

"'By God, we're going back there, no matter what happens,' said one of our crowd. 'We can't let our mates drown like rats!'

"So we landed most of our load and rowed back, as quickly and carefully as we could. We picked up eight of the crew, the first trip, and Cap'n Lowes and two officers, on the second. It was dangerous work, but twenty of us, in all, were saved, out of twenty-seven souls. When day dawned we saw the sea covered with fragments of the wreck.

"We were about twelve miles from the nearest island; we hadn't a bite of food, and many of us had very little clothing on.

"We huddled on the rock, and all that day, the next night, and the next day, we waited for some ship to pass by and discover us. None came. The men nearly died from exhaustion, hunger, and thirst; some drank sea water, lost their minds, and threw themselves off the rock; others got unconscious and had to be tied down to the rock, in order not to be washed away by the seas. We tied them with whatever rags of clothing we could use for the purpose.

"Another night went by. In the morning, several of our number were missing, and others lay dead on the rock. Lowes was among the missing; he had gone raving mad. And finally, when we had lost all hope, I sighted a schooner standing directly down for us. Imagine our joy!

"Well, boys, to make a long story short, a boat from the schooner picked us up and we were taken aboard. They gave us water and food, a small portion at a time. They gave us clothes, for most of us hadn't a stitch on our backs; and they treated us mighty white.

"No one who hasn't been through such an experience can appreciate how horrible it is," concluded Bowling. "But you lads have been life-savers to-night, and you must have had enough of adventures and hardships! How about comfortable bunks and a sound sleep?"

As they rolled themselves warmly in blankets a little later and settled down for a good night's sleep, they appreciated that for the second time that spring they had had the great privilege not only of seeing, but of sharing the heroic work of life-saving crews.

As earnest Boy Scouts, these experiences meant to them a better understanding of the motto, "Be Prepared," and filled them with a determination to acquire greater skill in all land and water accomplishments.

The next day being calm and sunny, the Arrow was hauled out and made ready to continue the cruise to Key West. Arrived there, Roy Norton bade his younger comrades a warm farewell and left them standing on the foredeck, waving their caps and cheering for him as he departed on his mission.



Chapter XV. Into The Everglades.


When Norton returned to Key West, five days later, he found the boys still there, their number increased by a new arrival, who was none other than Mark Anderson, Captain Bowling's nephew. Mark had "turned up" quite unexpectedly to visit his uncle, having come on a sailing vessel manned by the crew whom his father and the other surfmen of the Red Key Station had rescued from the Mary Jane. As Hugh expressed it, it was "a reunion of old friends," and everyone had been surprised and glad to meet again.

As Mark had soon made friends with the scouts of the northern patrol, they invited him to join them on a brief trip through the Everglades. This he was only too glad to do, for he had never seen the southwestern part of the Glades, and he was an enthusiastic young explorer. He was frankly delighted at the prospect. Moreover, having been through other sections of that mysterious region, he was somewhat familiar with the methods which the Indians adopt in traveling. Much to Dave's surprise, Mark showed considerable knowledge of Seminole customs and characteristics; in fact, he quite won Dave's heart, though Dave would have been the last person in the world to give any outward signs of regard.

"That boy heap good," was his only comment to Captain Vinton, after Mark and his new friends had spent an afternoon on board the Arrow, helping to stow away provisions in the cabin and to make everything ship-shape for the return cruise and the by-trip to the Everglades.

"How have you learned so much about the Indians, Mark?" inquired Alec, that same evening, when all had taken leave of their hospitable friends at Key West,-friends of Mr. Sands,-and had gone aboard.

"Oh, I picked it up from a man named Ed Daylor, who's a great pal of Dad's," answered Mark. "Last summer he took me on a hunting trip to Lake Okeechobee. He's been among the Indians for many years, hunting and fishing, and he's a regular big swamp woodsman. He can follow a trail through the swamps and never once lose his bearings. And he's a corker at poling."

"What's that?"

"Poling? Why, you have to use a pole instead of a paddle, in traveling through the Glades. Don't you, Dave?"

"Sure. Seminole no good with paddle," admitted the guide. "Heap good with pole."

"Even on salt water a Seminole usually poles or sails round the coast," put in Captain Vinton. "You're likely to see one of Dave's tribe cruisin' along shore 'most any time in a cypress-log canoe,-makin' fair progress, too. By the way, I've got two good poles on board now. Thought I'd better take 'em along, as good ones are hard to find even along the coast. Go an' fetch one, Dave, my hearty."

The guide went aft to find the canoe poles, which were fastened to the rail. While he was busy untying them, Vinton, who seemed to be in a talkative mood, continued to enlighten the boys.

"They're hard to find, 'cause they've got to be straight saplings," said he. "In the Glades a paddle ain't much use, an' if you break your pole and haven't another with you, you're in a bad fix."

"See," he added, as Dave returned with a pole, "here she is, an' a good straight, strong one, too."

The pole which he handed around for the boys' inspection was about eight feet long, slender and supple, tapering at the upper end. About one inch from the larger end a triangular inverted bracket was nailed.

"It looks like the stilts we used to hobble around on," said Billy, balancing the pole.

"It surely does," agreed the captain. "That part of the pole that's beyond the bracket keeps it from slippin' on rocks, and its flattened end, besides the bracket, or foot, stops it from sinkin' very far into mud. You'll get the hang o' it after you've seen Dave polin'. That will be in another day or two."

The "day or two" proved short enough, for the beginning of the homeward cruise was pleasant, favored by perfect weather. At nightfall of the second day, the Arrow cast anchor off the mouth of a broad, shallow river. For two days they had been sailing through a labyrinth of small islands, and now they found themselves beached on a little cove at the river's mouth. Here a clearing had been made in the luxuriant growth and a settlement had been established, consisting of four cabins and several tents.

Dave knew the place well; in fact, he had advised them to start inland from here, for he had friends who were willing to lend the amateur explorers two very serviceable log canoes. They had purchased other supplies, including a tent and rubber sleeping-bags, mosquito netting, leather leggings and heavy shoes, at Key West. Also medicines, in case of need.

"Well, here we are on the edge of the Everglades!" said Norton the next morning, when all the provisions and suitable clothing had been properly packed away in the two cypress dug-outs. "And now for an inland voyage to the Seminole country!"